Author: Marc Secchia
Date: 2020-12-08 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; dragons; High Fantasy; Fiction
Description: Call me Dragon. It’s the last thing you’ll ever do. Blitz the Devastator has never done a decent day’s devastating in his life. Fireless, artistic and shunned by his Dragon Clan, he struggles to pillage even the meanest village. A future full of misery and failure beckons. This much is true until the day the burly brown Dragon successfully – imagine that – kidnaps the Princess Azania. As a black Princess of T’nagru, this spirited beauty is by definition the most unforgettable woman in the seventeen realms. Knights errant, men-at-arms and sundry Princes expire at her feet in drivelling worship.

Call Me Dragon

It’s the last thing you’ll ever do.

Dragon Fires Rising: Book 1

By Marc Secchia

Copyright © 2020 onward Marc Secchia

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher and author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

www.marcsecchia.com
www.dragonsglory.com

Map © 2020 onward Marc Secchia

Interior images designed by www.freepix.com

Table of Contents

Call Me Dragon

Table of Contents

Map of Solixambria

Chapter 1: The High Tower

Chapter 2: Abduction Blues

Chapter 3: Flight

Chapter 4: Mountain Fastness

Chapter 5: Virtue

Chapter 6: Bounty Hunters

Chapter 7: Ignita

Chapter 8: Eye Spy

Chapter 9: Horse Thief

Chapter 10: Death Dive

Chapter 11: Dragon Meal

Chapter 12: Family Feud

Chapter 13: This Way

Chapter 14: Juggernaut the Grinder

Chapter 15: Seaspray

Chapter 16: A Different Chase

Chapter 17: Bandit Princess

Chapter 18: Business is Business

Chapter 19: Hunting

Chapter 20: Juggling Act

Chapter 21: Neither Lair nor There

Chapter 22: Territorial Aggression

Chapter 23: Lumis Ocean

Chapter 24: An Appointment

Chapter 25: Wings Aloft

Chapter 26: Sandstorm

Chapter 27: T’nagru Besieged

Chapter 28: Ornery Plus

Chapter 29: Sowing Mayhem

Chapter 30: Intruder in Brief

Chapter 31: Perfidy

Chapter 32: Jabiz Urdoo

Chapter 33: Lightning Strike

Chapter 34: Firestorm

About the Author

Map of Solixambria

Chapter 1: The High Tower

DRAGONS. SO RUDDY PREDICTABLE. Here he perched atop the tallest tower of the greatest castle in all the land, contemplating a little recreational pillaging, and all he had managed to do so far was to enjoy a long snooze in the glorious sunshine. Since dawn. Till dusk.

What a failure.

Might as well be a wingless worm.

Saddled with a name like Blitz the Devastator, any reasonable creature would conclude that an occasional bout of pillaging, followed by an afternoon’s casual arson, looting and destruction, went with the territory – well, like mutton came wrapped in wool, which invariably stuck between his fangs and annoyed him like the worst scale rash in history. With a mental sigh that echoed through all five hearts, Blitz yanked his errant thoughts back on track. The Devastators were a proud clan. The sharpest talons in the paw, one might say. Dragons with a reputation to uphold.

Today’s achievement? One long snoozefest, punctuated by ample thoughts of pillaging. Rather less by way of actual action. Sadly, this was also predictable.

Dragons were supposed to start with the small villages. With youthful draconic zest, one should smash the place up, fire-blast a few huts into smithereens, voice thunderous roars to panic the peasants into screaming flight, and then greedily loot all their riches to bolster one’s growing hoard. Dragons spent years building up a decent stash and a smashing reputation in order to attract a suitable mate. One’s sire and dam looked favourably upon such deeds. Honourable, noble, fiery, fierce, draconic – all those wonderful adjectives he had categorically failed to earn thus far in his life.

Plans to earn said adjectives? Those he had by the pawful.

Slippery adjectives aside, Blitz failed to see the point of pillaging from poor Humans. Miserable creatures. Filthy beggars, the lot of them. Fancy grubbing in the soil for a living? And feeding one’s mewling young with roots dug from beneath the ground?

Blergh. Made his stomachs churn just to imagine it.

Besides, the teeming mass of peons had no gold. He had long since worked out that all the good, shiny stuff decent Dragons salivated over day and night made its way to these big stone castles, where the ones who wore fancy animal skins flaunted their wealth and station. They lazed at the top of the food chain, seized what they wanted and oppressed those who dared complain. Systematic looting without lifting so much as a talon was a notable skill, he had to admit, as far as ruthless tyranny went – apparently, Humans called this form of tyranny taxation.

In his jaded opinion, tyranny was overrated too.

Devastators were the most despotic Dragons of the Tamarine Mountains, the biggest, baddest and richest of all the Clans. In fact, tyrannical was another word that had been thrown at his ear canals more times than he could count over the years. Right up there with the pillaging business in the hierarchy of respectable vocations for Dragons of noble character. As the biggest denizen of his Dragon Clan measuring a whopping fifty-three feet from nose tip to tail spike, Blitz should have been a tyrant. He had the size and physical strength to warrant it. He should have seized respect with both forepaws, wrestled giants and laid waste to entire cities of such dimensions as this which stretched out beneath his blunt nose.

Not that he could see much.

He blinked his aching eyes and rubbed them with his scaly knuckles, wishing the pain and blurriness away. He could not even distinguish individuals in the crowds today.

His own craven brown hide? No problem.

Seeing ten feet beyond his own nose was generally an issue. The fuzziness of discontent, he called his affliction. But he could smell the riches, the gold and rubies and aye, the vile whiff of Human excrement. Phew. That made his nostrils itch and his food stomach clench as a precursor to vomiting.

How was it that no Human had contrived to spot a fifty-three foot mud-brown Devastator perched upon the highest tower of their castle, all day? Maybe because his common colour blended in with the roof tiles? He was good at camouflage. Blitz had to be, otherwise he would never eat. Maybe Humans were predictable as well – as in, he could reliably conclude that their tiny brains refused to see a gigantic predator lurking upon their rooftop because they simply did not believe he could be there.

Tiny cranial capacity.

Unimaginably primitive brains.

Just now, a voice floating up the stairwell inside the tower surprised him out of his ruminations on the essential nature of the Human scourge, causing his great talons to clench upon the tiles. So nearby? Almost below his cavernous, empty belly, his appetite reminded him with a woeful gurgle. Every scale upon his body stilled. Predatory silence. Even his guts, far too accustomed to the hollow-as-a-drum feeling, gave up their complaining. He placed a dislodged tile soundlessly in the roof gutter. Sucking in a long, deep breath, he stopped the movement of his lungs. He could hold his breath for up to fifteen minutes.

“So, Princess Azania, I trust you’ve had enough of my dungeons?”

The cruel, reedy masculine voice fell upon his ear canals like the unpleasant caw of a crow. The female’s reply was like a soft flute’s breathy piping, unintelligible even to a Dragon’s acute hearing. His quick ear separated out different sets of footsteps, instinctively enumerating the enemy. Soft leather. Harder leather. Something similar to cloth, accompanied by a very light step. Human females were generally lighter than the males. Metal jingled and men breathed heavily, their armour clanking with each footfall. By his dam’s egg, was that the whiff of Human body odour basted for months inside those ridiculous tin cans they wore for armour?

Aah! His highly sensitive nostrils thrilled to another scent, far more evocative. The scent of desert rose. It snapped him into a scent memory.

He had not smelled desert rose in years. Not since the Devastator Clan had flown east in search of treasure said to be buried in the endless desert sands. He remembered the sky afire with double sunsets, and the glorious heat rippling over sands as red as a rusted blade. As red as the celebrated colour of his sire, Blaze the Devastator. That same red burned in Blaze’s eye as his loathing of his large, worthless son reached its zenith.

Get out of my cavern, you fireless worm! You are in no way fit to be called a Dragon!

His shoulders bunched with remembered shame.

Just below the thin roof, the Humans were making a commotion. The female voiced a litany of strange, fearful noises as the shrill, commanding voice ordered her to be chained hand and foot to the bed. Her terror scent washed his sight in umber hues. They scorned her protests. He tried to picture the scene in his mind. Was this a prelude to some form of ghastly Human torture? A ritual connected to some Humans’ love of dark magic?

Another memory surfaced – a scroll memory. Imprisoning a Princess in the highest tower in the land was, of course, conventional behaviour. Totally predictable. That was what these barbaric Humans did – locking up their own kind. They made of this practice an art. Indeed, they often ransomed Princesses for gold or other riches, because Human royalty had extra value above their hordes of peasants and stinking soldiers. Something else tickled his memory with living fires, however. Capturing Princesses, although not often mentioned in modern Dragon lore, used to be a celebrated draconic pastime. One did not consume the poor things, of course. One cosseted them and defended them against sundry knights errant, potential suitors and dastardly Dragon slayers. In time, their fathers would arrive to humbly petition the lucky Princess-owning Dragon for the return of their precious daughter, in exchange for half the riches of their kingdom.

His lips drew back to reveal a wicked set of fangs, a draconic smile of pure, pleasurable gold lust. His forked tongue flicked the air; his wings quivered in anticipation. Mounds of treasure. Mountains of shimmering golden beauty. If he could contrive to snatch this whimpering wretch from her foolish, unheeding captors, he need never contemplate pillaging another village again.

Pillage and village rhymed.

Princess and richness also rhymed – mostly. A sloppy effort at best.

Gnarr.

Still, this most pleasing notion had his five hearts beating in a single, powerful rhythm. Mmm. Imagine what his sire would say? Blitz, you are a true Dragon. How powerful you have become. Ah, verbal music. I slaver at the size of your hoard, my son!

Immersed in the details of a delicious daydream, Blitz stiffened as the female voiced a stifled yelp. Pain – sharp pain. What was this? They cared poorly for their prize? What prize fools!

He tuned in his ears.

The reedy voice said, “This shall be your new accommodation until you acquiesce to my son’s rightful demands, o Princess.”

“Never,” said she.

“You shall be imprisoned in this tower until you marry Prince Floric!”

“Floric the Flatulent? Over my dead body.”

Her laughter was so delectably disdainful, Blitz blinked in startlement. By his wings, she sounded like a – no. No way could she sound like a Dragoness. Yet she did. His scales tingled at the uncanny impression.

How enticing, this weirdness. Crouching down even further, he extended his sensory magic into the tower room. Maybe a secret to be sniffed out here, tasted, unravelled by his superior draconic intellect?

“We have ways to make you obey,” threatened the male.

Ooh, suitably malicious.

“King Tyloric, you can threaten me until you’re blue in the face. I’ll never marry your son.”

Fascinating. He had read Humans went blue if they stayed underwater for too long; much more quickly if one stepped carefully upon their chests. He had never tried, but one or two of his relatives had experimented and found these two-legged cockroaches to be disturbingly fragile. One could play with a scuttling insect, but not for very long. He would have to be extra careful not to break this Princess when he –

“Look, I’ll be honest with you,” she added. Her voice was not as sweet as legends about Princesses claimed. More … husky, as if a fire’s own embers took voice to speak. Rightly, scorn dripped from her lips like fat from a tasty chunk of mutton, as she explained, “Prince Floric is physically handsome, but he really is quite deficient in all matters above the shoulders. Plus, he reeks. That is a most undesirable combination in a man.”

“Father! Are you going to let her speak to me like that?”

Oh! The other whiner was present in the room. Even worse than the father. His spoiled, wheedling voice made Blitz see white. Clearly, that cretin needed a good, permanent Dragon slap.

Unfortunately, as a Dragon who had never pillaged so much as a cattle shelter in his twenty years of life, he had never had the pleasure of smacking an armed Human. Not even a gentle tap upon the noggin. Blitz’s Dragon senses delved deeper, testing the hearts of these men. Treachery. Foul ambition. The bitter tangs of immoral intent. This sire and his son did not mean this Princess well. He doubted they even meant to ransom her.

Double blergh.

What was he even doing listening to their disgusting hearts? Come the opportune moment, he must peel this tower apart and snatch her away to a far wickeder fate.

Blitz licked his chops. He could practically taste the gold this Princess would earn him.

Just now, the King said, “Convince her, Floric.”

Chains jingled slightly as she tested her captivity. Blitz crouched without moving a muscle. Eavesdropping. Wondering how under the double suns he would contrive to remove the Princess from this high tower without ending up looking like an overgrown porcupine. Javelins and arrows made him shudder. Thick Dragon hide could do only so much against the powerful crossbows these restless fleas preferred. Great stopping power. Capable of drilling nice holes into the thickest Dragon hide.

In a high, intensely irritating voice, the young Prince declaimed, “O thou dusky desert beauty, how well thou art named! Thou art the Black Rose of the Desert indeed! Thy skin is as the raiment of the night’s own starry garb. I, Prince Floric of Vanrace, shall woo thee –”

She chuckled “I doubt that.”

Blitz did not think so either. He desperately wanted to clean out his ear canals with a talon. That voice! Put in a forest, Floric’s poetry would have murdered the local wildlife.

Manfully, the Prince said, “Oh, how wondrously thy extravagant beauty moveth my soul, o Princess Azania N’gala – how sable thy hair, how lustrous thy skin, which is as polished onyx, and thy neck a tower of strength and loveliness, o my black desert dove, o muse of the very Gods, o object of mine palpitating heart’s verimost desire!”

Pah!

What? Had this female spat her fire – nay, Humans had no fire. She must have spat the wetness inside her mouth at him. Vile!

The Prince cried out in fury, “She despises me, father!”

Who would not despise such a miserable cretin? His poetry was hopeless.

“Then make her yours.”

Blitz blinked at the tone, as callous as his own sire had many times been. This King did not mean, surely …

“What, father? Shall I recite further fulsome compliments?”

“Nay, lad. Here she lies, yours for the taking –”

The Princess gasped, “Nay! O King Tyloric, I protest this shameful counsel.”

“Protest all you like, wench,” sneered the King. The malevolence in his voice ran rampant now, causing Blitz’s tail to flick restively. “Here’s my suggestion. Who cares for the order of things – the wedding first, or the wedding night? Who would ever know? You will be married, whether you like it or not! My son, we shall leave you now with Princess Azania. Do not depart this tower until you have fully convinced her.”

Blitz’s blood ran cold. He did mean – he meant to mate this woman without her consent!

Not that mating was a problem, per se, speaking as one with a hopeless lack of experience in the area. It was the lack of willingness. No sane creature forced another against their will. That was … he hardly had words strong enough to describe his revulsion. Anathema? Abominable? This marriage thing must be a serious affair, a bit like the vows many older Dragons took with their favourite mate. Judging by her inane screeching and resurgent fear scent, he should conclude that this proposal from the undoubtedly odorous Prince Floric the Flatulent – he grinned evilly – was indeed most unwelcome.

Before he knew it, Blitz had shifted forward, bringing his massive muzzle down over the edge of the gutter. The racket these morons were kicking up disguised even the movement of his tonnage, but a number of roof tiles cascaded down into the courtyard below. Thin yells drifted on the breeze. Spotted! This could quickly become painful.

He pressed his left eye, usually the better one, up against one of the slit windows in the stone.

Inside a room lit by the sallow gleam of an oil lamp, he saw two stocky men-at-arms stuffing the Princess’ mouth with rags. Chained hand and foot to the four corners of a massive carved wooden bed, she appeared helpless. Those puny limbs were useless against even the thinnest chains. Truly contemptible, these creatures – yet they swarmed across more than a dozen realms which nearly surrounded the Tamarine Mountains, home to most of the Dragon Clans. Other Dragons were rumoured to live on the Vaylarn Archipelago …

Blaze! Focus, or the prize might evade his paw.

The Princess was dark, aye. Surprisingly dark, for a Human. He had thought they all came as white as larvae. By his wings, facets of beauty in this species must truly be a matter of taste.

Her black eyes above those rags were wells of pure dread.

His Dragon hearts clenched painfully. Never had he beheld such desperation in a creature. Not even in that final instant before he beheaded a deer, say, or snapped off a sheep’s head. Only one conclusion could be drawn. She shared his visceral revulsion toward this King’s proposal.

The other person in the room must be Prince Floric. He was doing a peculiar one-legged dance as he struggled to remove his lime-green lower body coverings. That was how Blitz knew him for the Prince. None but Human royalty would wear colours so insulting to the eye of the beholder. Was this a courtship ritual, like the renowned showy dance of the yellow-banded forest warbler, whereby he impressed his mate with a display of hypnotic magnificence? How marvellously barbaric.

Perhaps this Prince sought to entice the dark Princess in her lovely ruby-red gown with gold thread details on the neckline, sleeves and waist – now here was a garment even a Dragon could appreciate. She revelled in it like a Dragoness resplendent in her scales. Plus, the female wore a golden tiara and plenty of jewellery.

An appetising little hoard-starter, if he did say so himself.

Having finished subduing and muffling the captive, the men-at-arms retreated down a stairwell he had not noticed before.

Meantime, the Prince said, “My dear, sweet Princess, there really isn’t any need for this nastiness. Last chance. Will you or will you not marry me?”

She shook her head, making unintelligible sounds through the cloth wadding. Oh, and now the eyes were leaking. He had read about this phenomenon. Humans did a lot of leaking – nostrils, eyes and mouths, all so disgustingly moist.

He was just about to give that his third blergh! when he caught the strangest light in the Prince’s eye. He scented the man’s heart in all its rank squalor, like a sewer riven through flesh.

Even a Dragon must reel and catch his breath.

The man snarled, “Well, Princess Azania, by the time your belly is swollen with my child, I am quite sure you will see –”

Enough! These words were acid squirted inside his ears!

Blitz the Devastator drew back his clenched paw. Before he even knew what he was doing, he punched right through the tower wall. GRRAAABOOM!!

Chapter 2: Abduction Blues

PRINCE FLORIC TOOK ONE look at the paw that scraped backward, hauling rubble back out of the tower room, and screamed. It was the scream of a man who sounded as if he were ripping out his own throat. Raw. Strangulated. Utterly pathetic.

Rather pleasantly for a Dragon who had most likely broken his middle fore talon smashing through that wall – self-congratulations most certainly deserved – Blitz purred, “You vile, suppurating little pustule, you abominable excuse for a walking blob of excrement, I will have you know –” he aimed a haphazard swipe at the Prince, but missed by a scale’s breadth “– this Princess is mine!”

By his dam’s egg, how these insults buoyed his hearts!

The Prince’s violent flinch caused him to topple, fetching his head a crack against the dresser behind him.

Swat!

Missed again! Smoking fires take it, he had terrible aim. Especially upside down, his paw scrabbling around inside a not very large tower room. He drew back, making ready for a third and final swipe. Time for a swift beheading. Nothing less would suffice.

With a shrill scream, Prince Floric threw himself headfirst down the stairwell, still tangled up in his ridiculous lime green coverings.

Thump. “Ouch! Thundering –”

Blam! “Ow!”

Smack. “Gods’ teeth be blasted –”

On and on he went, for a surprisingly long time. The Prince had a lot to say as he bounced down the stairs, most of it very gratifying, and much of which was profane.

Sadly, his scrawny neck failed to crack. A slap in the muzzle to all justice beneath the suns.

The girl gaped at Blitz. He showed her plenty of fangs in return. Aye! Somehow, in that instant, her terror lifted enough to recognise a kindred soul, whereupon they both experienced an unexpected ambush of utterly daft, shared amusement. His guffaw was of course, a tower-shaking explosion of male draculinity – the equivalent of masculinity in the Draconian language, he understood from the lore – while her chortle betrayed mischievous pleasure at the Prince’s fate.

Floric still had time for one final, dramatic crash that sounded as if he had taken half of the castle kitchens with him. A piteous groan floated up the stairwell. Much better.

That was when the first shaft arrow pinged off his hide very near to a place he would rather not be pinned in. Most male Dragons would have said the same, he would like to think. Big target, mind. He had not realised he had twisted all the way around like that, presenting his nether parts as a mark to all those archers on the ground.

Making a snap decision, Blitz narrowed his shoulders and forced his way into the tower room, widening the gap with his exertions. He scraped along the floor and made the ceiling groan as much as a certain unfortunate Prince who had recently assaulted a stairway and come off second best. Badly. The nauseating reek of his personal odour combined with his appalling intentions still filled the air like the vapours of a festering bog.

Unfortunately, his position left the aforementioned target dangling outside, along with his hind legs and tail.

He gazed at the captive Princess, wondering how best to make his approach.

She took her time in producing a shriek of epic perfection around the gag. They could not even get that part right. It hardly silenced her at all.

“Oh, shut the fangs!” he exclaimed. “I’m hardly going to eat you, you skinny runt.”

Spitting out the gag, the pitiful wretch screamed again.

Had she chewed through the material?

This time, he had to prod at his ears. How a mite like her produced quite such a racket, he had no idea, but that was not an agreeable sound. Princesses were meant to be songbirds, to interact charmingly with … well, little creatures. Birds, hedgehogs, rabbits, and other furry hopping snacks. They were never loud nor unbearable.

Not this one. Made him wish for a gag twice the size.

Growling mightily, he burrowed his way further inside while trying to avoid placing his great paws in any place that would make her turn blue. Even if it was tempting – well, the experiment would probably fail due to her dark colouration, although he was intrigued to see if her bulging eyeballs might not pop out under the application of just a tad more pressure. That would stop her screaming once and for all.

One way to ruin his plans for riches.

Blitz considered himself a patient creature. Not half as impetuous as his winged brothers and sisters. This wench’s screeching was insufferable, however.

Extending one talon with a practised flick, he waved it in front of her nose. “Be silent, you snivelling, undersized wretch.”

Quivering obedience. Hypnotised, even?

No wonder Dragons enjoyed playing with Humans. This promised endless diversion.

Thwock!

BRRRAOOORRGGHH!! he thundered. Hole in the hide. Not half as painful as he had imagined, but it was right under the base of his tail. Not a comfortable spot.

Even in his fury and pain, he did not breathe fire.

Futile exercise.

Flicking at his new pet’s torso with his talon, he said, “You are my prize, Princess. I am carrying you away from here. Now, no more of that mindless caterwauling and carrying on, or I shall be forced to amputate a few body parts I consider unnecessary.”

She nodded dutifully.

There. Who said obedience training was difficult? Even if this witless female failed to understand his words, she certainly understood his threatening tone.

As carefully as if he were caressing a flower, he slid the sadly blunt point of his steely grey talon along her cheek and snipped the cloth. He did not even gouge out an eyeball by accident. Most thoughtful of him. While the girl worked on spitting out the cloth, he helped to drag it out with the point of his talon. Hopefully, he would not catch some unnameable disease from her salivating. Next, he examined the bedframe. Solid wood, and well made. The thing must weigh several tonnes.

“Can I just snap these chains off your spindly limbs?” he inquired, in what he hoped was a calming voice.

She drew a shallow breath, and did not screech again. Teachable, this creature.

“Princess, are you –”

Blitz pounded his fist down on the top of the stairwell. BOOM! The knight who had been lurking there, fell down the stairs. Bling, blang, clatter, plus all the cursing. A second round of entertainment. He had not had so much fun in years!

Thwock! Thwock – GNARR!!

Pain arched his back, causing him to tear the tower roof off its moorings. Good idea. Blitz flexed his oversized and underutilised muscles gleefully, remembering to lay a paw over the captive to protect her from the falling rubble and timbers. This was unsuspected evidence of skills in abduction and Princess care, he thought, swelling with draconic pride. With a great groan, the roof gave up the unequal battle and wobbled upon his back. He whirled to heave it into the courtyard below.

Snatch the bed before it teetered too far and slid over the edge! Shiver his belly fires, that was a close one.

KEERUMP! The avalanche of roofing materials silenced a few shouts.

Ransacking this castle was proving to be rather stimulating. In fact, he decided on the spot, every Dragon should learn to play with toy castles.

He dragged the Princess plus her bed back up onto solid stone. The frame now proudly wore three crossbow bolts, but some bright spark down below was yelling orders to the effect of keeping the prisoner alive. Aim at the huge Dragon and not at the bed? Pure genius. They appreciated her value.

Peering into the pentagonal courtyard below, Blitz blearily made out a number of silver-armoured figures running about like crazed ants. Several dozen other archers and men-at-arms gathered on the battlements nearby, although his merest glance sent them stampeding back inside the two smaller towers adjacent to this one.

Huh. Who was the Dragon then?

This highest tower stood on the northernmost angle of the castle building, which sprawled beneath him in its pleasingly regular tan stone battlements and towers, a second sturdy curtain wall, and then a moat around the base of this hill. The whole structure crowned a low, wide hill upon which Varine, the capital city of the Kingdom of Vanrace, stood.

Check the loot. Terrified but alive.

This was just how he liked Humans best – alive, the better to scream mindlessly at his first foray into the realms of draconic tyranny. What a day!

Absently lobbing a couple of building stones at archers he saw taking aim at the large brown Dragon decorating the top of their ruined tower, Blitz rubbed his eyes again. The low, mauve-forested hills beyond the town were a blur, and the jag-toothed Tamarine Mountains worse, but he knew his way home lay a few points west of north. Perfect directional sense. He could have found his way on the darkest night over unfamiliar territory … he shoved part of the remaining wall into the courtyard for good measure. Keep those stinking slaves busy. Lifting another two-foot sandstone block, he hurled it onto the nearest battlement. Soldiers pitched off the edge, their thin screams ending rather abruptly when they landed thirty feet lower down. A few lucky ones crashed through the roof of some kind of outhouse. They might survive.

Assuming a suitably majestic pose, he loomed over his prisoner. “So, Princess –”

“P-Please d-d-don’t snap my spindly l-l-limbs, sir D-Dragon!” she stammered.

A tongue and the wit to use it. Splendid!

Grandly, he announced, “I am Blitz the Devastator. You are my captive. Do you understand what I am saying?”

“I speak four languages, mighty Dragon,” she said politely, still in trembling voice.

Mighty Dragon! The heavens opened to thunder odes of joy to his Dragon pride! If he could teach her to compliment him regularly, this held the promise of a fine relationship. No wonder the Dragons of yore had enjoyed keeping Princesses. A talking domestic worker could be all the rage. Although, this one looked rather scrawny and unsuited to manual labour. She could do delicate tasks, he decided. Fang picking, scale polishing, cleaning and tidying … aye! Perfect.

Warmly, he purred, Tell me, do you speak Draconian?

A little, she spluttered. And I need it, too.

You read it? Simple mistake.

He flicked a brazier off the remains of the tower, enjoying a fresh round of cries.

I … read it munch-somely, she said, and actually managed to darken. Intriguing. Did he smell embarrassment? Quite badly –

Very badly, he agreed, deciding that honesty was all this unsophisticated creature could handle. Save all nuance for another day. “Since I am far more learned than you, I shall speak your barbaric tongue to help you understand.”

“I’m not stupid!”

“Says she who is chained to a large bed, the better to appreciate the flattering attentions of Prince Floric the Flatulent?”

“Bad day.”

Wry resignation filled her voice.

He startled. What was this? The oddest sensation warmed his fourth heart. Despite being a Devastator, Blitz knew a thing or two about bad days. He sort of made a habit of collecting them, and not merely in ones and twos, either. That collection tended to include just about every day he had ever spent with his family. Did he truly intend to insult a lesser creature in the same fashion as he himself so hated to be teased, disrespected and overlooked?

He tossed a couple more building blocks for the amusement of watching the little silver fleas hop around the courtyard, before inclining his head above his captive with what he hoped was great gravitas. She squeezed her eyes shut. If he had actual fiery breath, he would have blamed Dragon halitosis.

One ought to set the record straight.

Heavily, Blitz said, “Princess, you are absolutely correct about his excessive gassiness. That Prince was an offence to the nostrils of any decent creature, of which I am one.” A slight giggle escaped her lips, despite that those eyes were not opening anytime soon. “Now, I am afraid we simply must disappoint the Prince of Vast Flatulence and his equally repulsive father. I shall be kidnapping you away to my lair in the Tamarine Mountains. This is a perfectly respectable arrangement between a Dragon and a Princess, I assure you, with extensive precedent in –”

“Respectable?”

“Respectable and honourable, as the histories make entirely plain. We shall discuss the details en route –” he flicked his head as a quarrel suddenly zipped past his nostrils, sounding like a large, angry wasp “– but I am afraid, we need to leave in a hurry. King Tyloric of Vanrace appears to be irked by the events of the day.”

Irked, as in, a large brown Dragon was tearing his castle apart.

Any more loose items to toss over the edge?

Aha. Selecting a random chest which had stood against a wall that was now teetering precariously over the courtyard, Blitz tossed it in the direction the quarrel had come from. His tail lashed furiously, spraying boulders in every direction. For the first time in his life, he thrilled to an awareness of the addictive power of destruction. Still, he had not summoned so much as a curl of flame from his apparently dead or deformed fire stomach, but there it was.

Clearing his throat, he bellowed, DEVASTATOR!!

Such a fine and ringing Dragon-dominance roar did he produce, he heard the echo rolling back from the faraway hills like thunder. Majestic! If that did not bring ghastly digestive waters spurting from their craven bowels, nothing would. He paused to savour the moment, and collected a quarrel in his left shoulder. Thwack!

Always happened.

Nothing he ever did turned to gold.

Seizing the bed in both forepaws, Blitz leaped off the tower. Oh no!

The blasted thing was a whole lot heavier than he had bargained for. Dragons were great fliers. Masters of the vast aerial realms of the world. They did not generally attempt to take off wholly unprepared for the burden of carrying a couple of tonnes of solid hand-carved bed in their forepaws, however.

That weight immediately tipped him nose-first toward the ground.

With a last-second, despairing roll and tucking in his left wing to keep from snapping it like a twig, he slammed into the battlement below the tower, smashing several dozen sandstone blocks and three unlucky archers into space. GRAABOOM! The Princess screamed as he tumbled through the air, hugging the massive bed close to his chest. Gripping it with all four paws, he flapped mightily and managed somehow to claw back enough altitude that he missed the outer curtain wall by less than the width of a Dragon’s paw.

He hurtled down over the brownish slate tiles of the town. Headlong avalanche. This was not going to end well. A series of mighty flaps kept them going, but he was losing altitude too fast. Stupid bed! All this effort for a prattling flea? She had better be worth every scale he had just lost! A few screams accompanied their plummeting ride as he maximised his wing strokes, but he still clipped several buildings and then demolished a chimney.

Taking aim at the worst-looking building, Blitz ducked his massive, thickset neck and curled up around the bed. “Hold on!”

A long, splintering crash and a dozen or so tan milk cows sent into a lowing panic later, he uncurled himself and checked his surroundings. A stunned cow lay draped across his nose. Peering uncertainly between its floppy brown hind legs, he saw that the Princess had also survived the experience, but the bed had lost its gorgeously carved headboard somewhere along the way.

The musky bovine odour wafting into his nostrils was far too tempting. Flipping the cow into the air, he opened his maw wide and snapped it in half.

The front part of the cow sort of revived with half a woeful ‘moo’ before realising it really ought to be dead. Oops. He slit the creature’s throat quickly, muttering, May your spirit rise even as your blood nourishes the predator.

Dipping his head, he wolfed the rest in three huge bites.

A farmer dashed around the corner of what was left of his cow barn, before skidding to a halt. He carried a wooden pail in his left hand. His face turned as white as snow.

Blitz gathered his paws beneath him and made a shooing gesture. “Run along now, there’s a good peasant.”

Shrieks receded into the distance.

No doubt, if the legends were right, he would soon be back with two hundred vengeful farmers armed with pitchforks and hoes. Turning to the bed, he stopped to savour the Princess’ flabbergasted expression.

Well then. The Dragon and the captive Princess! He grinned slowly, peeling back his fangs the better to impress a female with his terrifying dental splendour. “Was it something I said?”

Her tiny throat bobbed. Ah, the sign and scent of panic, was it?

“Maybe it’s that you have a cow’s eyeball stuck to your fang,” she suggested, trying to point.

Oh. Not that much panic, by all appearances.

Slurp. “By my wings, the eyeballs are the best bit. They pop a little if you bite them just right.” He was not sure if she found his joke funny or sickening. Hard to tell. “Right. Let’s see about this bed. I’ll try not to rip your measly little arms off, alright?”

“Ah … thanks?” she said doubtfully.

“Hold still.”

Raising his right fist, he smashed the end of the bed between her legs. The girl did yelp at that, but he was beginning to suspect that she was made of tough stuff. Not nearly the fainting maiden sort of Princess he had always read about. Cracking the frame away from the thick bedposts chained to her legs, he snorted in satisfaction. “Nothing broken as yet. Let’s pulverise this side.”

Crash!

She said, “Oh, looks like you set the castle alight, Blitz the … uh, what did you call yourself?”

“Blitz the Devastator.”

He allowed the words to grind between his fangs. Far from acting scared again, she smiled and said, “Blitz the Devastator – that means you hail from the Devastator Dragon Clan, correct?”

“Correct.”

If she thought that parroting back information was some kind of proof of intelligence …

“I am the Princess Azania N’gala of T’nagru, the Desert Kingdom.”

“I assumed as much. Are all your people so dark-skinned? I had taken Humans for pasty white sort of creatures. Much like grubs, in fact.”

This earned him a very undecided, anaemic sort of chuckle. “We are dark. Some of the other kingdoms take that to mean that black people are destined to be slaves. Certainly, they – oh, well done. That’s my leg free. I mean, they prize … certain features of my kind.”

“You are valuable? Is your father rich?”

“I am very valuable,” she said. Why the tightness in her voice? He did not understand. “My father is wealthy, but we are neither the greatest nor the wealthiest of kingdoms. That is why I am supposed to marry for a suitable fortune. My bride price is high. As you no doubt gathered from Floric’s abysmal verse, my darkness makes me prized indeed. Father makes no secret of his ambitions.”

They placed value on skin colour? It made sense, he supposed. Brown Dragons were unremarkable. Now, if he had been a blue; moreover, any other Dragon of any colour in all of Solixambria bar one called Blitz the Devastator … he champed his fangs in anger.

She flinched.

“Huh,” he snorted, gripping one of the bedposts. “Move your head aside.” Crunch. Oh, this was a tougher task, but a few sharp blows splintered the wood. “Done.”

“Ah – careful! You almost –”

“I did not.”

The Princess moved her right arm gingerly. “I’m alright. You are very strong, Blitz. Please have a care. I’m very … breakable. Dragons probably don’t understand such things, hating Humans as you do, but … I – uh, I should not have said that. Sorry.”

“We don’t hate Humans,” he rumbled, annoyed at her presumption. “Dragons, by and large, are indifferent. Dragons live in the mountains and the neighbouring Human kingdoms occupy the hills and plains – I am speaking of our immediate neighbours, of course. T’nagru lies farther afield, within the northern periphery of the vast Obsidian Desert. Dragons enjoy T’nagru in particular for its sulphur and hot springs, located in the Blood Desert to the east of your homeland.”

“We’ve noticed, right along with the plundering of our cattle.”

“Desert oryx are tasty,” he agreed.

Fascinating that he could hold a lucid conversation with this Princess of the Desert Kingdom. She obviously knew her geography – she had not said so, but he could scent her affront at his explanation and see it in the narrowing of her tiny black eyes. Did she know her emotions were so transparent to a Dragon? Could it be that these Humans, whom Dragons referred to in the main as lice, fleas or cockroaches, had some modicum of scientific learning? This definitely ran contrary to the opinions of many Dragon scholars he could name. That said, weren’t royalty usually assigned to a special category regarding education? Especially Princesses?

Paws on the prize, Dragon. He reminded himself that history was full of stirring tales of Dragons kidnapping Princesses for glittering ransoms paid by their doting fathers.

Setting aside her limb, which was still attached to its heavy bedpost, he worked on the last one, attached to her right arm. Maybe he could twist the manacles loose with his talons? He must take care, for her bones were as fragile as toothpicks.

Raising his head, he cocked it sideways. “Sounds like a mob coming.”

“You hear something?”

“Aye, that would be the sound of mucky peasants sharpening their pitchforks, shovels and farm implements,” he growled, ripping the last of the bed frame free. Only the heavy bedposts remained. Those would have to wait.

Blitz scooped the Princess into his paw, annoyed afresh when she yelped as his talons sliced her calves shallowly. Flaming talons, her dark skin was soft. Useless hide. Once he had her reasonably well arranged, he reminded himself not to clench his fist. She would probably just ooze out between his knuckles. Messy, besides being rather less than friendly. Hard to imagine that would end well.

Spreading his wings, he coiled his thighs and sprang skyward.

His great wings beat hard for the first eight or ten strokes, propelling his tonnage into the air and kicking up a great storm of red clay dust through which a pitchfork swooshed, destination, his head. It pinged off his scale armour and dropped away. As he cleared the ground, he saw with pride that he had attracted his best mob ever. At least a hundred of the miserable dolts, displaying the collective intelligence of a horde of toads. No mind – braa-haa-haa! Another joke. His clan would surely be swayed by the retelling of this adventure.

Sweeping his wings in longer, cleaner strokes that propelled him forward at increasing speed and altitude, Blitz the Devastator made his triumphal exit, clasping the Princess in paw. His very first successful raid! Pride swelled his chest as he powered upward into the last rays of the setting suns. The sunlight was whiter than usual because Taramis, the white sun, was moving in front of the redder, far larger Ignis. By adjusting his optical membranes, Blitz could filter enough of the white spectrum to see the precise interaction of the suns. He wondered if a Human could do this. They did not act very interested in astronomy, unlike the Dragon scientists in the high peaks, but one never knew.

Setting his great blunt muzzle to the north, Blitz paused to check his captive. Her eyes were leaking again, but he understood that the Human gesture of pulling one’s lips back indicated a smile, which meant simple-minded happiness. Dragons could communicate many different types of smile – cheerful, aggressive, wry, cunning or romantic, to name but a few.

He said, “So, my valuable captive, how is your first flight?”

The Princess whispered, “Incredible.”

Chapter 3: Flight

INCREDIBLE? WHATEVER HE HAD expected of the prisoner of his right paw, it was not this response. Perhaps she was as soft in the head as her skin? The eyes were leaking more and more. Yet she sat still in his cupped paw. Gaze fixed to the fore. Drinking in the scenery as though her hunger rested not in her hearts, but rose from the wellspring of … a soul? By his wings! Was this even possible?

Belligerently, he snarled, “Aren’t you frightened, girl?”

“Terrified out of my wits, o mighty Dragon,” she admitted. “But I’ve never seen the world like this before. Since I’m about to die anyways, I’ll try to enjoy the ride and ignore anything else. Like having any thoughts about my immediate future, for example. It promises to be brief and bloody.”

“What? I was not planning to mistake you for a cow.”

“Should I be flattered?”

“Flattened.”

His exasperated jest made her chuckle hoarsely. “Alright, if you’re not intent upon destroying me or casting me into the abyss just yet, Blitz the Devastator, what’s the plan?”

“I could return you to Prince Floric, if you’d prefer?”

Her dark gaze considered his downturned eye at length. Disconcerting length. “Is this all about making gold off a captive Princess?”

“That would help,” he admitted, startled at his own honesty. “Indeed, I did first imagine that having abducted you to my lair, there might be some negotiation for your freedom. The Prince forced my paw. I was not about to let him … proceed, as he intended. I am a moral creature –”

“Moral?”

His paw twitched involuntarily. “Dragons have morals and codes of conduct, Princess Azania. Does this startle you?”

“Aye, it does.” When he failed to crush her for her challenging response, only choosing to gnash his fangs above her tiny head, which he could crack like a nut, she added with rather less certainty, “It is only that I know so little of Dragons. I thought the kidnapping of Princesses had long since gone out of fashion? The last I can recall must have been at least thirty years ago. I am not ungrateful. Please, understand my … disbelief. It is not every day a Princess is removed from her month-long confinement in a dank dungeon to a high tower, only to be rescued by a vengeful Dragon.”

“Legends have it that captive Princesses are supposed to be confined in the greatest comfort in the highest tower in the land, where they gaze with melancholy mien over the realm –”

“Practising their wondrous harp skills, singing sad lays to while the days away, and combing out their extraordinarily long hair?”

“Indeed!” he huffed in delight. This girl continued to astound! “Whereupon Kings should lay siege to the city, and knights errant ride forth upon noble quests to win the hand of the lady – although, explain this detail to me, why only the hand? Why not their whole person?”

At last, her true laughter rose upon the breeze that bore them northward, and it was a rich, husky bouquet to a Dragon’s senses.

“Dragon, you are too much.”

Too much? At once too much, and too little. This miniscule desert bloom, who barely stood the height of his knee, had no idea what his life was like in the mountains. How he hoped a Princess might change everything.

Stiffly, he said, “I would not allow that man who stank like the open end of a sewer to despoil you, Princess Azania. I had to act. You are correct. It is an ancient and respectable practice for a Dragon to hold a Princess ransom, and thus to enjoy a substantial donation to their hoard when the transaction is completed. Plus, it enhances one’s standing amongst the Clans. To this end, the Dragon should treat his Princess honourably and well. Far better, might I point out, than you would have suffered with that – pah! May his scales rot and his fangs fall out of his putrid gums! You might regard this as mercenary, and a pertinent example of the greed of Dragons. Let it be known that I am not one who enjoys razing villages and trampling the already downtrodden. This struck me as a tidy solution that might be agreeable to both of us.”

“You gain gold and reputation, and I lose a whiffy, unprincipled Prince?”

“Quite.”

The girl gazed toward the horizon. “Is your lair as horrible as they say?”

“Horrible? I happen to think it is cosy and warm, despite its considerable elevation,” Blitz growled.

Not only was this Human spit-ugly, she narked him with every second word. He was the proud son of a proud race! He tried to picture his sire’s face one more time. ‘Honoured sire, I brought home a girl.’ ‘You, Fritz the Failure? Bwaa-haa-haa! Tickle my wings, a girl? Hear how she insults you!’

Fantastic. His dreams had just popped like a lava bubble.

That was exactly how his sire would respond.

He hated the nickname Fritz. His younger brothers had given it to him early on, and like an unwanted rat infestation in one’s lair, it had stuck with him through the years. Fritz, because everything he tried tended to fritz. He could not even reliably light his own hearth. He had to stoop to using flint, which to a Dragon, was beyond humiliating.

Before he knew it, he snapped toward his paw, very nearly severing her hand as she withdrew it with a yelp of fright. “It is a dangerous matter to insult a Dragon!”

Lowering her gaze, she stared rigidly to the fore.

Foolish, gabbling slip of a girl! He would teach her how to speak to a powerful Dragon. Princesses needed to learn their place in the world. Even a month in a clammy dungeon had not taught her … a month, in such a place? A month behind bars, with rats and cruel guards for company?

By his wings! Was this sympathy? What a weak, shrivelling Dragon he was, to consider such feelings toward a lesser creature.

No. Set a ransom, get the gold, be rid of her. That was what he must do.

* * * *

Two hours after nightfall, Blitz whipped over the final village on the northern border of the Kingdom of Vanrace, and scented smelting metals upon the breeze. Dither, dither. Slanting his wings, he returned for a second, much slower pass. This metallic, acrid tang meant a blacksmith’s forge here at the edge of town. He must be working late. The forge doors stood wide open, spilling enough orange light that even Blitz could see that the yard between his workplace and his house was clear. Approaching upwind, he smelled the characteristic musky scent of a hound.

Decision made.

Cupping his wings to increase the resistance, he slowed, timed the approach more by smell than by sight, and landed in a smooth rush of wind. His tonnage shook the ground.

The barking wolfhound received the brunt of his glare. Whining in abject fear, the animal slunk beneath the house.

Ha. Enter the Dragon!

“Who’s there?” the blacksmith called. “Charima? Is that you?”

“No, just a weary traveller,” the Princess called, trying to rise from his paw before discovering she was still manacled to half a bed. Silly thing. So stunted and helpless.

Striding over to the door, Blitz deposited his burden in the firelight where the blacksmith could clearly see both her and her captor.

The tanned man tried to put his great hammer down, but his hand was trembling so badly that the tool fell to the floor with a clang. He dried his palms on his grey smock. Humans really smelled nasty when they were afraid, as if the foetid contents of their guts tried to work their way out through the pores of their skin. This fellow was no exception.

Blitz announced, “Drivelling peasant, the Princess of T’nagru requires your service. Remove her chains and be quick about it.”

The man’s eyes glazed over somewhat as he took in the bedposts, the chains and the humongous Dragon breathing down her neck. He appeared to have lost all volition, and indeed, whatever intelligence he might have claimed had summarily drained out of his undersized cranium. While that was pleasing, it was also an annoyance. This Dragon was far too keyed up by his success and the natural desire to place this prize in his hoard forthwith, to display much patience. His scales prickled all over; the silver blood in his arteries buzzed with the force of its rushing about his body.

Some part of Blitz was still flying above the clouds.

He growled, “Tell me, is this woman considered attractive amongst your kind? How so? Answer me truthfully, fool.”

Still no words.

“Find your tongue! Now!”

The blacksmith blurted out, “I’m a married man! Uh … your most draconic … stupendousness? She is –” his eyes apologised desperately to the royal visitor, as he tried to shape words in his thick accent “– the Princess of … T’nagru … is indeed surpassing fair, and wondrous of … form, your truly dreadful Majesty. I’ve never seen someone from your kingdom before, ma’am, and I – I am Blacksmith Karthun, at your service. Your darkness is truly breath –”

“Chains!” Blitz snapped.

“At once! She’s more astounding than any of the tales, Dragon. Far tinier. And far more beautiful, of course. Could you – no – could he carry –” the man wrung his hands “– please?”

Witless incompetent!

Sighing, Blitz scooped the Princess plus four bedposts up, eliciting a cry as her soft skin was pinched unavoidably by her manacles, and brought her over to the blacksmith’s anvil. The man discovered an abundance of motivation as a fifty-three foot Dragon hulked beneath the forge roof, and blew hot air down his back. Miraculous effect. Really.

His chisel made short work of the manacles attached to the bedposts. Then, the fellow took his time hunting through a drawer full of keys. Ah, shaky hands, tiny man? Definitely an occupational hazard around this Dragon. He could not believe he had never discovered the joy of scaring Humans witless in his hitherto short and uneventful life. Hmm. Another, more meaty scent on the breeze drew his most carnivorous attention. Venison, if he was not mistaken. Aye, venison dripping with juices, and a bready hint that made him picture … aye. Pie. That was what Humans called the silly affectation of wrapping good meat in soggy grain.

Barbarians.

He failed to see the attraction of such insipid fodder, but the Princess looked malnourished, at least to his jaundiced eye. Put her beside the sturdy blacksmith, and she looked like a diminutive wren beside a fat green moorhen. Mmm, what a scrumptious notion – succulent, fresh moorhen.

He said, “Is your wife back in the house, man? And an infant, judging by the smell of your rubbish midden?”

“Blessed with twins, sir,” said the man, fumbling the keys he was handling. Great. Here he went again. “Please, please, please don’t – please, noble Dragon, I beg you –”

“Fool! I do not eat your kind! Although, dealing with King Tyloric’s men-at-arms was most agreeable entertainment this afternoon past. Slap! Toss a stone – splat! Blam! MWAA-HAA-HAA! Like swatting a bunch of silver bugs stuck in a jar. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He spluttered, “Aye sir, mighty Drag – no, uh …” His eyes rolled wildly. “It is of course entirely as you say, my lord … Dragon.”

“Not the most popular King, this Tyloric?” Blitz guessed.

Both heads nodded, but then the blacksmith began to gabble something about his death if such a thing ever left the doors of his forge. Blitz cocked his head. Footsteps outside. The wife was coming, and if he was not mistaken, she had just spotted his very large tail trailing between the tall, ironbound forge doors. She must think her husband was presently digesting inside his well-stuffed stomach. He had eaten a whole cow, so her conclusion was not unreasonable, even though erroneous.

One cow would suffice for the next week.

Turning about to the tune of metal pieces falling behind him, Blitz prowled outside, coming face to face with a terrified woman holding a saucepan. He blared, “Woman, your husband is –”

She swung at him. Since he flicked his head upward, she missed and slammed the heavy saucepan into his broken digit. A monstrous bellow ripped from his throat. GGGRROOARGHH!

Human females were insufferable! Far braver – or stupider – than their mates.

Here was this straw-haired thing babbling vague entreaties for mercy as she fell over his paw, the pain making him see black … he snarled horribly, “Your husband is fine. Feed the Princess. Now, you quivering worm. We will be leaving before the inevitable unwashed mob turns up and I have to squash someone again. What did you say? I’d be most displeased to dirty my paws thus.”

Whine, whinge, whimper.

“By my wings, will you be silent, you mindless mop head? I have no interest in your blubbering whelps, your wretched house, or even your dog! Princess! Hurry up. I grow impatient!”

He stomped off in a fury.

* * * *

Twenty minutes later, with the Princess trying to burp delicately after scoffing a slice of rich venison pie in the false belief he would not notice her manners, Blitz winged northward once more. Too gutless to form a mob, these villagers. For a group of unarmed people to try to take down a large Dragon was suicide for most of them. Soldiers, knights and professional Dragon slayers were another matter. They could be relied upon to make a real nuisance of themselves.

He did not even know why he was being so peevish.

The Princess in his paw was silent, which made a refreshing change. He was headed home. To his frustration, she had paused to press her last T’nagrun gold coin upon the family for their service. What was the point? Dragons took what they wanted. Now she had made him look weak – but that was hardly the source of his nagging vexation.

It took an hour on the wing to work out why he was so tetchy, but when he did, his muscles tensed up and he glided for a moment to ease the heart cramp. He was afraid.

Afraid of what his Clan would say.

He deserved their accolades. Capturing a costly Princess was no minor accomplishment. He knew his family better than any other. What would truly change? How would they treat him any differently? It would never be down to deeds. It was because of who he was.

Worse, as he examined the tenor and colours of his Dragon emotions, he realised he was afraid of what the Princess would say, too. How she would react.

No-one understood him. No creature under the suns knew what moved this Dragon’s deepest thoughts and feelings.

Loneliness gaped wide in his hearts.

Tracking his way by the scents of jasmine and water, Blitz presently brought them to a small dell tucked into a hillside about five miles off the main trail into the mountains. That was the route the prospectors, slayers, bounty hunters and knights occasionally dared, for like Dragons, there were those among the teeming ranks of the Human scourge who sought glory at any cost. The fame of Dragon hunting was great, and the value of Dragon hides and body parts, ever increasing. Forty-two years ago, a Human tribe from even farther south than T’nagru, a violent people called the Skartun who hailed from somewhere way across the Obsidian Desert, had fought their way right into the Tamarine Mountains and taken many Dragons captive. Captive!

He shook his head. Such a stain ever lived on in the hearts of the Dragons who had survived. Had the Dragonkind not been divided, they would have driven the Skartun off. The whisper in the caverns of the Dragon Clans was of betrayal. Treachery most foul. Clans bought off not to fight. Good, strong Dragons carried off into slavery.

The opulent aroma of jasmine teased his nostrils as he skirted the tall trees and wheeled in sharply, bringing them to a perfect three-pawed landing on the soft sward beside a low, chuckling trio of waterfalls. He adored this spot. The scents were especially evocative, with fragrant pink peonies growing amongst the boulders in this early summer season, and the thick jasmine. On a good day, he had even occasionally succeeded in hunting blue-bellied river trout here, but he needed a decent slice of luck.

His gnarled knuckles massaged his eyes. Tiredness always made the infernal itching worse. Stepping over to the river, he drank deeply and long, before washing his eyes surreptitiously.

“Dragon, will we fly on this night?” the Princess inquired.

“No, we will rest here. It’s a long flight up into the mountains.”

“I … may I make my toilet?”

“Your droppings? Of course. You may place those anywhere – no. Go downwind, and make sure you bury that sloppy Human foulness. Then, you will come over and sleep beside me. It will be safer for you this way.”

“Wild animals?”

“Timber wolves, panthers, hill pythons and of course, other Dragons, to name but a few dangers in these parts. I will keep you safe, Princess Azania, but if you try to use that knife you took from the blacksmith’s forge on me, I can assure you, it will not end well.”

“It was for my own use and protection,” she said awkwardly.

Not a lie. Unexpected.

He said, “I see I mistook your intentions. It is good to be prepared. There are few others of your kind in the mountains.”

After she made her toilet in a discreet manner, downwind so that the stench did not offend, the Princess cleaned her hands and face in the river, and drank before re-joining him. Blitz had curled up as he was always wont to, head to tail, his flank pressed up against a tall boulder that retained a pleasant warmth from the suns. The clear night was already growing cooler. Despite her velveteen gown and under-leggings, she was not dressed for colder mountains weather. He knew that from his studies. These Humans needed to swaddle themselves in all sorts of coverings against wintry weather. Therefore, he raised his head and indicated the hollow created by the curve of his tail, right up against his flank.

“Make yourself comfortable.”

That earned him a rather odd look, but she stepped over his tail and lay down obediently. After a moment’s wriggling, she turned about and pillowed her head atop his forepaw, which lay palm-up. Blitz crooked his head into a comfortable position and lowered his wing over her for additional warmth. There. What an excellent tyrant he was.

Her breath hitched.

“What is it, Princess? Are you claustrophobic?”

“No. I was just thinking – thank you for not being completely unbearable, Blitz.”

By his wings, a backhanded compliment. Most cunning. He said, “I understand this must be hard for you. I’m sure you would prefer to be winging your way back to the desert just now.”

She was silent for a long time. His magic prowled about her tiny form, teasing out the fact that she might have many responses to this question, some of which saddened her. A weariness of knowing lay behind her thoughts. Perhaps disillusionment?

He was not certain how closely Human emotions equated to those of Dragons. Certainly, he was beginning to find his captive a pleasingly complex creature, not at all a wretch moved only by the simplest, most basal hungers, as most Dragon scholarship claimed of Humans.

She whispered, “The blacksmith told me that my father had sent troops to test the strength of the Kingdom of Vanrace. They were badly beaten. King Tyloric did not inform me of this. I thought my father had abandoned me.” Her scent became more pleasant and citrusy, as she added, “Now, when he hears I have been taken by a Dragon, he will feel encouraged. I do not mean to sound alarmist, Blitz, but he will send many knights and Dragon slayers against you, seeking to test your mettle.”

“Do you honestly think you’re so desirable?” he asked.

The Princess sighed very deeply. The dark intricacy was back in her thoughts. Tonelessly, she replied, “Every Dragon slayer in two kingdoms will be after your blood, Blitz the Devastator. While I am flattered, I do not wish such a fate on anyone – upon any creature, that is. You have not been unkind, and you did steal me away from an awful fate.”

“I did.” More lightly, he added, “Perhaps a few knights in shining armour will come seeking to win your fair hand, milady?”

“My hand can never be fair.”

“Metaphorically speaking,” he insisted, stilling his displeasure for the umpteenth time.

She said, “I am who I am, and you are who you are, Dragon. What will all this change, do you think? I am warm and secure, and quite exhausted. I bid you a sweet sleep until the morrow.”

His own words, returned to shake him. What will this change?

“May your dreams soar evermore, Princess.”

Blitz wanted to ponder the events of this day long into the night, but to his slow-burning surprise, what spoke most clearly to his soul was the regular rhythm of another creature’s breathing almost beneath his chin. He slept soundly, and dreamed of soaring high over a world he saw in every glorious detail.

Chapter 4: Mountain Fastness

THE DAWN BROKE FAIR and rosy, as Ignis bent his burning eye over the continent of Solixambria, the centre dominated by the Dragon Clans, the coastal regions by swarms of Humans. The dark green tips of the tall, tufty-topped paramis trees were the first flora to be burnished by his crimson gaze. Slowly, the sunlight crept down to the creamy white blossoms of the jasmine shrubs, and finally warmed his spine ridge and wings. Blitz had woken with the birds, but the Princess of T’nagru slept on in the crook of his paw. He waited with the patience of Dragons.

There really was not much to this tiny mammal. Those Vanracian thugs had handled her easily. He had observed that she was petite and delicate of bone structure in comparison to her captors, her cheekbones high and her eyes – shuttered for the moment – relatively large. Were these desirable traits in the Human female? She had braided her hair intricately. It must be long when untangled. Again, the scrolls extolled such a feature. He supposed it was like supple haunches, or the scent of riches to a questing female’s nostrils. These strange filaments and those above and framing her eyes were as dark as sable. His keen eye detected a hint of glittering green dust upon her cheeks and above her eyes. Humans liked colouration, just like Dragonesses. Male Dragons were all about scent, but Dragonesses loved to adorn themselves with jewellery and their scales, especially around the eyes, with vibrant colours.

He was good with colours.

Snuffling, she stirred. Blitz quickly pretended to be looking elsewhere.

“I thought I dreamed,” she whispered, her voice burry with sleep. “Good morn, Dragon.”

“Good morn to you, Princess. Satisfactory sleep?”

“Certainly beats my dungeon cell. What a lovely location. I’ve never slept beside a river, and what’s that –” she inhaled deeply “– gorgeous scent?”

“The jasmine bushes.”

Rising, she stretched luxuriously. “Definitely an improvement upon my previous accommodation. Rather bracing – brrr. So, onward and upward into the mountains today?”

“Indeed.” He looked beneath himself. “Blasted quarrels. Two in the tail and one – right, here goes this one.”

Blitz plucked a crossbow quarrel out of his upper left thigh, hissing at the pain. They made these things to stick in a Dragon’s flesh. Hmm. This one beneath his tail was snapped off. No gripping that with paws his size. He would have to get his pliers from –

“Can I help?”

Well, this Princess was already proving useful. He said, “Aren’t Human females, especially royalty, supposed to be squeamish?”

“I’m not regular storybook material, Dragon, in case you hadn’t noticed. Now, roll over and show me your – ah, what’s that? Your – ah?”

“My ah? Aye, how descriptive you are.”

Her pulse raced off at twice the speed. He heard the capillaries opening beneath her skin as she blushed heatedly, shielding her eyes. “I did not need to know that about you.”

“This is not my male parts. Those lie beneath this retractable armoured casing –”

“La la la …”

“However, I am most generously proportioned, I assure you.”

“La la LAAAA!”

He gave that a great draconic belly laugh. A Dragoness, had there been one remotely interested in a Blitz the Devastator, would not have acted coy. Intriguing. Not that he had any issues with Dragonesses sniffing about his lair. Every Dragon Clan in the mountains knew his reputation. His delightful family had made sure of that.

“Milady, that arrow is all I am concerned about. Please. Spare me your maidenly blushes.”

That tiny chin lifted like an arrow pointed in its own right. “I said I am not like those Princesses you might have read about, if Dragons – ah …”

“We read,” he growled.

“Of course you do; never thought otherwise,” she spluttered, the lying wretch. “I do not do needlework, play the harp or swoon over handsome Princes, most especially not the smelly ones. I am fierce and independent – at least, I should like to think so.”

Her hand fluttered over her heart, reacting to the vulnerability she had unconsciously betrayed.

Blitz said, “There’s only a stub to work with.”

“I can do this.”

“How many years have you, Princess?”

His silver Dragon blood had made the arrow shaft slippery. “Seventeen. High time to be married in my culture – what does it matter, anyways? How old are you, Blitz?”

“I shall be twenty this high summer.”

He should be courting a Dragoness, by now. He’d have better luck trying to fly over the Lumis Ocean by catching a ride on a passing Sea Serpent.

Picking up the hem of her dress, she wrapped it around the arrow stub to improve her grip. Could she just yank it out? Of course, even without factoring in a male ego. He was a Dragon. That was an arrow – a large splinter, in his humble opinion. She sat down, placed her feet either side of the puncture wound, and pulled with all her strength.

The arrow popped free. Silver blood gushed; she stopped it with her palm. “Should we bind this?”

“It’ll stop soon, but jaramoss is a good remedy against infection. There should be a fair crop, which I smell just the other side of the stream.”

The Princess searched for a crossing place. He plucked her up and placed her on the far side of the ten-foot wide flow, instructing her to gather handfuls of the springy moss with its tiny yellow blossoms. Shortly, she had tamped the various wounds full and the bleeding even from the worst wound had slowed to a trickle. Those four arrow holes represented his glorious battle injuries.

This was what real Dragons did in their spare time. Had he ever felt so alive? Never.

Sad, but true.

While she washed her hands and the hem of her dress in the stream, he tracked down a couple of large root tubers. An omnivore would need variety in her diet, he understood from the texts. These, a few vegetables from his high and low gardens, and a bit of meat, ought to keep his prize from wasting away. One should keep such a treasure alive, he supposed, the better to achieve a fine ransom.

“Time to fly,” he said.

“Time to take a Princess firmly in paw,” she echoed, with a wry smile. He wondered how life had been in her kingdom. Could she even begin to identify with his experience?

Blitz the Devastator winged toward the rising mountains all that morning. His passenger kept pointing and exclaiming, so it was not the most peaceful flight, but he took pleasure in hearing about what she could see. He found himself pressing her for details. Why was that stream pink and crimson, she asked? Because of an underwater river weed that bloomed in this season, giving it that extraordinary colour, he told her. Were the highest peaks white because of snow? Aye, all the year round. She had never seen snow, she told him. Desert girl. Well, those peaks were still three to four days’ flight away, he informed her. Well above the height of his lair – over twenty-two thousand feet up there. The highest peaks reached thirty-one thousand feet, so high that even Dragons did not live at that altitude.

They discussed the strangely sloping peaks, which all appeared to lean to the west, like a Dragon’s fangs tilted fifteen degrees from the vertical. This made for smooth rises from the direction of his right paw, while to the left, the drop-offs were sheer and even exceeded the vertical in many places. Majestic, mile-high cliff faces housed many caverns inhabited by Dragons throughout the Tamarine Range. This was wild Dragon country, she said, with a theatrical shiver he was quite sure was meant to be a tail-tugging tease.

Good thing she was in the company of a wild, unprincipled beast then, right?

Human legends were full of Dragons who fulfilled the stereotype of the immoral, rapacious beast of everyone’s nightmares. Had they never considered how noble Dragons shuddered to consider the foetid anthills Humankind called cities and dwelling spaces?

So many crammed together, living steeped in the squalor of their own filth – blergh!

Surmounting the last of the wooded foothills, he brought her down for a rest beside a copse of mighty sequoia trees, giants over two hundred and fifty feet tall. The Rose of the Desert hurt her neck gazing up at them, she claimed. After helping her forage for some tart early-season loganberries and a handful of nuts, Blitz took to the air once more. Did he scent a hint of wood smoke? As they flew up a low, lush valley that snaked deeper into the mountains, he searched for that elusive trace until the Princess asked why he was so twitchy and nervous.

“I am not nervous, it is merely that I smell smoke,” he corrected her loftily. “That usually means bounty hunters, prospectors or Dragon slayers.”

She pointed. “See out there? There’s a thin column of smoke – oh, maybe two miles ahead? Oh. Oh! Is that why you rub your eyes so much? I’m sorry, I mean no disrespect –”

“My eyes are fine!”

Even he shuddered at the scale-prickling lie. Her slight exhale proclaimed she knew the truth, too. The Princess must have seen him itching at these thrice-blasted membranes, which drove him crazy some days.

Gruffly, he said, “My eyes are poor and always itchy. I – I apologise, Princess. I am not angry with you.”

“How do you fly so confidently if you cannot see well?”

“Scent traces, excellent directional sense and my detailed knowledge of the general terrain allow me to fly well enough,” he said. “Mountain shapes and valleys are recognisable blurs. I can always find my way home.”

“Your home is beautiful. It’s a shame –”

“Did I ask for sympathy? Blergh!”

“No, but you have it. I am sorry if you feel that is a slight to your majestic draconic honour.”

That chin was doing its pointy thing again. He scowled down at the inhabitant of his paw. She said honour, but she meant hubris. By his wings, she had known him the lesser part of a day, and already she saw so deep? Humans were not meant to have heart-scent instincts. Maybe this dark Princess was more dangerous than he had supposed …

No. He was the Dragon! Always in control.

She was just a pipsqueak sitting calmly in his paw with her legs dangling a mile over nothingness, conversing with a flying Dragon as if royalty took lessons in the art. Too true, she was no make-believe Princess. Wingtips trembling in premonition, he wondered if she might not be a prize of the kind and quality her gold-grubbing father could not even begin to imagine.

Dragons had a seventh sense about these things.

Aye. Truth or not, he would squeeze that King of the Desert for every T’nagrun gold coin he had in his treasury. Her honour demanded no less.

* * * *

As he had warned, the journey to his mountain refuge was no trivial affair; a long and arduous flight almost due north from Vanrace. Fifty miles beyond the Humans’ camp, the valley came to an abrupt end in a mighty waterfall, its white plume drawing a squeal of delight from his captive. Ah, awake again. She had nodded off in his paw. Since his three forward-facing talons made for her main seat, he had adjusted his grip so that his longer opposing digit could curl around her back, while the shorter rear talon, which pointed upward when he supinated his paw, clamped neatly across her right thigh. Safe enough. One should not drop the trophy so close to home.

Not even if one’s name was Blitz the Fritz, master of confusion and catastrophe.

Blitz flew close to the apex of the waterfall so that the Princess could best appreciate the thundering flow. True, he meant to impress. Rising into noticeably cooler, thinner air thereafter, he turned west to follow the flow of the river deeper into the mountains. Their faces were lit by the ruddy giant red sun, setting so hugely behind the peaks, it covered a third of the sky.

He pumped his wings smoothly, riding an ebullient high-altitude airstream for a further twenty-nine miles until they approached a cluster of four west-facing peaks. Curving his flight once more, he skirted the southern slopes above an olive green coniferous forest, before making a sharp turn to his right paw, passing into the midst of the peaks. Gliding through a tiny hidden valley, he folded his wings and took the Princess on a wild ride down to the entrance of his lair, some three hundred feet below the valley, cunningly hidden in the fold of what looked like a natural fault line in the rock. Azania gasped as he tucked in his wings to negotiate the narrow entryway, before flaring wide to bring them to an expert landing in the sandy cavern just beyond.

He purred, “Welcome to the Dragon’s lair.”

“I quiver in fear.” She yawned, tottering upon unsteady legs.

“As well you should.”

“Actually, my muscles have gone to sleep.” The Princess smiled tiredly. “It’s cooler than I had imagined up here. I guess we are inside a cave, after all.”

She chattered on to cover her fear, he decided. That hummingbird heart had not slowed since they landed.

“Come inside. It’s deeper than you think, but perfectly safe.”

“I can’t see my own –”

“Place your hand upon my leg, and I’ll guide you,” he rumbled. “See if you can reach my knee.”

“Short jokes are never funny,” she sniffed.

“How short is short?” said he, patting her upon the head.

Nice Princess. Nice pet.

“Four feet and a whole eight inches, unless I contrived to grow since I was thirteen. Not happening. So I’m … compact. If your scales had pockets, I’d be pocket-sized.”

“A pocket Princess? That’ll do,” he guffawed raucously. What a triumph, this day! “We can find a lantern in a moment. Again, I assure you that no matter how much like a tiny appetiser you may feel just now, Dragons do not eat your kind. The idea is beyond vile. It is unthinkable.”

Was any idea truly unthinkable, given as he had actually just thought it?

Perhaps a philosophy lesson in her edible properties would not be appreciated at this juncture. How did one welcome a Princess to one’s lair, and give them the equivalent of wing space and ease? He walked the girl through to the inner branching chamber, the equivalent of a Human lounge or living space. Here, he picked up his flint striker and lit a couple of lamps, bustling about tidying a few stray items which must have escaped his notice upon departing.

The Princess of T’nagru looked about the grey-walled chamber curiously. Her hairy eyebrows, so different to draconic brow ridges, arched judiciously as she noticed the artworks hung on the walls up to a height of five times her diminutive stature. Her gaze lingered on a sculpture of four ruby-red Dragon hatchlings clinging to a horizontal branch, some seventy feet across the chamber.

She said, “It’s cosier than I imagined.”

“It meets my needs.”

A broad stone hearth lay to her left hand, where Blitz liked of an evening to lounge on the huge leather floor cushions as he perused a book or scroll. Beside that was a cooking area, a worktop with storage shelves below and hooks above for his utensils, pans and spits for grilling meat. He realised that the worktop was taller than her head. Hmm. A problem for the morrow. Besides, this place must be as big as the average Human Great Hall. For her to call his lair cosy was a kindness.

He said, “I inherited my home from Swoop the Devastator – my great-uncle on my dam’s side. No bequest of treasure, unfortunately. That all went to my relatives. Old Swoop did like his creature comforts, hence the thick rugs, the floor cushions and this kitchen space. There is running water in the sink, courtesy of a diversion in a spring in the valley just above this cave. I’ll see if I can’t find a small ladder to help you reach it more easily.”

The girl nodded. “Thank you.”

Placing the tubers on the timber worktop, he pointed to her right while fussily sweeping a few clods of earth into a wooden waste bucket. “This first chamber is where I sleep. The next one’s for storage. All sorts of interesting chests and paraphernalia in there – Swoop was quite the collector of Dragon and Human curios. Some even come from as far afield as the Vaylarn Archipelago.”

“His plunder?” she inquired.

“Aye, his plunder,” he snorted. “Would you prefer I use a more palatable word?”

The Princess shrugged. “Dragons do as Dragons do. Who are we poor Humans to complain about the destruction of our livelihoods?”

“As if Humans don’t steal or make war upon one another.”

“Ah …” Now, an uncertain smile. “Shall we argue about which species is the more evil or barbaric? We could be here a while.”

Blitz narrowed his eyes. Was she testing his patience?

“Do I spy a library through here?”

Gnarr. Her surprise made his right forepaw twitch in a desire to swat her, or at the very least, frighten that Dragons-are-animals attitude into submission. He said, “Aye, that’s my library. You are more than welcome to use it as you wish. The desk is not suitable for a creature of your woeful proportions, I must confess, but there are two old round couches in the corner that a pipsqueak of your dimensions might find comfortable.”

“Thank you. What’s through that archway?”

“My studio.”

“Your …” she blinked and rubbed her own eyes. “I’m sorry, did I hear right?”

“Aye! I forbid you to go in there! I’ve had enough of your prattling for one day. Make yourself comfortable – as comfortable as a captive Princess can be in a Dragon’s lair! Make a fire. Cook food. Knock yourself silly against a wall!”

He stomped off into his sleeping chamber, knowing but not caring that he was behaving like a hatchling throwing a fit. That woman! He might better apply spicy dragonroot peppers to his eyes! He would more happily clip his wings and tear his own scales off his body. One word sufficed. Insufferable.

IN-SUFFER-ABLE!

The faster he could arrange to exchange her for treasure, the better, but he knew it would take time for the news to spread and the glory seekers to start to turn up. Would he earn so much as the attentions of a small army from the Kingdom of T’nagru? Or a few real Dragon slayers? That would definitely impress his Clan.

Turning about twice upon his tough leather floor cushions, he arranged his bed to his satisfaction and lay down with a grunt. Why was he so cantankerous about hosting another creature in his space? He was too young to be a crusty old bachelor Dragon, wasn’t he?

Chattering chit of a child. If she dared to step foot in his studio, he would fly into such a rage, the very mountains would tremble. Yet she was on her feet, exploring. He rose with a huff of breath and peered through the doorway. The lamplight advertised her presence in his library.

Padding over with his utmost skill, he frightened her so badly she almost dropped the lamp. “Blitz!”

“That’s my name,” he grinned, immediately feeling one hundred times better about life. Shallow, but undeniable. He waved a talon. “I forgot one detail. That way, through the back of the library, is a chamber where I scatter my droppings. The water flow will flush everything away. It is heavy with minerals, however, so you should rather drink from the kitchen tap – it’s less bitter. You pump the handle to make the water flow.”

“Thank you,” she said.

About to return to his chamber, he paused. “May your dreams soar, Princess.”

“And yours, Dragon.”

Courtesy toward the captive? No, he would never be numbered amongst the great tyrants of his kind. He was weary of being grumpy, fractious and haughty. Time to shut his eyes. Tomorrow promised better things for this Dragon. Had his fortunes not changed? Did he not hold a Princess in his lair, one of the fabled black tribe of the desert?

Black is beautiful, their scholars wrote. Beautiful meant expensive. Expensive meant a hoard stuffed with shiny treasures.

It was not as if she was near, but Blitz slept poorly nonetheless. His dream was one long, unending, panicked flight from a danger he never saw. He started awake in the early hours, his hearts thundering so loudly in his ears that for the longest time, he could not even hear the Princess’ breathing. There. She slept in the library. Rising, he padded out of his sleeping chamber to check on her, finding her fast asleep in one of the circular-framed Human couches he had never quite decided to get rid of. She had tried to curl up beneath one of the smaller floor rugs, he saw, with a pang – aggravated he had not remembered how these Humans needed coverings for the night time as well. Such fragility.

His broken fore talon throbbed with pain.

Whanged by a saucepan. Ah, the price of heroism.

Picking up a lamp, he wandered through to the storeroom. Everything was neatly stacked and labelled. The only room where he allowed himself a mess –relatively speaking – was his studio. That was his creative space, messy only when he was working. The rest? He had been called ‘obsessively neat’ by his family.

Walking four shelves down, he turned to his left paw and rooted out the correct chest. Aye. Three cheerfully patterned teal blankets with a fanciful Sea Dragon pattern stitched in crimson along the borders. How many might she need? She was tiny, even in comparison to her own kind. Not much by way of heat retention, if he remembered the science of body size correctly.

Picking up two blankets, he retraced his steps. The rug had slipped onto the floor.

Sneakily, he placed the coverings over her person without waking her. Aye, he might be fifty-three feet and many tonnes of Dragon, but he could move noiselessly over fallen twigs in a forest.

Only one predator in this lair.

Retreating, he paused in his lounge. Dratted digit! He palpated the spot carefully, wincing as the bones ground against one another. That needed to be set without delay. He had just the thing in his workshop, a segment of metal pipe that could function as a cast. Sighing, he lit his lamps, bathing his workroom in bright white light. The tool bench stood along the wall to his left, while straight ahead, fake rock walls concealed a wide window that could be opened to let daylight pour in. His easels and three half-completed canvases stood along the wall, in front of a large collection of neatly organised, finished canvases of miscellaneous sizes and shapes. No time for that now. Measuring the pipe, he scored a mark upon it with his talon, fixed it in a vice, and picked up his metal saw.

The Princess should sleep.

He set to work, sawing steadily but quietly.

Halfway through, a voice from the doorway said, “Can I help?”

One Dragon very nearly scared out of his hide. His neck twizzled so sharply, the vertebrae popped. “You!”

She wiped the sleep out of her eyes with her sleeve. “So, you’re a painter? Figures.”

“Figures?”

Chapter 5: Virtue

MURDER HAD NOT BEEN far from his mind last night, given the way the Princess had snuck up on him. With the aid of a small pair of hands, he managed to work the pipe onto his digit with extra wadding pulled through from the lower end and tamped into place, making for a decent splint. At least the bones were no longer scraping with every step.

Then, he did sleep soundly.

Waking was predictable until he smelled tubers grilling in herbs in his kitchen. He snuffled the air unhappily. Said cooking enterprise was proceeding about as effectively as his first leap off that tower, yesterday. He must have a bruise the size of a cart in the shoulder muscle.

Princesses of the legends were domestic mages, as skilled in the culinary arts as they were in the delicate arts of romantic diplomacy. This scent was much more along the lines of chargrilled, Dragon style. He was quite certain Humans preferred their meals lighter on the crunchy charcoal element, and ah, was that the whiff of a naughty word trapped by his ear canals, as Dragons would say? Well, Princess. Language that piquant was definitely not enshrined in the scrolls.

Padding through to the cooking area, he cooed, “How can I help?”

She almost jumped into the fire. “You – how do you do that?”

“Do what?”

The girl even shivered at his purr. What fun!

Picking up his smallest pan from where she must have wrestled it into place on the tripod set above a neat fire she had lit, he flipped her tuber slices casually. A dab of fat or oil might have helped.

Scowl. Hands on hips. A posture he took to mean exasperation. “I was doing fine.”

“Princess, do you like your meals dead, very dead, or wholly cremated? Look, you need to learn to turn your food over before you destroy it. Good choice on the herbs, however. Those will complement the flavour of your tubers most agreeably.”

“Well – I am a Princess, used to … not exactly used to cooking for myself. I’m sorry. Did I wake you from your beauty sleep?”

“Beauty? Starting early on the insults, are we?”

Her tiny teeth showed through a startled smile. “Wrong side of the … uh, bed, Dragon? Roost? Pillow? However you say that?”

He stared suspiciously at her, not accustomed to this level of cheerfulness of a morning. Any morning. Ever. “What does ‘wrong side of the bed’ mean?”

“It means one feels out of sorts upon waking. May I prepare you something?”

Jaded would have better described his condition. The shoulder was moderately awful and his body ached from the long, long journey – but somehow, he suspected her clever saying had nothing to do with shoulders. Or paws. More likely the overbearing attitude attached to them.

“When you learn to cook, maybe,” he said, nudging her out of the way with his nose. “Until then, good little captive Princesses should sit on my kitchen counter and look pretty, if they would like something that resembles edible food. Unfortunately, you are not a good Princess. I heard a bad, bad word earlier. Didn’t your royal tutors beat that kind of language out of you?”

She dimpled sweetly. “Dragon, they surely tried. However, my jailors were less restrained with their language. I apologise. Did I offend your sensibilities?”

Here she went again. This was like trying to hold a sensible conversation with a thornbush.

“No, it just figures.”

For the first time, he saw her very dark eyes flash with something other than terror or amusement. Touched a sensitive scale there, had he?

Blitz the Devastator loomed over the girl, grinning broadly. He was quite sure a thought about her mortality crossed her mind just then. “I’d hardly expect you to act like a proper Princess, would I? You being so very non-standard, so non-storybook and all that.”

“I see. Well, that’s all I meant last night, too. How many Dragon painters do you know?”

“One. Me.”

“Self-taught?”

“From books and scrolls,” he replied defensively. “Dragons are not often accused of dabbling in the fine arts, one might say, apart from the finer arts of mayhem and destruction. I happen to love nature, and I love to paint it.”

“I took ten years of classes and cannot paint like you. My chalk sketches are solid, but … you have a gift.”

He stared suspiciously at her. Again, he smelled no lie. Either this Princess was a fantastic liar, or he must believe … no. He itched at his left wingpit uncomfortably.

“May I look through some of your other works, Dragon?”

Without sounding as stiff as he felt, he said, “I appreciate the compliment. Aye. I would value your opinion –”

“Smoke!” she yelped.

That was the end of the tubers. They ended up starting over, and this time, managed to produce a perfectly toasted breakfast for Her Royal Highness, the Black Rose of the Desert. She declared it was inexpressibly better than dungeon fare. Truly an ode to the humble tuber.

He was not quite sure the average Princess who swanned her way through the histories and legends had quite this energetic a sense of humour. Nor the gumption to test it on a grouchy Dragon.

* * * *

They managed to spend most of the day together without further vexation. Blitz tidied and cleaned. The Princess disappeared into the library. It was a fine collection of Dragon lore and legend, much of which he doubted even a Princess would have seen before. Upon reflection, that room was one reason why his reputation had spread. A Dragon who valued the lore enough to visit other Dragon Clans to ask for all their unwanted scrolls and books, or to copy the valuable ones, was peculiar enough to attract much comment.

It had been a year since he had flown out in search of lore.

Weary of the embarrassment.

Later, he prepared his brushes and paints, but mooched around his studio without the slightest flame of inspiration whatsoever. Even a spark would have been welcome. Gifted? Aye, at being a pariah. How did one even begin to introduce a captive Princess around the mountains? If he wanted her to be noticed, he would have to fly somewhere. Maybe visit his sire and dam?

He could not face that as yet. Not today.

So when the Princess came to him to ask if there was a place to bathe, and admired his close-up of a teal fire-crested river kingfisher, a snapshot of the wings outspread just before it swooped for its prey, her request came as a relief. Blitz gathered a fresh canvas, an easel and a pouch of supplies.

“Follow me.”

One of the secrets of his lair was the passage that branched off behind the library chamber, climbing some four hundred and three small steps to the valley above. Even the tiny Princess could manage these steps.

Up top was another of his favourite locations in the mountains. A brook gurgled down from the peak behind his cavern before spreading over a semi-circular ledge and falling in a fine curtain into a turquoise pool below. The curtain was four standard Dragon paces wide, or twenty-eight feet. His thoughtful great-uncle had long ago stocked the pond with fine trout. Herons fished around the shallows, and the tiny valley in which this natural masterpiece sat, was a mere three hundred and fourteen feet long and a hundred and twenty-two feet wide.

Ahem. That might be because some Dragon with far too much time on his paws had measured the place with exactitude.

Furthermore, every last inch had been tended by a meticulous paw. One hundred and nineteen species of flowers. Forty-two different types of vegetables. Many different shrubs and trees had been chosen for their distinctive foliage, or their desirability to particular bird and insect species.

As they emerged from a door cleverly hidden behind the waterfall, the Princess gasped, “Blitz, this is amazing!”

He purred, “Aye. I love the way the afternoon sun plays through the waterfall.”

“It’s paradise. Even the Royal Palace’s terraced gardens have nothing on this. Did you plant it all yourself?”

“I –” he bit back a natural desire to boast before a female “– I built on my great-uncle’s vision. I have added a great deal. You are welcome to forage here from the vegetable patches. I’m afraid there are no fruit or nut trees at this altitude, but in the valley we approached from, there are a few patches. Above this little waterfall, you’ll find loganberries, arranberries, raspberries and currants, although not much will be ripe as yet. The pool is safe to bathe in. No-one will bother you up here.”

Her wan face was alight with wonder. She bounced on her tiny toes, like a Dragoness eager to take off. Aye. Clearly, she adored this location.

His fourth heart squeezed with a warming sensation. Perhaps this Princess would not be too unhappy in the dreadful lair of the Dragon.

Blitz wandered off a short ways to erect his easel. He had many times tried to capture the effect of the waterfall, but the precise quality of the light radiating through the delicate curtain of water always eluded his grasp. He fussed about finding the right angle, while the Princess shucked her fine red dress – which reminded him that there might be some other Human clothing near the back of his storeroom – and began to step out of her leggings, when she stopped and made a circling motion with her finger.

“What is it?” he inquired.

“Turn around.”

“Is there something behind me?”

Quick glance. Clear skies. No horde of vengeful peasants wielding pitchforks.

“No, I mean, don’t look at me.”

“I am not – you – WHAT?” His outraged blast knocked his easel flat. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN?”

“You are a male. Please, give me some privacy.”

His pulse thundered through his body, making him clench his talons in an excess of rage. It took every ounce of his willpower to deny a desire to smite her for such a … he had no words. She dropped her gaze, staring at her bare toes, but her discomfort was more than clear.

Colossal offence! Unthinkable. Un … un-anything he cared to mention beneath the suns!

Eventually, he managed to grind between his fangs, “Princess, you may have noticed that you are a Human and I am a Dragon. We are different species. How you can even suggest – anything that so violates the conscience – ugh!” His wings shivered violently. “Despicable, such an accusation!”

“I didn’t mean –”

“You did! I do not look upon you with desire! Well, not that sort of desire, I mean. Aye, I am guilty of calculating your value to my prospects of something resembling an honourable future amongst my kind, but Princess – there is not a bone in my body which does not revolt at the thought! Ah, the very heavens cry affront –”

“Dragon, you misunderstand –”

“No, you misunderstand. You think I’m an animal, an unthinking, rapacious, bestial … MONSTER!”

Blitz found he had stormed toward her, raising his fist to strike.

“I’m sorry!” she shrieked, falling to her knees.

Shuddering, he let his fist fall. There was something else in her, a tinge of smoky blue shame that washed over his senses, betrayed by the way she had cringed from his anger.

He whispered, “Only a beast would strike down a weaker creature over this misunderstanding. Princess Azania, I am not as Human men. I smell the mistrust and distress upon you – tell me, tell me truly, could it be that you fear all men must lose control of themselves because of your beauty among your kind? That you fear you trigger in them some beast of untameable passion? For I most certainly smell the fear that rules you now. It rules your tongue, and your heart …”

A wild sob tore from her throat. “Yes! Yes – how did you – Dragon?”

Prowling toward her, he hissed, “Who told you that lie?”

“What lie?”

“That it is your fault.”

The girl stared at him, haunted of eye. “It isn’t?”

“Your sire? Was it your sire?” As she nodded, he thundered, “Vile liar! He is a liar and a fool. That you should come to hate your beauty among your kind – it is a travesty – what are you doing?”

Tearing off her leggings, she spat, “You haven’t seen the half of it yet, Dragon. Do you think you know something of Humans? Or of the ways of our hearts? Look at this.”

Blitz blinked. She was wearing some kind of … well, it had to be a magical device. There was a metal belt clamped about her narrow waist, attached with thin silver chains to similar belts fastened tightly about her upper thighs. A light blue magical field rippled around the centre of her body, where – well, he had no clear idea of Human anatomy, but he could hazard an accurate guess as to what this dark magic meant. He smelled it; saw the blackness rippling about the edges of his vision.

His scales prickled as if danger threatened.

He snarled, “By my dam’s egg, what is that thing?”

The Princess said, “Dragon, let me introduce you to one of the wondrous inventions of white-haired old Mages stuck in their high towers. This is called a Mystical Virtue Protector, or MVP for short. The very latest. The best and most effective version money can buy. Father did not wish his investment to lose any value, do you see?”

No curse words he knew even began to suffice.

Pah! He spat aside. “You said … your own sire locked you into … this thing?”

“Aye.”

“I must ask, could Prince Floric therefore, not have –”

“They told me their agents had stolen the code scroll from the King’s own vault. Floric was more than equipped for what he intended.”

He could not process what he was seeing and hearing. Human perversity was beyond imagination. Beyond evil. Blitz knew this was no trifling adventure anymore. No simple matter of a Princess of a faraway kingdom kidnapped to his mountain fastness for a tidy ransom. Few Dragons he knew would attempt to put themselves in her paws, or admit that perhaps they appreciated the merest talon tip of what it meant to be so shamefully used by one’s own family.

In an unrecognisable voice, he snarled, “Your sire exerts hegemony over your reproductive independence using this MVP device, and calls this virtue? Is he quite mad?”

Kneeling on the cream sand beside the pool, the Princess’ face registered confusion.

“Reproductive? No … no, this is all about virtue. Not dallying with a man, nor being able to be accused of anything of the kind.”

“With whom, when and how much you … dally, Princess, is your choice. This thing is shameful and an abomination. It says far more about your society and your father than you.”

Azania said, “My loving father cares for my honour.”

The bitterness she expressed was like the smell of aloes on her skin. Blitz forced himself to focus on taking a very, very deep breath and to hold it for a count of ten before he did something truly and memorably idiotic.

Finally, he said, “By which love he means the economic value of your unsullied state, which this infernal prison supposedly guarantees?”

“Aye, you could put it that way, Dragon. Worse, I am a disobedient daughter if I dare otherwise.” She threw up her hands, scrambling to her feet. “I would be called unchaste, wanton, a siren of the Lumis Ocean, a stain upon my kingdom’s honour. I would be disowned. This is the fate of a woman born into the Human Kingdoms – although, I hear the culture is different, less repressive, in the Vaylarn Archipelago. I am both the victim and the cause of all these poor men’s wandering, lustful thoughts. It’s my fault if I do and my fault if I don’t. How can I ever win?”

“By my wings, woman, none of this is your fault!”

“Enough, Dragon.” She wiped her eyes. Leaking again. He knew whose fault that was. “Let me bathe in peace.”

“I shall allow you to do so, right after a wicked, unprincipled beast acts like a proper tyrant.”

“Eh?”

“Stand still.”

Reaching out with his paw, he jerked back as a blue flash stabbed into his talon. Kerack!

“What are you doing?”

“Be still! I’ve no wish to cut you again.”

The Princess protested, “This model is powerful enough to kill a man.”

“Oh, stop. Now you’re giving me ideas about strapping our flatulent Prince’s pathetic little parts into this abomination. Permanently!”

Dazed, disbelieving laughter quivered her body. She acted horrified that she had just laughed at his crude joke. Blitz prowled around behind the Princess, noting that the infernal device was the product of diseased intelligence. No padlock, no obvious lock even. The magic was solid. Would it be able to stand brute physical force? Force he must apply without squashing the Princess or tearing her apart like a rag.

The magic hummed as he slipped a talon down her back, flat, stiffening as a tingling turned to pain. “You’re alright?”

“This magic is keyed not to affect the wearer. What are you doing back there?”

“Removing it.”

“You what? You can’t –”

“How exactly are you planning to stop a despotic Dragon?”

“By asking nicely?”

“I find myself experiencing a highly convenient episode of deafness to your pitiful pleas, Princess.”

She giggled nervously as he arranged four talons around her middle. One talon was smoking with the power pouring up into his body, but Dragons had their own magic. Right. Stiffening his grip, he began to exert pressure. The device whined forlornly. Being a Devastator, he was nothing if not a stubborn chunk of a Dragon. His shoulders bunched, swelling with power that for the very first time, he recognised as originating not only in the physical realm, but also within the hitherto faulty magical potentials inside his body.

Even magically-enhanced metal could not resist for long. It gave up with a horrid squeal and one last, vicious jolt that sizzled right into the talon sheath of his left foreclaw.

Shakily, the Princess pulled the straps off her legs. Free.

Might she fall over in relief?

“You lost a talon.”

He glanced absently at his paw. “Most of one. It’ll regrow soon enough, and I say it’s more than worth it for the riddance of that piece of garbage. Enjoy your bathing, Princess.”

“How am I supposed to –”

“Be virtuous? Doesn’t that come from here?”

She glanced down. “My diaphragm? Oh – my heart’s up here, Dragon.”

“How do you get by with only one?”

“I manage.”

* * * *

He did produce a respectable portrait of the waterfall in the following two hours – not a finished piece. It had a fanciful climbing rose rambling along one side of it. He debated adding the Princess, splashing about like a little brown otter, but eventually decided upon a white-beaked heron on one side to balance the roses, and a couple of kingfishers to liven up the centre.

She even soaked up the late burst of white sun like a Dragon. Flat rock, sunniest spot, perfectly at her ease despite not wearing a stitch of that ridiculous Human affectation called clothing.

Blergh! Accused of inter-species feelings?

He needed to scrub his scales with a caustic until they were raw.

Eventually, he heard her shiver and rub at her thin arms. Aye. Despite being a mammal, she had little in the way of internal heating. Handling his canvas with care, he led the way back downstairs. She wanted something called a towel. A kind of thick cloth? Maybe his stores would have something. He could point her in the right direction, at least.

While she rooted about in the back of his storeroom like a cheerful mole digging out its burrow, Blitz ambled over to his workbench to repair his talon damage. Dragon talons kept an edge like the finest steel. In olden times they had been used as daggers and wood carving knives due to their excellent durability and tensile strength. All part of the amusement of hunting Dragons for profit. Which highly intelligent creature would not enjoy being turned into a tasteful range of furniture, clothing and weaponry? Really. And Humans wondered why Dragons called them a scourge.

Maybe he ought to turn this eighteen-inch length into a dagger, as a gift worthy of a Princess? She might appreciate a weapon. He would love to see her use it to carve Prince Floric’s grasping fingers off his smutty hands. Or, to perform a swift surgical procedure. That filth deserved no heirs! In addition, his kingdom could do without being saddled with any more smelly little Prince Florics.

One ought to improve the world for future generations.

With an evil laugh, he bent over his left fore-talon, first sawing it into a rough point before employing a metal file to sharpen it. He really ought to take better care of his talons. Several were chipped or blunted. Deplorable laziness. If he wanted to properly introduce prospective Dragon slayers to what Dragons called ‘right of paw,’ he ought to make sure they were as sharp as razors – the better to carve those fools into tasteful sculptures.

After improving the state of his talons, he rooted about beneath his workbench. Satisfied purr. What a memory! Here was a Dragon knucklebone which had once served as the handle for a dagger. The existing blade was a disaster, badly pitted and rusted.

“What are you doing, Dragon?”

He looked up. Princess Azania wore a simple green dress, not one such as the peasants wore, but a style he thought a merchant’s daughter might have chosen. It was an elegant floor-length day gown in emerald green silk, tightly gathered to her frankly tiny waist, and ruched at the shoulders but leaving most of her arms bare. She held her tiara in her right hand.

“You look good.”

Wince. Masterful compliment there. Devastating work by the most non-devastating Dragon in history.

“Thank you.”

He made a circling motion with his right foreclaw.

She turned obediently, not without a dubious half-smile, causing the lustrous material to flare away from her bare ankles. “It’s old enough to be my grandmother’s, but I love the style,” she said.

Shyness? Blitz gurgled with pleasure. Could he read a female, or what?

“Hmm. I shall have to revise my opinion, Princess. You look truly wonderful in that colour, and the dress fits your diminutive frame most agreeably. Did you find some useful items in those chests?”

“I did, thank you. And Dragon – Blitz – thank you, for … earlier.”

“Nay, it is I who must thank you for the chance to practice being a horrid, overbearing, arrogant draconic tyrant. Just the medicine this Dragon needed.” He showed her at least thirty fangs. “Come over here, little morsel. Let me check if this grip is the correct size for your hand.”

“You’re making me –” she started visibly “– a rusty dagger?”

“No, no, NO!” He pretended to wipe his forehead. “By my wings, who let that ridiculously bad-tempered Dragon into this lair? The rusty junk will go. I’m replacing it with this talon.”

“Your own talon?”

Her eyes welled up, glistening like onyx diamonds in the soft lamplight. This time, he had absolutely no idea what it meant. His special insight regarding the female mind was clearly a most short-lived episode. Predictable.

Trying to lighten the mood, he said, “How could I have failed to point out that every rebellious runaway Princess aspires to have her very own Dragon talon dagger? Nothing mediocre or obvious for Her Royal Highness, oh no …”

Laughing, she came alongside to check the grip.

Chapter 6: Bounty Hunters

THE FOLLOWING DAY, BLITZ worked steadily on the dagger, shaping a tang to fit into the handle, and eagerly checking a few references in his library to make sure he had the cut, whetting and weight of the blade just right. Princess Azania disappeared into a diverting scroll, an introduction to Ancient Draconian talon runes. Well. He would not have imagined any Princess would display a passing interest in historical linguistics, but when he questioned her delicately about the subject, he found himself engaging with a keen, knowledgeable mind, despite its lamentably miniscule size.

Sewing, cooking and fawning over fatuous Princes, no. Dragon runes, aye.

Shiver the wings! Had this Princess cracked some sort of pre-cast mould when she was born?

In the evening, he introduced her to the art of grilling trout without outright cremation, prepared with a trio of vegetables basted in mountain herbs and a sparing dab of duck fat. The Princess declared it a most royal meal, even if she hardly did the trout justice. Appetite of a sparrow.

He polished off the fish despite not being hungry, and had her fish the tail out from between his fangs afterward. Fishy issues, eh? Oh, and she found a stray strip of cow intestine lodged further back. She was too polite to say so, but Blitz observed that the royal captive had taken on something of the hue of her dress when she withdrew her head from his maw. Halitosis. Hard to deal with that, given his deficiencies. Perhaps the Prince had been overwhelmed for reasons this Dragon would very much rather not own up to?

The following day, he flew his captive a couple of peaks over to the north to bathe in the hot springs there. Dragons did fancy a good soak in boiling water. Unfortunately, this was an error in judgment on two fronts: one, he learned that Humans did not tolerate being boiled alive very well, nor did the royal personage much fancy the sulphurous stench of the place, and two, there were no other Dragons about to admire his captive desert Princess.

Most dissatisfying.

Hmm. Or should that be, dessert Princess?

Dragon humour.

The intrepid girl succeeded in finding a pool of a temperature that would not boil her soft skin right off, which resolved the first issue, but the second was sadly left dangling. Properly broiled to a roasting temperature, Blitz managed to produce a small puff of smoke. That was novel.

Later in the afternoon, a weather front fresh from the Lumis Ocean loomed to the east, promising more fickle weather. Blitz pretended to see it when the Princess mentioned the very dark horizon, but the slight change in the air pressure was noticeable, as was the faintest tang of salt in the airstream. Taking the prisoner in paw, he repaired to his lair.

Lair, repair, take to the air. Definitely a rhyme that introduced an unexpected bounce to his wingbeat. He could use that in his poetry, another time.

Having described the retreating whiteness of the more northerly peaks, Princess Azania wriggled in his paw and pointed downward. “Look, there’s smoke again. Those bounty hunters must be right on the other side of the peaks you live on, correct?”

“I think so,” he agreed dubiously.

“Do they know the location of your lair, Blitz?”

“I keep it secret, but the knights, hunters and slayers are known to exchange information about what they find in the mountains. My lair is actually one of the more southerly of all the mountain Dragon Clans. South and west of here is generally regarded as Devastator Territory. North, from west to east, we have the Crushers, Firestorms and Windchasers. In the central mountains there are at least nine Clans, including the Bonfires, Smashers, Wreckers and Obliterators – since we Dragons don’t go for any kind of ridiculous theme in our Clan names, as you can tell –” the girl chuckled appreciatively “– and up on the border of the Lumis Ocean, there are another fourteen Clans. I visited most of them before my … before my eyesight became so bad.”

“Are you afraid of going blind, Blitz? Should we –”

“I don’t need your help!”

Blitz flew the rest of the way in silence. What an ornery mood he was in. Why?

A cracker of a storm kept them lair-bound for three days. Blitz finished the dagger for the Princess and presented it to her as a peace offering, which she clearly did not understand. It was a fine piece of craftsmanship, she said, thanking him politely before disappearing back behind a large tome of ancient Dragon legends. He scowled. Whatever was the matter with her, it had clearly bitten her badly, because she barely said a word to him all storm long. He retreated to his studio and in a frustrated frenzy, painted nearly all night long. Piece after piece. He slept deeply and woke long after the storm had blown over, he sensed. The lair was quiet.

Too quiet.

The Princess had absconded.

Clever. She must have timed her escape so that the last of the storm washed away her tracks and her scent. Still, he rushed up to the tiny valley above his lair to check that she was not there.

It was entirely empty of snarky, atypical black Princesses.

How had he not seen this coming? She had been hiding her loneliness, her fear and all her sneaky plans from him. He found food missing. The talon dagger. A shoulder bag filched from his stores, flint and striker, and extra clothing. A blanket.

He narrowed his aching eyes, furious with himself. His future had just bolted out of his lair, and here he was, mulling over his misfortune?

A real Dragon would get out there and find her. Yesterday.

Jealous rage pumped thick clots of silver blood through his Dragon hearts. That Princess – he roared, Mine, mine, MINE!!

Charging out of the lair’s narrow entryway, he took wing, searching in a frenzy of indignation. This Princess was no fool. She had noticed the bounty hunters and would have hooked up with them. In half a second flat, they would smell the T’nagrun gold upon her skin. Father dearest, the greedy King of T’nagru, who had such a flattering opinion of his daughter’s honour, would give them a fat purse for the safe return of his favourite little economic asset.

The question was, knowing his weaknesses as she did, how would she respond? She knew he would come searching for her.

Stinking smart wench! He must adjust his opinion of Humans – some Humans – a notch or ten in an upward direction. Unconventional Princess that she was, she would take an unconventional approach. Hide? Take the unexpected trail? Have those fools lay a trap for a Dragon and make double the profit from his hide and parts?

He must take nothing for granted.

For the two hours before sundown, Blitz scouted the eastern and southern trails at high speed. He knew the terrain like the back of his paw. He might not be able to see much of the ground, but he had his magical, olfactory and auditory senses to rely upon. Landing periodically, he checked for the slightest signs of passage. On the eastern trail, he found plenty of evidence of the bounty hunters having travelled toward his lair, but no sign of a return journey. Their black Vanracian destriers, which the Princess had pointed at in delight, had been too lightly loaded to suggest that they came as prospective Dragon slayers. That usually required heavy equipment – nets, Dragon bows, ballistae – and sufficient men-at-arms to stage a siege.

No. They had not come this way. So, was it to be north into the mountains, or the more cunning and dangerous westerly trail that led into the coastal swamps of the Kingdom of Ayren? While there was still light, Blitz raced over to the northerly trail, checking three locations before deciding they had not come this way either. Would they have ridden hard for the swamps? Or holed up somewhere in the hope that he would give up the search?

What about the gulley almost directly beneath his lair?

That would not just be clever. Diabolical was the word. Narrow, twisting and choked with vegetation, it was no place for a Dragon to be trapped. He could not use his wings in there. Weighted, cable-reinforced nets could very easily be affixed in places a Dragon must worm his way through. What would he do? Angling his wings, he swept around his four peaks upon their northerly side, flying lower and lower until his wings clipped the topmost branches of the hardy dark pines and redolent cypresses that grew in this area.

He landed a quarter-mile north of the trail, beyond the gulley. Stalking through the deepening twilight, he came noiselessly down to the faint trail, and found tracks. Enough tracks? No.

Blitz the Devastator paused to lick his lips. “Not fooled, little Humans.”

False trail.

Now, how astute were these worms?

As he crossed the trail, his right hind paw snagged a tripwire.

Split second reactions threw him aside as a huge spiked log swept through the foliage from above, narrowly scraping past his rapidly departing hindquarters.

Said hindquarters quivered in horror. Had he been walking along the trail with his attention fixed upon those false tracks, he would have been forced to eat a few of those four-foot sharpened stakes. Well, eating them in a bad way. He doubted there would have been time to dig any pit traps, but he should take care. Another favourite was the ten-foot javelin attached to a whippy branch. Dragons tended not to fancy being made to eat those either, and that was before one came muzzle-to-face with all the nasty equipment the professional slayers loved to pack.

Innovative, these malodorous cowards.

As were Dragons. Besides, he had fifty times the cranial capacity to work with. Best start to use it then, Dragon!

“So, worms. Let’s see. Having set all of this up, you make camp down there in the gulley. Somewhere a Dragon cannot easily get into – like the section where all those trees grow close together. Where if he attacks, he might get stuck. And … the wind’s shifted.”

Why was he whispering to himself?

“Smell that wood fire? Aye. But is it a false beacon, or the real thing? They could not be having a drunken party, could they?” He inhaled very deeply, sorting through the different tangs on the slight breeze. “That ghastly rum they prefer. Whatever are those morons thinking?”

They were thinking they were safe from attack.

That gave a Dragon pause. There must be other plans. Other ideas afoot.

An hour of careful stalking later, Blitz fairly much agreed with their assessment. Night had fully fallen. Having avoided several more traps, he now lay upon his belly above the gulley, looking down upon their camp from a height of one hundred and fifty feet.

The Princess was dancing beside the fire.

Why did Humans find that motion so attractive? Dragon dances were nuanced, formal affairs where the flick of a tail, the angle of a wing or a flaming glance told much. This display was so barbarous, so primitive, it was actually fascinating. Like watching a worm wriggling in a bird’s beak.

The scene had blurred into and out of focus several times, so he had a fairly good idea of what was going on. Nine bounty hunters, seven males and two females, were drinking around a bonfire while taking it in turns to prod the Princess with their spears or sword points to encourage her efforts. Her hands had been lashed behind her back. His thoughts vacillated as he stared downward, no longer able to see details. She could go with them. Eventually, they would find a way of returning her to the Kingdom of T’nagru and some people would get rich and others might perish for the riches.

He would lose his chance to change his life.

Yet, from what he smelled down there, he was not convinced she would make it home. It was hard to smell out a person’s intent from this distance, but the hints of yellows and burned oranges he sensed suggested that dancing was the least of the entertainment the Princess might be forced to provide these louts.

He had torn off her best protection against outright assault.

The camp lay deep in a copse of fir trees. Those to the north were older and thicker than those to the south. An attack from above did not appear to be possible, unless he envisioned a future as a very large Dragon kebab spitted by a dozen splintered trunks, say. The ground level was perhaps twenty feet wide, which would have precluded flight even if the gulley had been free of obstacles.

Just now, a shout rose from below. “Sword! She – urgh!”

Defending herself?

Blink, blink – freaking fires take it – blink!

Men piled atop a wriggling form, struggling to truss her with more ropes. Another hung back from the fire, clutching his shoulder, his face drawn with pain. Another frustrating distortion later, and he saw that the bounty hunters had strung her up between two trees, her tiny arms flung wide as if pleading with them for mercy. The injured man had picked up a whip. He stood before her, coiling the weapon in his hand.

There was a muffled argument down there. Probably something to do with her value. He was sure that damaging her hide would reduce the prize’s value.

Blitz’s talons clenched on the stone. Whips were meant to be cruel. Yet nothing in all of his reading could have prepared him for this moment. Crack! A sound like a boulder split by a chisel. The Princess jerked as if she had been stung by an invisible wasp. Her thin scream dived through his ear canals straight into the core of his brain, shattering his reserve. His head rose, searching. Calculating. Crack! Nostrils flaring as he tested the scents of the night. Shuddering at the tenor of his fury.

“Strip her down! You think you’re screaming now, Princess? By the time I’m finished with you –”

He saw one way. It might end badly, but it was also the only way, because he was going down there to fetch her back whether they liked it or not.

Why hesitate? Her vulnerability was his fault.

Crack crack-KRACK! The whip lashed the air, threatening.

Coward! Go!

The man with the whip cursed violently, spewing the dark taint of his fury as Blitz poured down from above. His initial rush was almost silent, made on his belly as he slipped vertically down the side of the gulley, dislodging rivulets of dust and stones. There was enough of a gap between the stone wall and the trees for a large Dragon to wedge himself into that space.

Her value had nothing to do with this. A craving for justice burned like bile in his throat.

The downward-sloping fir branches yielded to an avalanche of Dragon flesh. They would spring back, trapping him like the flanges of many crossbow quarrels. He thrust rational thought aside. Focus on the man down there, frozen in the act of raising whip to strike, for he heard the commotion, but his mediocre brain failed to respond in time. Blitz smelled his shock. Clutching a pawful of rocks as he careened helplessly down into the narrowing gap, smashing branches and grunting at the larger impacts, the Dragon chose his moment and hurled the load at the group by the fire. They scattered with terrified yells.

Crunch! His attack came to an abortive end at the foot of a large fir tree right behind the man wielding the whip. The reek of his unwashed leather garments and rank, boozy sweat mingled with a sudden spurt of acidic fear. Tremble, victim! Firelight flickered between the trees, lighting the scene with garish, confused impressions. Only the man right in front of him was clear in his sight.

“Dragon!” he squealed.

“Aye, you blithering idiot, what did you expect?” Blitz agreed spitefully.

“Run!” someone yelled.

“Off you go, then!” Reaching around the tree, he swatted the man with all of his strength.

Back-pawed. Like flicking away an annoying insect. The man crashed into the trees twenty feet or so to his left and dangled there, spitted like a sheep to a spit-roast.

Before him, his gaze finally found the Princess’ face, drawn and shocked; a crimson runnel of blood trickled from her neck and down the front of her green dress. Her left flank was cut as well, her life’s liquid staining the material.

She cried, “Blitz! Cut me free!”

He was pretty well jammed in place. Could he reach her? Stretching his paw to its utmost, he came up a foot short of her ropes. His talons sliced the air haplessly. One more foot!

“Get him!”

“Stupid worm’s got himself stuck!”

“Watch his fire!”

The bounty hunters rushed around behind the Princess, grabbing weapons, panicking, stepping in their own fire by accident. While he enjoyed the resultant screeching dance, this Dragon was less happy about the pain to come when they started finding the gaps between his scales with those spears of theirs. There was a splintered branch stuck in his belly as well. Really, really not a good idea. Flexing his back, he pushed against the tree. Too strong? Too well-rooted? He shut his eyes. No time for weakness, Dragon! The lily-livered bumpkins gathered together for courage, holding their spears at the ready.

Muscles swelled. His hearts pumped madly. The tree groaned as he shifted and braced his paws, ramping up the pressure.

“Stab him – go for the neck, the eyes! This is the fireless worm, remember the report?”

DEVASTATOR!!

He was not prepared to die like this. The pungent fir groaned as he gathered his power. Even that roar did not faze them. He snapped his fangs toward two of the men menacing his head. The way he was stuck behind the tree meant that his belly was exposed. Spear! Blitz groaned as the pain bit deep somewhere in the muscle of his inner right thigh. They were seeking a crippling strike – but his tail was free! Lashing it downward, he smashed one of the men on the head with the very tip.

The man crumpled.

Again! He shoved against the tree, making it rock.

Javelin in the chest! The attacker drove it deep, using his full body weight. Another man leaped in to help. Ignoring the pain, Blitz swung with his talons, striking for the first man’s knees. He jumped nimbly, but landed upon a scaly wrist and stumbled. Bad luck. His other paw reached around the tree. Blam!

The second man leaped away with a cry, leaving the javelin embedded deep in his chest.

Once more! Rolling his body, he pressed harder. The huge, tough old fir began to tip, its roots pinging free of the dirt. The men rallied each other with cries, stabbing toward his eyes with their spears, but all he could think of was to reach the Princess, to cut her free. No! Grab a weapon! Snatching a sword out of a hand waving haphazardly in front of his eyes, he reversed it in his deft grip and lunged for the girl. Swish! She tipped sideways, one hand freed.

“Sword!” He tossed it.

It was her talon dagger. The one he had made for her.

The blade landed in the dirt beside her feet. He groaned with every bone in his body. Useless. He could never get anything right! The two women were trying to drive that javelin right through his leg. He kicked hard, knocking them off. Go, go … do something! Anything, you stupid worm, anything not to die!

Princess Azania picked the blade up with her toes and, with an impossibly limber flexion, transferred it to her free hand. Swish! She was free.

He fully expected her to bolt.

Flee into the night.

Instead, the tiny chin lifted in that mannerism he had come to recognise. A girl with the courage of a Dragoness. Maybe, like him, she just had to learn what she could do.

Darting forward into the pool of warm firelight, she cut down one of the men menacing his head. Another drove a javelin into his cheek and tongue. The sensation was more pressure than pain. All he saw was a silver blur as she arched backward, somehow dipping her body beneath the sweep of a whistling blade, before spinning about in a near-kneeling position with the dagger extended. Her movement was dance. The very dance he had been disparaging, flowed through her now as she sliced a hunter’s booted foot right out from beneath him. A man swung his axe toward her unprotected back. Blitz filled his chest with talons. The bright, metallic tang of blood filled his nostrils. Strange emotions swelled his hearts. Fearful ardour for battle. Smoky recklessness. A lust for destruction.

The Princess whirled to her feet, dagger held at the ready. “Thanks, Dragon.”

“Least I could do.”

Two men broke for the Princess. His right forepaw, twisted beneath his body, jerked out to trip up the one closest to her. Azania swung her knee in a short, brutal arc. Crack! That sounded bad. He was not sure Human necks were supposed to do quite what that one was capable of. She exchanged blows with the other, more than competent with a blade in the hand.

Now he was beginning to wonder if she even was a Princess.

Her courage fired him up.

Chapter 7: Ignita

STRENGTH RAGED THROUGH HIS body, making eerie black specks dart around the edges of his vision. Setting his shoulder to the fir tree, Blitz tensed every muscle in his huge body. He thundered, DEV-AAASTA-TORRR!!

With a great groan, the tree toppled.

Squirming over the trunk, he corralled the two female bounty hunters with his talons and tail. “Going somewhere?”

One leaped over his tail and fled with a wild cry, only to stumble and fall. She did not rise again. The other tried to retreat, but found herself trapped. She shrank against his belly, terrified. He snatched her up in his paw. “Want to die?”

“Blitz. It’s over.”

The Princess stalked toward him, holding out her hands in a peaceable gesture. He panted harshly, his paw twitching as it ached to clench and end this flea’s life forever.

“Not in cold blood,” the Princess added. Facing the last woman, she said in a cold voice, “Especially since I’d prefer not to have to clean all that nastiness out of her clothing before I wear it.”

“Huh?” said the woman.

“Huh?” said Blitz.

“Get undressed. I need decent trail clothing. Yours will do nicely.”

The light-haired woman spluttered, “Mine?”

“All of it. Dragon, if you please? She appears to require encouragement.”

Taking his cue from the murderous-looking Princess, Blitz curved his neck around until he could grin right in the woman’s face. Plenty of fangs. Probably a terminally violent case of Dragon breath in addition. “How can I improve your hearing, wretch?”

She seemed to exhale and be out of her clothing in one gasp. That quick.

Apparently, Dragons were nothing if not persuasive.

The Princess stopped the woman at her lower underwear. “Not those. Too nasty. Now, be off with you.”

“Barefoot? Unarmed? Into the wilderness?”

“I’m supposed to be generous after how you treated me?” His senses flickered white at her taut tone. “Take a sword and begone – no, wait. I want you to spread the word that this mighty Dragon, Blitz the Devastator, has abducted the Princess Azania N’gala of T’nagru, the Black Rose of the Desert. He is holding her prisoner in his lair.”

“He is?”

“I’m a brutal and despicable tyrant,” Blitz agreed, realising from the quirk of Azania’s lips that he was probably overplaying his paw. “I hung your companion off that tree for fun.”

The man he had first swatted was alive, actually. Not for long, given the way a branch had pinned him through his torso. Unfortunate.

The Princess said, “I believe my father, King N’gala N’gala, will pay a substantial reward for news of his daughter’s fate.”

Hold on. Hold every wing! “What are you doing?” he hissed.

“Getting myself rescued, at some point. I’m not in much of a hurry, to be frank,” said she, waving the woman on her way. “Clear off now. Go make yourself some money carrying my message to T’nagru. Can you manage that much?”

Pausing to snatch up a weapon, the nearly-naked woman bolted into the trees.

Blitz stared suspiciously at the Princess. “Are you trying to get me killed? You fairly much invited every Dragon slayer in the eleven kingdoms up here to drill holes in my hide.”

“First of all, Dragon, the kingdoms number seventeen.”

“Side note.”

“For pity’s sake, just accept that you’re wrong, you wretched reptile. Secondly, I have an idea about that. Are you badly hurt?”

“A few minor scratches.”

“Scratches as minor as your overweening draconic pride, shall we agree?” He gnashed his fangs politely beside her legs, making her jump. “Stop that!”

Hurgh-hurgh-urgh, he laughed horribly.

No startlement this time.

She shucked her green dress efficiently, hissing between her teeth as the material peeled away from her wound. Blitz volunteered to check the bounty hunters’ packs for bandages. One of them might have maintained a glimmer of intelligence in his woefully undersized cranium, although the idea struck him as doubtful. He returned to find her fitting the odd piece of cloth about her upper body. It appeared to function as a kind of sling. Puzzling. She had cleaned the whip cut, which was only oozing a little of her weird blood now. Crimson blood! Who would have thought?

“Why are you strapping your mammary glands to your chest?” he inquired.

The Princess threw him an astonished, perplexed and profoundly discomfited glare. “Dragon – you! You’re impossible! I thought we discussed this –”

“Discussed what? Is this physical feature attractive to males of your species? Is that why you hide them?”

“We are not discussing my bosom!”

“You have a special word for – ah, all those literary references. This explains so much! At last, I understand all those ridiculous sonnets describing hands pressed against palpitating bosoms –”

“Dragon! Go head-butt that tree over there.”

“But are these – fleshy lumps – attractive? It hardly seems likely.”

“Blitz! Will you shut your fangs? In just the same way as I find the idea of females being attracted to your flashing man-trap of a grin or vast, scaly behind, I suppose so! Can we stop talking about this? Now?”

“Answer my question, pest! Are they –”

“Mesmerising,” groaned the man impaled to the tree. “Drive a man insane … so exquisite …”

“By my wings, this sounds serious,” Blitz quipped.

Azania kicked his leg.

A ghastly smile twisted the man’s lips as he stared down at the startled pair. “Dragon, I can tell you this much. Having seen … the Desert Princess – nude – I can die in –”

He slumped, no longer breathing.

Quite dead.

“I had no idea you carried such lethal weaponry, Princess.”

She kicked him again. “Disgusting male.”

“He died happy.”

“I know. Life is peculiar, isn’t it?”

There was one small problem. With four sticks poking out of his hide, he was not in the best shape. That one in the chest was particularly deep, touching his third heart, he sensed. This was beyond his normal capacity to treat. He needed to seek medical help, fast.

“Princess, my injuries will require urgent treatment.”

She glanced up from pulling on her new boots. They were soft leather, covering her legs up to the knee. Above that she wore the purloined leather trousers and a blue button-up shirt. Their victim had been suitably diminutive, so the outfit hugged her frame like scales hugged a Dragoness. He thought about inquiring if this more flattering tailoring – in his jaundiced opinion – would attract males to her thighs and haunches, since Human males appeared to value tiny things, but decided against.

She already thought him some kind of draconic pervert.

Frankly, if she only knew how Dragons viewed Humans, that idea would be farthest from her mind. She would also be kicking him far more regularly. Silly chit of a girl.

The Princess said, “How can I help?”

“You’re staying?”

“I’m choosing to help you, since you saved my life, which is becoming a habit. The only worse habit you appear to have, is injuring yourself whilst rescuing me.”

“Oh.”

“It appears I have inadequate skills in wilderness survival, and worse still in dealing with my own kind. I am deeply grateful. You’re amazing, Blitz.”

Her tone communicated incredulity that he had bothered with a Princess like her. He tasted her shame and contrition. What else was passing behind those dark eyes, he could not guess.

Unexpectedly, h recalled that burst of amusement they first shared over Prince Floric’s tumbling headfirst down the stairs. A connection made in the most unlikely circumstances. Ever since, for both creatures, preconceptions had been tumbling, biases dissolving, taboos crumbling – even in such a short time. What did it all mean?

Shiver his wings!

Inclining his head graciously, he said, “You are certainly capable with a blade.”

“Haven’t you read the legends, Dragon? Every rebellious Princess secretly trains at weapons in flagrant disregard of their fathers’ wishes.”

He snorted merrily, “Predictable? You?”

The slender shoulders rose. “I trained for years at sword and dagger, open hand combat, archery, riding and battle strategy … and still got myself captured in five seconds flat.”

“An accomplishment of rare skill.”

“Perfect ambush. Distraction, thump over the head. I’ve a nice lump to show for it.” She touched the back of her head gingerly. “Last time I trust another woman. No mind. I’m not the one with holes in my hide – well, a couple. Seriously, Blitz, how urgent is this? What can I do?”

“Well –” he shook his head slowly “– the nearest capable help is a thirty-five mile walk away. My Great-Aunt Ignita. Quite the character.”

“Can’t fly?”

“Might just be properly fatal,” he noted soberly. “I’ll need a healthy dose of dragonip weed just to survive the walk, but that’ll probably make me hallucinate. Think you can keep me on track?”

“Just tell me what to do. I’m all ears.”

“I’ll brief you. Right now, we need to climb out of here. Get up onto the back of my neck. Here, behind my skull. You can hold onto my ear canals.”

“You want me to sit on you?”

Thank his dam’s egg for the utter incredulity that laced her voice, otherwise he might just have nipped her head off for that comment – and, his grumpy alter ego popped up once again. Why did this Dragon feel as if his world were tipping in weird and wonky directions every time they started talking? Could not be teenage hormones. Those were long gone. In fact, he had barely experienced them in the first place, unlike his brothers, sister and peers.

Blitz growled cheerfully, “Don’t get used to it, or I’ll have a turn sitting on you. Understood?”

She winked at him. “Perfectly clear, sir Dragon.”

* * * *

With the wary Princess hanging on to his skull spikes in lieu of investigating the contents of his ear canals, Blitz leap-charge-scramble-flapped his way out of the gulley with something that approximated success. Right after he struggled over the top, he toppled forward and slammed down upon the javelin impaled in his chest.

He slumped, groaning between his fangs. Definitely the third heart. Not good.

“Blitz! Are you alright?”

“No, but I am alive. That’s good enough for now.”

“Please stay that way, you great lump.”

By his wings! He was not quite sure he heard the insult through the agony roaring in his ears. This scrap of humanity would not dare, would she?

Setting off at a mile-eating lope, he briefed her on the trail ahead. In detail. He had her repeat the salient landmarks and, on further thought, the secret family greeting code one should use to alert Aunt Ignita to visitors. She tended to eat them otherwise. Or, at the very least, threatened to eat them. No Dragon he knew had ever tested her on the matter. Not even in groups of twenty.

One scary Dragoness.

Still, her reputation as a healer spanned the Tamarine Mountains. He warned Princess Azania not to get herself eaten. Not even if she deserved it.

Royalty itself chortled at his weak jokes.

For the first hour, Blitz paralleled the main trail but did not step paw upon it. Finally, wings trembling and mind afire with pain, he stumbled across a large patch of cheerful blue dragonip weed and barely waited to calculate the dose before tearing into the numbing bounty. The point stuck in his upper hind leg scraped against the bone with every step. The Princess had managed to draw the javelin clean out of his cheek and tongue, leaving a decent hole. One javelin stood proud in his upper right flank, but that wound hardly hurt at all. The severest by far was the chest wound. That throbbed with every step. He was fairly certain he could feel constriction around the heart as his blood pumped into the surrounding muscle tissues.

After that, he hit the main trail at a run. His instinct was to get as far as possible, as fast as possible, but they did pause to check that the bounty hunters had not created their false trail this far. All clear.

Two hours and nearly twenty miles later, he stumbled and fell for the first time. Stars swirled gently around his vision. The grass tickled his belly with indescribable comforts. All he wanted to do was to lie down and sleep forever.

“We have to keep going, Dragon.”

“Is that a mosquito?” he asked dreamily.

“No, this is Princess Azania – your worst nightmare, apparently.”

“Nightmare?” Murr-hurr-hurr. “Nice to meet you, Princess Flaming … Nightmare.”

She chivvied him on. A mile further down the trail, he saw a massive column of army ants marching toward them. He sprang into the bushes. A voice chirped in his ear that everything was alright, he just had to keep walking. Two miles later it was a pack of spectral timber wolves, and then a black panther that actually turned out to be real. The gentle, insistent fairy whispering kaleidoscopic dreams into his befuddled brain kept him moving over another deep but narrow gulley – which he stepped over rather than daring the short rope bridge – fording mountain streams, straightened him out after he took four circles around a copse of towering sequoia trees, and walked him through another phantasm involving him running through rows of laughing relatives with mushrooms for heads.

This dragonip stuff was potent.

Hilarious, too. Guffawing all the way into his grave.

He laughed his way up four waterfalls before walking straight into a boulder the size of a Human barn. He shook his head blearily. “Where did that spring from?”

“Come on, Blitz. Just a few more miles.”

“Smiles? I can talk about shh … miles. Smiles.” He swayed on his paws. “Where’s up gone? Why are my paws floating in the clouds?”

“This way.”

He head-butted the boulder again. “It jumped at me! Bad boulder.”

The fairy hands and voice guided him away from the misbehaving boulder and further up into the heights, away from the main trail. Peaks flattened into dreamy, wildflower-strewn mountain pastures that he kept wandering aimlessly through, before suddenly there was rushing wind and falling and someone yelling at him to spread his wings. He did so belatedly. Pain shot into his left ear, making him obey by swerving sideways. Naked rock whistled past his paws. Oh. Far too close!

Something was clamped into his ear canals, leading him about like a sheep!

He found himself gurgling with mirth. Nothing and nobody could lead a Dragon about like an ox tied to the yoke.

After that, the sky smeared into the ground, but the ground was water that exploded around his belly as he crash-landed heavily at the edge of a reed-fringed lake. He knew he was near … something important, but the memory no longer held the slightest importance. Someone was moaning that he had nothing left. No strength, nor fire, nor anything that marked him a Dragon. He must have stumbled and collapsed a dozen times under the increasingly strident goading before he collapsed at the edge, his head resting high enough on the bank that he could breathe without fear of choking on water.

The glowing black night fairy left him, saying she was going to get yelp.

Yelping whelping helping … nice rhymes …

* * * *

Blitz jerked out of a pit of endless darkness as colours exploded in circular rainbows behind his eyes. He tried to roar, but the sound was more a pathetic mewl of pain.

“Good to hear you sound like a half-dead river toad, nephew,” said a scratchy old voice.

What was that stench, an acidic fizzing in his nostrils? He snorted, sneezed violently, and regretted the pain that ripped through his body.

“Can’t … see?” he groaned.

“Perhaps opening your eyes might help, although nobody listens to a thorny old Dragoness these days,” the voice complained. “Nobody visits me anymore. You don’t care for your old Great-Aunt Ignita, do you?”

“Ignita!”

Forcing his eyes open, Blitz found himself lying at the edge of a pretty lake. The waters were clear and calm, the reeds tall, the peaks behind a blur. As usual. It was dawn, but the dawn chorus had fled in honking chorus to the far side of the waters, where they were scolding the pair of Dragons for disturbing their peace and quiet at the same time as singing lustily. Odd combination. His left eye rolled tiredly in its socket like the rusty bearing of an abandoned cart, and fixed upon a familiar dark face.

“You … still here?” he slurred.

Something was amiss with his mouth.

“Like an unwelcome royal rash,” the Princess agreed brightly. “How are you holding up, Blitz?”

“Cold and wet behind the ears. Can I –”

“Don’t move!” They both yelled at him at the same time. Well, Great-Aunt Ignita bellowed, while the Princess yelped at a painfully shrill pitch. He froze.

Ignita snapped, “Apart from nearly killing yourself with a severe overdose of dragonip, young lizard, you sent this Princess – who is totally lovely, by the way; we’ve had such a congenial chat this morning – eight miles through the mountains in the dead of night to fetch aid. Nearly ate her, I did.”

Azania giggled merrily.

Congenial? She whose tongue was a cactus? Something was wrong here …

“I fully appreciate the temptation,” Blitz agreed absently. His brow ridges drew down as a couple of stray thoughts had a chance meeting inside his large cranium. “You hiked all the way from this lake to Ignita’s lair in the dead of night? Through Dragon territory? Safely …”

He was quite certain any common, reasonable Human ought to be dead or digesting inside a predator’s stomach at this point.

“I killed a huge python along the way!”

Presumably, some creatures were too troublesome for even the most rabid predators to bother with. He could name one prime candidate.

“Tiddler. A mere twelve feet long,” Ignita snorted, billowing smoke from her ear canals rather than her nostrils. The forty-foot lime green Dragoness wore half a swamp’s weeds and reeds by way of bodily decoration, which made his world feel infinitely more normal. “Still, it’ll make a decent snack. Great-nephew, this courageous Princess saved your handsome but undeniably reckless and brain-deficient hide. What do we say when someone saves our life?”

“I’m glad my great-aunt didn’t eat you alive?”

“Blitz the Devastator!”

“Alright, keep your scales on, great-aunt,” he said, with a rakish grin that really did not work at all, since his tongue was dangling limply out of his jaw, he realised. Lunatic. He tried to pack his tongue back somehow into a place where speech was more possible and less humiliating. “Princess Azania, I am indebted. Of course, no self-respecting royal radical would even consider not placing herself in mortal danger for a Dragon who has kidnapped her to his lair, but there we go. Your courage –”

“If we’re keeping score, you are still one up,” she sniped.

“I wasn’t, but this Dragon thanks you from the – how do you Humans say it – from the bottom of all five of his hearts?”

“Five? Braggart,” she whispered, but she placed her hand daringly upon the side of his muzzle, between his large nostrils and his startled eye. “I’d hug you, but Ignita has warned me in no uncertain terms that the slightest sign of physical affection will result in the loss of a limb.”

“I’m a modern Dragon. The meaning of affectionate Human gestures is not unknown to me.”

“Very well. Laying my life on the line here …”

When she hugged his neck, however, not even able to reach around its thickness, his five hearts did some very strange arrhythmic dance. By his wings, was this some peculiar Human emotional magic? Raising his paw, he sort of hugged her back. Bizarrely weak.

Ignita was vocally unimpressed by this display of undraconic behaviour, and set about explaining a few things at a strident volume. His great-aunt was not known for mincing her words. Most of the family thought she was crazy, but he had always got on with her like scales and hide. Maybe that was because they were both unusual characters. A mismatched pair of freaks.

Modern? You, Blitz? You are a refreshingly old-fashioned young Dragon! the elderly Dragoness growled in Draconian, baring a set of fangs that was still in excellent condition. At least you have a sniff of an idea of what honour looks like, unlike your two feckless brothers. Case in point, you had the excellent sense to kidnap this incomparable Princess, and not only to kidnap her, but to treat her with respect.

Blaze will say the same.

Your sire? All the vision of a blind mole-rat, that Dragon. I’d clout you over the earhole if I didn’t think it would kill you even faster than you already attempted on yourself! she roared, spitting white sparks over his flank. Ignita the Devastator says so, and that is a Dragon of an entirely different colour. Shut your idiot fangs and for once in your life, listen to the winds of fate whispering through the peaks.

She cocked her head as if she could indeed hear something. Eerie! His scales prickled as if ten thousand ants burrowed beneath them.

Other Dragons said she was mad, but he wondered if madness often saw what others could not.

After a moment, she shook her head and limped around to his muzzle. Bending close, she whispered, Cherish this Princess, or call yourself the greatest fool who ever winged through the skies. This one’s worth more than all the treasures in all the lands.

Blink. Very well.

Raising her voice, she boomed, Now, listen! Three days’ recovery, young lizard, and not a minute less! We managed to save your third heart, no thanks to your ludicrous antics, and we’ve strapped a heat-herb pack in place to allow the magical elements to take hold, but they require three days of complete rest during which you will not move a muscle, or you will lose the heart. Am I understood?

He wanted to reach out with a wingtip, but apparently his cunning great-aunt had strapped those down, too. Probably for the better.

Blitz said, I shall do everything as you command, Great-Aunt Ignita.

She eyed him suspiciously.

Thank you for giving me back my heart.

Blergh! Going all soft on me, nephew? Don’t tell any Dragon, but you are my favourite. By far.

The Dragoness stalked off, favouring her bad left forepaw, growling and muttering beneath her breath as if her final admission was actually an insult. Well, that was Ignita. As crusty as burned Human pie, but five hearts’ worth of pure gold.

Chapter 8: Eye Spy

DRAGONS DID NOT OFTEN have to be spoon-fed. Especially not by charming Princesses. Blitz, however, had recently stepped into a new world where everything was disjointed. It made his scales itch violently. He desperately needed to rearrange a few things and call life normal again.

Unfortunately, his captive Princess was not of the character or disposition to be easily rearranged.

“So, what exactly did Ignita tell you about me?” he hissed, sounding decidedly peevish, even to his own ears. “All good?”

“Besides that you are her favourite great-nephew by any measure under the suns –” wielding the foot-wide ladle with aplomb, she poured one last bucketful of dragonwort soup, a noted restorative, down his throat with a pleasant gurgle “– she said that you are honourable, faithful, creative, artistic, misunderstood, a Dragon whose heart lives in his poetry, which you have sadly neglected to admit to me; you are finicky to a fault, severely short-sighted and lacking in firepower.”

Gnarr-rum-blasted-death! he swore unhappily. “Nice list. Thanks for sharing.”

Blithely, the mite added, “Ignita is also furious that you did not come to her earlier with your eye problems.”

Blitz said something even ruder.

“She even claimed that I’m more stubborn than you, which I believe was meant to be a compliment. Now, hold still. The eye drops are next.”

“She specifically said, ‘Lacking in fire power?’ ” He sighed moodily, unable to break the sense of being utterly defeated. This was not a happy place for a Dragon. His wings drooped as if they weighed a tonne each, and his food stomach churned with nausea. “She didn’t use words such as disabled, worthless, fireless lizard, witless fool, cold-hearted undraconic worm, a Dragon who is no Dragon at all, or –”

“Blitz, stop.”

“So, why don’t you just run back to Daddy, little Princess? Go on. Go home. Why be dragged down in the maelstrom of a worthless loser?”

“Blitz! Shut your stupid fangs.”

“Whinging being so charismatic in a Dragon …”

Grinding her teeth furiously, the girl who was climbing his neck leaned over to his left upper ear canal and hissed, “Do you know what I would go back to, you thumping great moron? Let me give you the salient highlights. Since I was old enough to walk and my mother passed, it has been impressed upon me that my sole purpose in life is to get married to the richest fool I can charm into my bed, no matter how despicable he might be. I will not inherit. That privilege is for my brothers. Instead, I am merely an entry on my kingdom’s asset register – a very fat entry. I am commanded to be charming, accomplished and perfectly presented at all times. I go to balls to catch wealthy Princes. Can you imagine what it is like to be valued for your dark, beautiful skin, and nothing else? To only ever be seen skin-deep – I mean … you know?”

Blitz groaned softly.

“So aye, I don’t really want to go home, in case that was somehow unclear. I would rather live with an enormously unreasonable, complaining, crabby, haughty chunk of a Dragon, because among your many admirable qualities and your damnably beautiful honour, you have one gift I value above all others. Do you have any idea what I’m talking about?”

He croaked, “Of course, aye … sort of … not a whole lot. Sorry.”

Nonsensical, but true.

Warm moisture dripped into his ear. Crying! Oh, by his wings, what had he done now? The Princess whispered, “You see me, and accept me, just as I am.”

Kaleidoscopic patterns of insight imploded slowly inside his cranium, rendering him speechless. He had never been accused of giving anyone a gift before. Far less, actually being one. For the life of him, he could not knot together into some kind of sensible, logical string how all this worked, but somehow, it did not matter.

The Princess said, “I’m sorry I ran away and got you injured, Blitz. I blamed you. I was afraid – that I had no protection. I was wrong.”

“I – oh. That’s my fault, I guess.”

“No, it’s for the better. I’d have it no other way.”

Jolly unreasonable female. To his annoyance, her unreason was also right. Gnarr!

How could he ever answer all of this? Odd clouds of mushy sensation filled his brain, bringing not confusion, but a sense of expanding clarity. Anything was possible. Any deed, anywhere, in all the world.

“Well, you are welcome to stay,” he suggested. So tentative, Dragon? What he meant was, ‘and I won’t plan to ransom you anytime soon.’ Firming his voice, he added, “I can’t offer you a whole lot by way of royal comforts, but I am able to offer a safe space where you can forget all about men for a time … ah, except for those that will come try to rescue you, I guess.”

“No pressure,” she said wryly. “Hold your eye open, Dragon.”

“Am I really obsessive?”

“Blitz, if I replace a saucepan one inch out of place in your kitchen, you notice and adjust it. You don’t even notice that you’re noticing.”

“Oh.”

“You arranged your paintings first by ascending size, then by subject, then by primary colouration. That’s just in the time I’ve known you. Your workbench is immaculate. You’ve memorised the contents of your storeroom, and you planted your vegetables by name in order of the runic script.”

“I guess I’m – fairly bad?”

“Intolerable.” A bright giggle belied her rudeness. “Truly unspeakable.”

Next, tiny fingers propped his outer eyelid open with care. Warm, herby water sluiced over his eye. He blinked upon command, not complaining that it was burning like hot sand.

She said, “Despite that you got more – and less – than you bargained for when you destroyed part of Vanrace for me, I do plan to annoy you by sticking around. Thank you for your kind offer. I am honoured to be your captive Princess.”

“Likewise.”

“Likewise?” Quirky smile, widening as he mimed slapping her for the importunity. “We’re somewhat similar, Blitz, don’t you think?”

He nodded in realisation. “Meaning, your kind see only your outside, while my kind see only my inner disabilities?”

“You are not disabled! You’re … different.”

He wanted to bellow at her to explain that nuance to him, but for once, he withheld. Blitz sighed heavily. He could hardly bear the note of hope he sensed in her heart, spreading a rosy glow upon his sense of her emotions. What was there to hope for? Ignita had spilled all his secrets in one fell swoop; he was laid bare.

Yet, she planned to stay.

This was a Princess with severe stubbornness issues. Borderline insane.

Opening his other eye, he said, “Do you know what a Dragon who cannot breathe actual fire is worth around these mountains, or indeed, anywhere in the whole wide world? My eye does feel better, thank you.”

“Well, if this obstinate Dragon I know had actually bothered to consult with his great-aunt rather than mooching about in his lair feeling sorry for himself,” she snapped, “or, for that matter, turn up unexpectedly to whisk random Princesses off to dreadful fates –”

Gnarr!

“Oh, go gnarr yourself! On that note of growl, what were you doing atop that tower that day? No, you don’t get to interrupt until I’ve finished my tirade! Clearly, you are quite oblivious to the perils of interfering with a fine female rant. A most dreadful fate, I assure you. If so, he would have learned that he most likely has Dragon conjunctivitis with chronic complications, which is a severe condition that if left untreated, might well result in his going completely blind!”

“Just in time for an invasion of slayers, hunters and eager knights?”

“Quite. But I do have a plan.”

“Uh … right. You’re making plans for me? Us?”

“Well, you aren’t the most terrible fighter when you aren’t getting yourself stuck head-down behind a tree, so that your enemy can pick their spot to drive a javelin into your heart, Dragon.”

“Thanks. I did swat that fellow pretty well.”

“Brutal.”

“Blergh! Come on, just say it. I’m a clumsy, fireless oaf!”

Princess Azania smacked him atop the head, then apologised at once. Really. Mosquito. She thought she would hurt him? Or, was this an acknowledgement of his feelings? How peculiar. She cared. So did he. When had that started?

None of this was supposed to happen between a Dragon and a Human.

With a sense of steadily navigating a dangerous course, she mused, “Since some girl I could poke with a very short stick feels rather responsible for bringing almost certain death down upon you, Blitz, I plan to help you learn how to fight. We will develop your focus, footwork, tail lashes, paw and jaw techniques, and learn how to summon up a mighty draconic temper. You and I will research everything we can find on the subject of Dragon fire. There must have been a Dragon like you in the past. Besides, Devastators can be devastating even without Dragon fire – trust me, I saw what you did to that tower.”

He chuckled hollowly.

“Furthermore, Ignita has promised to arrange training for you with Juggernaut the Grinder – love your Dragon Clan names, by the way.”

“Juggernaut? He’ll eat me alive!”

“That false belief is exactly the problem,” she averred, hopping back down to the ground. “Fighting requires at least as much artistry as your paintings.”

“And the ability to actually see one’s opponent, might I add?”

“Good point.”

“Did Great-Aunt Ignita happen to break the news to you that Dragon conjunctivitis is degenerative and untreatable?”

“Who’s a great big wet blanket, then?”

This time, he actually did snap toward her shoulder before he could quite contain himself. With great dignity, he snorted, “Are all Human females as violently vexatious as you, Princess?”

She eyeballed him just like Great-Aunt Ignita loved to. “I do aim to please, Dragon. What she told me is that your condition is not yet treatable. We are far from exhausting all the options at this point. Plus, Ignita believes that a congenital lack of fire in a Dragon leads to many other associated health issues – and relationship ones, too. So, fix the fires and we fix the eyes, in theory. Then, long-term plan, we land you a Dragoness who loves you for who you are.”

“Minus anything resembling a treasure hoard? Future … poof!”

Hands on hips, she faced him with an exasperated hiss. Really, she was barely as tall as his skull. He could have snapped five of her up in a single bite – but she was a force of nature. Like a storm lashing the mountains. He had the oddest impression she might just try to move the mountains, if it suited her whim, and moreover, said mountains might find themselves so persuaded.

Two decades of studying the Human race, and clearly, the sum of his knowledge failed to overrun a pinhead.

“Aren’t you just a ray of white sunshine, Dragon?” she snapped wrathfully, wagging her finger beneath his nose. “One paw in front of another. You can start by staying alive. Focus on getting better. Leave the hoard issue with me, and Taramis save us from all draconic obduracy!”

“Princess?”

“What?”

“Forgot what I was going to say.”

Azania stamped her foot. “No, you did not. You’re pulling my leg.”

Blitz tried not to laugh. It hurt too much. “Right you are. Whatever was on the tip of my tongue just then, Princess, I believe it bears a close resemblance to the biggest ‘thank you’ in history.”

He received another hug for that.

A Dragon ought to wash his scales after the slightest contact with a filthy Human. To his consternation, he found that his jaw hurt from a mortifying in ability to stop ginning like a drivelling idiot.

* * * *

Two days later, warmed by the very white fires of Taramis which the Princess had invoked, Blitz the Devastator dragged himself out of the lake feeling very un-devastating and very much more like a sodden toad. This length of immersion in water could not be good for a Dragon. Standing upon shaky paws, he blessed the solid ground with a depth of fervour that startled him. The fishes could keep their water. Dragons were for air, and supposedly, for fire.

How much fire remained to be seen, but his hopes were not sky-high, it had to be said.

He and the Princess repaired to Great-Aunt Ignita’s lair for a celebratory meal of grilled python, a completely undeserved lecture about the lamentable state of his hide, and a range of pithy observations regarding the ancient and noble art of imprisoning a Princess for ransom.

“Traditional dishes to be prepared by the discerning hostage Princess?” Azania grumbled.

Blitz grinned, “One must respect tradition.”

“Right.”

“I have been wondering how best to serve you up,” he teased, drawing a sharp inhale and an arched eyebrow. “I’m thinking, slow-roasted royal haunch served on a platter of crispy basted impudence, with a zesty infusion of fresh snark. What say you?”

“You’re sounding like the stale whiff of a soldier’s boot, say I.”

“How’s that a logical metaphor?”

“As logical as you being a stuffy, sententious old reptile. Really? You’re planning how to eat me?”

“Weird, I know, but there it is – Dragon wit.”

In passing, Ignita grinned, “She refuses to be whittled down by your humour, great nephew.”

Groan!

Ignita’s lair was unique among the Dragonkind, as best he knew. It lay in the hollow heart of a thousand year-old baobab tree. What a baobab was doing in her favourite swamp and not growing happily in a far more arid place, like the northern reaches of the Kingdom of T’nagru where the species was endemic, was a mystery to everyone.

Contrary to all expectations, the tree flourished despite its environment. Thick billows of creamy white blossoms crowned its oddly stubby branches, giving it the air of a poorly groomed Human haircut. Indeed, it had grown so large that it dominated the island she called her lair. The hollow interior was one hundred and fifty feet in diameter and forty feet tall. Ignita darkly referred to growth magic when questioned. Over the decades, she had stuffed the interior with all the paraphernalia of a supposedly crazy healer Dragoness, the standard stuff that the Princess cheerfully noted would probably have seen her burned at the stake for being a witch in at least six kingdoms she could name. Unnameable organic lumps preserved in bottles. Skeletons. Great hanks of herbs twisted together and hung from the ceiling to dry. Chopped up, dried or powdered body parts of a great many creatures Blitz could not and would not have wanted to identify.

The extraordinary breadth of her knowledge meant that Ignita had twenty-three solid ideas about what might work for his eyes, but she also claimed that none of them were a long-term solution. The Princess took notes in a perfect calligraphic hand. Only the best royal tutoring for when she wrote invitations to royal balls and corresponded with drooling foreign Princes, she quipped, producing a truly heroic eye roll she had absolutely not learned in any etiquette class.

She flicked a few misbehaving curls out of her eyes. “What?”

“Hair’s weird.”

“Oh, I see. Scales are peculiar.”

Brief grin. “So I hair,” he quipped.

She winced on cue.

The following day, Blitz and the Princess took a slow and steady walk up to a knoll which commanded a fine view of the west. Azania looked out and told him that she saw the great emerald hardwood forests, called the Gemwoods, the glittering teal expanse of Lake Mycegeon more to the north, and the Lumis Ocean beyond. Dragons were said to be able to see the ocean from here, but she could not. Human sight was limited, but it was the best they had between them. She shared gladly, chatting to a resting Dragon with an ease that frankly astounded him. They were not even close to alike – different species, vastly different sizes, unimaginably different backgrounds. Never more mismatched. Yet here they were.

Why were there no Dragonesses in all the Clans that he could talk to like this? It was so easy; as if his scales and draculinity did not matter in the slightest.

Thereafter, his recovery proceeded more rapidly. Despite his various problems, Blitz knew he was an otherwise healthy young Dragon, and he had Ignita’s skills to thank for a quick repair to the heart muscle. Properly stirred up, his healing magic should now restore wholeness to the heart. She also saw to and confirmed that his broken foreclaw was healing well, and the zapped one, too. Her poultices ensured that the Princess’ whip weals healed satisfactorily, especially the one on her neck, but there would always be a thin scar there, and a slightly thicker scar upon her ribs.

Ignita had her favourite sleeping corner, she called it, where she pillowed her head on a flat boulder which had long since been worn into a comfortable groove. Blitz liked to rest up against the central hearth, where his great-aunt brewed many of her potions, because of the extra warmth. He was more dubious about the way that Princess Azania moved in to the crook of his neck on the first night, and appropriated the spot as her own. She showed no sign of changing her mind. The girl grew sassy. And unpredictable, which he decided must have been the quality that so disturbed his peaceful life.

One might argue he had chosen to introduce this whiff of chaos into his own life.

Mwaa-haa-haa. Excellent nickname.

The tiny whiff of chaos had the best relationship with Ignita. Nothing the elderly Dragoness said or did, no matter how bizarre, fazed the Princess. In the evenings, she prepared Ignita’s favourite bark tea, ignored her chuntering about how the herbs or the sweetness or the temperature was different, sat down, and chatted to her for hours beside the crackling hearth fire. Blitz heard stories he had not enjoyed since his hatchling days, legends, outright fables, and pearls of lore and wisdom. The Dragoness clearly loved the company and tolerated the Princess’ attentions with an amused crustiness that he soon came to suspect hid genuine affection.

Why? He could not fathom their connection. The green Dragoness had never been short of sarcastic opinions about Humans and their ways. Here she was, putting up with an increasingly talkative oversized yellow-headed parakeet – of which there were many nesting in this unexpected high-altitude bog – and even humouring her. Truly! Famously, Ignita never indulged any creature.

Take the day a week after his almighty crash-landing in the lake.

A hollow log hung from a tree at the edge of her bog, perhaps eighty Dragon paces from her door. Dragons usually knocked upon it with their knuckles; Azania had been forced to jump and use the haft of her dagger. Ignoring the knocker was a passport to instant rage. Ignita was not lightly disturbed. This morning, the family code boomed hollowly across the dank mud and rotting khaki sedge grasses, scaring a few marsh birds into a fluttering panic.

Ignita’s head did that sideways jerk, as if the sound had pulled at her ear canal. She snorted, “Ah, about time they came knocking.”

Blitz glanced up from the large Dragon scroll he was reading, a treatment of the anatomy of fire-breathing reptilian innards. So far, it had only succeeded in informing the increasing queasiness in his stomach. Less helpful on the knowledge front.

“Who’s knocking?” he asked.

“I needed supplies to treat a granite-headed young fool,” Ignita sniffed, patting his flank in passing as she walked and her tail rasped toward her door. “I may have let slip there was a royal reason you were trying to throw your life away. Still those sweaty paws, young lizard.”

“Dragons don’t sweat.”

“My adorable little nephew, your lovely Aunty Ignita has everything under control. Shut jaw. Pay attention.”

Leaving him steaming with that sarcastic comment, she wandered outside to threaten her visitor with instant dismemberment.

This was a warning reserved for close family.

The Princess shifted nervously from her position near the fire. The morning was misty and cool, and her act of theft had not included a sensible cloak. Ignita had berated her soundly for that oversight. ‘Next time you steal something, Princess, especially life’s necessities, make sure you steal it properly! And thoroughly! No pathetic moralistic half measures.’

Indeed, Great-Aunt. Sage advice. Every aspiring renegade royal ought to brush up on her kleptomaniacal skills and toss her principles into the Lumis Ocean. Azania bowed her dark head and promised to do better next time.

In a moment, Blitz heard a familiar paw tread outside. Brand.

“My younger brother, Brand,” he whispered to the Princess, realising he had neglected to tell her much about his family at all. Nor had she – not even the basics, apart from who her father was. Evidently, family shame was a catching affliction.

She whispered back, “So, your dam and sire are Blaze and Indigofire, then it’s you, Brand and … I forget the other brother?”

“Brawl,” he said, “and after him comes Inferna, my sister. Four eggs.”

Unusual number. Dragon siblings rarely numbered more than three in a single family.

Brand was a deep umber colour, which Blitz had always been jealous of. He had a teasing way with the Dragonesses and usually boasted a fine swagger either on the walk or in the air, as if he owned his surrounds. Not so much in Ignita’s lair, he noticed, rising to greet his brother fondly. Well, fondly with inner reservations. Brand always acted as if they were as thick as thieves, yet he could be the cruellest of all. Truly a Dragon who walked in his sire’s paw prints.

He nuzzled his brother’s neck and threw a comradely wing over his shoulders. At thirty-six feet in length, Brand was no stripling, but Blitz out-bulked him by tonnes.

“Just stopping by with an invitation,” Brand said, clearly looking about for the Princess. His glance passed right over her the first time. “Heard you tangled with some bounty hunters, Blitz? Did you paint them out of existence?”

There it started.

He said, “Ignita, praise her egg, saved my third heart after I was spitted like a boar for the roast. Brand, may I introduce my – uh, captive Princess?” Prickle his wings and pickle his egg, he had almost said ‘friend’ there! Really? Slip of the old forked tongue. Gesturing with his foreclaw, he said, “This is Her Royal Highness the Princess Azania N’gala of T’nagru, the Desert Kingdom. Princess, this is my younger brother by two years, Brand the Devastator.”

Brand’s orange eyes squinted slightly as he finally discovered the Princess. Clearly, she was neither as vast nor as draconic as he had expected. “Princess! I am … well! I am most honoured to meet Blitz’s … acquisition. Indeed, you far exceed the reports of the beauty of your people.”

Blitz bit back a hot spurt of jealousy, but to his surprise, the Princess appeared far from flattered by his suave delivery. On the contrary, he scented shades of annoyance as umber as his brother’s primary colouration.

She greeted him with a graceful genuflection. “Mighty Brand. Ignita and Blitz speak most favourably of your prowess in battle.”

The young Dragon swelled visibly and audibly. “Indeed, I am a fighter of rising renown.”

“I should love to hear more tales of your deeds of renown, o Brand the Devastator,” she cooed, fluttering her eyelashes as if she had a speck stuck in her eye.

Brand nearly popped. His brother’s belly fires jolted into a rumble like a swollen rainy season waterfall, his scales heated up visibly, and his five hearts skipped a beat all at once – exactly as if a pretty Dragoness had just brushed wingtips with him. Blitz could not believe it. Had a fat woolly sheep leaped up onto his nose, bleating humbly to become his breakfast, he would have been no less bemused.

Limping up behind Brand, Ignita’s expression was a study in sardonic pleasure.

A cunning talon curved behind this encounter!

Ten minutes later, his brother was backing out of the lair, still behaving as if his paws had somehow become disconnected from his body. Male Dragons. So stupidly predictable. The giant red sun itself could bite him if he ever behaved so idiotically around a female.

The Princess smiled at Ignita. “It worked. I feel like I want to wash my mouth out with a strong caustic, but – you are a brilliant, brilliant Dragoness.”

“Don’t you start with me,” the Dragoness snapped. “Go fetch me a pot of fresh water.”

“At once, Great-Aunt Ignita.”

She snapped her fangs toward their Human companion. “I’ll have less insolence and more obedience from you, child.”

This time, the Princess wisely kept her silence.

Chapter 9: Horse Thief

WINGING BACK TO HIS cosy lair a couple of days later, Blitz the Devastator gazed over his domain with what he would have liked to assert was a suitably majestic air. The farther peaks were still an unfortunate white-tipped purple blur, and the half-clouded skies above a rosy smear due to Ignis’ giant red bulk entirely obscuring Taramis, the far hotter and smaller white sun. Indeed, Dragons said that their fire took after Ignis in majesty and greatness. One of his great-aunt’s admonitions was to meditate upon the red sun. It was good that Taramis was often obscured, mind, for it was said that without the interplay between the brothers, the realms would not exist.

Well, the land would be rather more overcooked. Exceedingly well done with crispy bits all over, so to speak.

“How’s your eyesight, Blitz?” a gentle voice inquired. “Are you checking it right now?”

“Aye, Princess. The clouds are woolly blobs, the mountain peaks a discernible blur, and if I fly lower, I can see some detail on the ground, such as – oh! A stray horse. Fancy finding one of those in these parts. I’m surprised the timber wolves haven’t put it out of its misery.”

“A grey destrier – oh my stars! Blitz, we have to go help them.”

“One does not generally consume noble steeds,” he said, with a disdainful curl of his lip. “It is considered beneath a Dragon’s dignity to –”

“Don’t give me the savage carnivore performance again. Blitz, that’s one of the horses which belonged to those bounty hunters.”

“And?”

“The others are probably still tied up in the canyon, starving.”

Brraa-hurgh-haa! he chortled. “Bad luck to them.”

“Bad luck? Bad luck? You get me down there right now, Dragon, or I will –” she giggled in a merry way completely at odds with her apparent fury “– I will talk at you non-stop for the next ten hours. Promise.”

“Oh no,” he pretended to shudder, “what vile and unspeakable torture! Anything but the talking.”

“Not funny.”

Why then the self-deprecation? Was he not supposed to disagree?

Nonetheless, he did feel bad for any creature tamed and tied up by Humans. Poor dumb animals. He could not leave them to starve. Still, what would one do with equines in the mountains? Without proper care, the wolves would be upon them within hours. Indeed, that was normally the case. Where were the wolves this time? Would they find only a bloody mess down there in that canyon?

How would his Princess react if all they found was the carcasses of these animals she so clearly valued? Nonetheless, for her sake …

Sweeping lower and circling to return, he brought them to the head of the greenery-choked canyon where they had fought with the bounty hunters, and discovered the likely reason for the wolves’ absence.

“Princess, look, it’s my very first Dragon slayer!”

She gave him the strangest look. “Why exactly are you excited about this?”

“Well, it is only one and he does look very lonely down there, but do you see the Dragon bow he’s trying to string? That malicious monster shoots eight-foot quarrels!” He made to rub his paws together, but gave up the idea as the Princess yelped that no pancakes were wanted. “See? He’s camped below our lair, waiting for us to return.”

“Have I told you how weird you are?”

“My first slayer!” he chortled, rubbing his paws together with glee. “Shall we go greet him?”

“ ‘Our lair?’ You’re so sweet!”

Blitz had decided he was going to be a reformed Dragon, not half as disagreeable as before. He failed instantly, losing his temper with grating roar, “Dragons are never sweet!”

“Spot the joke, Dragon?”

Gnarr-t nice, he mumbled beneath his breath.

Dared to tug his tail, did she? This Dragon would lay devious plans regarding her education. Just wait, Princess. Revenge beckoned.

Meantime, they laid a different plan. Blitz put down a hundred Dragon paces from the restive equine, downwind so that it did not bolt. He and the Princess parted ways. She made for the destrier, an animal with a dirty grey coat he did not care for in the slightest. He vanished into the nearby undergrowth, practising his stalking skills. This was meant to be part of his training. As if he was not an excellent stalker already!

The Dragon slayer was a wiry old fellow with spiky brown hair and a sallow, unhealthy-looking complexion. He chewed on the stem of a foot-long pipe as he worked on his weapon of choice, smoking something perfectly vile. Blitz clamped down on a sneeze. The campsite was set against a clump of boulders beneath several spreading evergreen trees, with broad leaves that concealed the location from aerial view. He looked about as carefully as he could, before sneaking along farther. The fellow was cursing up a small firestorm as he tried to string the weapon.

Blitz strolled out of cover toward him, calling, “Having a spot of bother there, old chap?”

For an old-timer, he was not without courage. After a second of frozen panic, he dropped his huge Dragon bow and whipped out a sword. “Dragon!”

“That’s me – fangs, scales, wings, the whole caboodle.”

“Down, Janx!”

Another one! Great stalker that he was, Blitz had forgotten to check if there were any more of these pests about. This one had a longbow and an arrow nocked to the string.

Charging forward, he plucked up the one called Janx and waved him in the air as the arrow left the string. Whurr-whup! One more twitch, and his Human shield was dead. Excellent … coincidence. That, or he might start to believe he had actual battle skills. The second man bolted as fast as his bandy legs could carry him, screaming fit to wake the dead. Casting aside his bow, he produced an impressive turn of speed, no mean feat given the ratio of width to height in his frame.

Was it his manners? Or his fangs? He had cleaned them this very morning.

Either way, Blitz lumbered after, because that was the direction that the Princess had gone. A smart Dragon also remembered to look after his allies, which he had summarily neglected to do so far.

Perhaps two hundred yards from their camp was the start of the gulley, where the ground began to dip. The blurring legs stumbled and halted as Blitz belatedly saw what had given him pause – Princess Azania strode up toward him, leading six horses in a neat row. Well, they were following her as he remembered his sister Inferna tottering after their dam, as if attached by an invisible string. How peculiar.

Distracted by the compliant and fearless behaviour of a group of highly strung warhorses, he forgot to halt his charge in time. Consequently, his thundering chest and the back of the Dragon slayer’s head met in an unfortunate collision – for the man – followed by a squelching sound farther back.

Oops.

One should really know better than to jump beneath a Dragon’s paw.

Slowing to a walk to avoid spooking the equines, he called, “Princess, I see you have become an accomplished horse thief?”

Something squished juicily between his hind talons. He surreptitiously tried to clean his paw on a nearby bush. Joint grease. It came in many forms.

Azania sighed. “I don’t need to ask, do I?”

“Er … no. Best walk a little around that way. Why are the horses not scared of me?”

“I told them you would not eat them.”

“Way to spoil my fun.”

He stopped ten feet short of the scowling Princess, running her words through his mind. Spoke to horses. Hailed from the Desert Kingdom. A couple of thoughts were trying very hard to find one another deep in his mind, he sensed, but had yet to make the connection.

She added, “I believe you’ve been having quite enough fun already. Dealt with your first professional Dragon slayers, I believe? We should start a scroll.”

“A scroll of what?”

“A record of the deeds of Blitz the mighty Devastator. Every aspiring fire breather needs to create a suitable legend. We don’t even need to make this one up. Tricked the first slayer with great cunning, it appears, and stomped the second to death.”

“History is all in the way it is retold,” he agreed, with a knowing grin she did not fail to pick up on.

Pointing at the man lying in the open with a large arrow jutting from his chest, the Princess inquired, “Want to tell me exactly what happened, Dragon?”

“I waved him about. The arrow hit him by complete accident.”

“Right. Not that. Something closer to: ‘cunningly, the Dragon forced one Dragon slayer to slay the other …’ ”

“That’s two ‘slays’ in one sentence. And two ‘Dragons,’ for that matter.”

“Oh dear. I think I will need a robust editor.”

“Or a great deal more slaying to justify the reference. You – aha! You speak Equitone?” She nodded, giving him the shy smile he realised she often used to hide self-deprecation at her capabilities. “That’s a tall tale. Legend. Bunch of hot air, I am reliably informed …”

By some female magic, the shy smile turned instantly into a ferocious frown. One that warned aplenty.

His magic sniffed around her emotions. Did this girl ever lie?

Not today.

Back to smiling, as if a cloud had merely wandered over the suns for a second. “Sorry to burst your bubble, Dragon, but Equitone is a real phenomenon. Alright, I’ll admit it’s been a T’nagrun trade secret since time immemorial, helping us to raise the finest horses in the realms – don’t you growl at me, you unbeliever – oh, very well. Shall I demonstrate my command of hot air for you, your draconic prodigiousness?”

He bowed his head elegantly. “I should be honoured, your indescribable elegance.”

Turning to her string of remarkably obedient and docile warhorses, she nickered softly in her throat, and pursed her lips to produce a breathy trill. All six horses burst into high-spirited whickering that sounded exactly like laughter. Then they bucked and pranced in concert, before gathering to nuzzle her back and arms. She laughed and spoke to them again. They formed a column, two by two. Blitz scowled, but was not unimpressed. Clearly, that day, he had stolen a horse magician. Equitone was classed as a mythical magical-physical language. Therefore, the smirking prankster over there was evidently very well-versed in practical spoken mythology, or something to that effect.

Drily, he said, “Another skill not offered by the official royal tutoring programme of the kingdom?”

“The fully unauthorised syllabus.”

“Ah. Good. Excellent! So, I have an idea as to where we might keep your horses, unless we’re planning to sell them?”

“Well, not this week, Dragon. We have the Devastator Dragon Clan get-together in four days’ time, remember? The one where they are all supposed to gawk at me and express shock that you’re actually behaving like a Dragon for a change.”

He flinched.

“Ah, far too close to the bone. Bad Princess says sorry to noble Dragon.”

“I’ll survive.” The lump he swallowed back, however, felt like half a cow. “After all, I’m a proud slayer of slayers, and tyrannical keeper of the finest Princess in all the realms, and all that. So, about the horses. There’s a valley about seven miles from here which is cut off by steep cliffs and waterfalls either end. It’s high pasture, so there will be plenty of grass up there in this season. No wolves. The trick is that I’d have to fly the horses in. Do you think you could manage to convince them?”

“I might have to bag their heads. But aye, as long as you don’t fly like you’re holding a couple of tonnes of bed, they should be fine.”

He gnashed his fangs on the air. “Just practising in case I happen to meet some random Princesses out here.”

* * * *

The great horse lift went well. Theft, air transport, hiding in plain sight. Blitz and Azania agreed that villainy definitely had its lighter moments. The destriers acted openly delighted at finding themselves in a lush mountain meadow with its knee-high bluegrass – knee-high to a Dragon, to be accurate. They had a lot of eating ahead of them before the winter set in. He teased the Princess about not getting lost in the grass. It nearly reached her shoulders. She mimed swatting him like a fly.

After that, they returned to scout the canyon and surrounds, and found one more stray, a black horse with a white blaze upon its forehead. It had broken its leg hobbles and wandered off for a mile or so. Furthermore, they retrieved an armful of equipment which Blitz transported back to the lair once the mare was placed with her fellows.

The slayers had the decency to have packed a skein of quality five year-old Vanracian wine in amongst their belongings. Back in the lair, the Princess made to pour herself a celebratory mug; Blitz stopped her and nipped over to his storeroom to pull out the antique Chamiz Kingdom glassware set his sticky-pawed Great-Uncle Swoop must have plundered at some point. Far more suitable for royalty.

Those brows – he could not quite erase the image of hairy caterpillars from his mind – arched in surprise. “He plundered a palace? This set is priceless.”

“I believe so.”

“Well.” Pouring herself a modest inch or so of wine, she raised the fluted crystal to the lamplight. “To a pair of crazies plotting mayhem up in their mountain lair.”

Blitz chuckled, poking a log into their roaring fire. “Indeed.”

Without being asked, she told him about her family. Her mother had passed when she was but two years old. Since girls were not important to the succession, she had been raised by various royal nurses, minders and tutors. Her father, King N’gala N’gala, had been too busy with a string of hopeful future queens to pay his daughter much attention, but there had been a regular weekly lecture about her duties to the kingdom. He had married again when she was twelve, but the second queen had died in childbirth a year later. After that, N’gala had busied himself with affairs of state and raising her three older brothers. The weekly scolding had turned bitter and increasingly excruciating to endure.

Her first reaction to being abducted by desert warriors paid off by the Kingdom of Vanrace, had been relief.

Not for long.

Prince N’chala was the oldest, at twenty-six. He was an accomplished warrior and horseman, and already a veteran of many battles. She described him as proud and a touch vain, but a decent man at heart. In the fall season, he was to marry Princess Yuali of Amboraine, a forested kingdom that lay north of the Tamarine Mountains. Prince Yadaxu was twenty-three, also a fine warrior and a musician. Her father was proud of him for siring a collection of illegitimate children with various ladies of noble rank, but the pressure was now on to settle down and sire a few legitimate heirs for a change. At eighteen, Prince Aragu was a year older than her, and a man after her father’s heart, she said – arrogant, inflexible and ambitious.

Of her brothers, Prince N’chala was the closest to her, but he had always been firmly under their father’s thumb. Her relationship with her father was distant and strained.

“Anyways, enough of me,” she said, leaning back against his paw. “Let’s talk about next steps. I read a reference at Ignita’s lair which suggested that flammable oil might be a way of kick-starting your incandescence … process, I think you’d say? I’m hazy on the Draconian nuances. But I copied the reference for you, if you’d like to read it?”

“I would, please.”

Springing to her feet, she placed the crystal goblet on the kitchen worktop and danced over to her pack. Another item off the theft list. For a person who had the cheek to lecture him about the draconic love of pillaging, she was certainly developing an affinity for the art.

“Now, before we fly north to Juggernaut the Grinder’s lair next week, the oil treatment is one thing we do need to try. Preferably when you are nice and angry, Ignita said.”

“I’ll go practice my fulminating and hearty thundering first thing tomorrow,” he promised, “but really, I’m just too phlegmatic a soul to harbour much in the way of blistering Dragon fury.”

She passed him a tiny scroll. “Read this.”

“Hmm,” he murmured, running his talon down the neat columns of runes. “The treatment has been known to be successful for three Dragons. That sounds hopeful – oh, but this one tried to throw a flaming brand down his throat after, and exploded his own stomach.”

“Ouch.”

“Aye, let’s not try that trick, shall we?”

After prodding at the fire with a metal poker, the Princess settled back against his paw. “Does it sound silly to hope that some other nitwit comes plodding up the trail so that we can experiment on him?”

“Dreadful. I’m sure you’d have no trouble breathing fire at general idiocy.”

“I can’t even tolerate a stinky hot spring. Which reminds me, are there any handy volcanoes about these mountains? One theory is that you ought to go sit on one.”

Blitz made a constipated face. “Ooh! That could hurt!”

The Princess collapsed laughing.

Chapter 10: Death Dive

BLITZ THUNDERED DOWN INTO his lair, bellowing, “Smoke! I smell smoke! Do you think it could be another Dragon slayer? Come on, Princess. What are you doing? I need your eyes.”

“I was wandering about in my underwear, as every Princess loves to do in public.”

“Oh – ah, I forget about the necessity for clothing in your culture.”

“Getting there.”

Slipping out of another emerald green dress she had been trying on, the Princess quickly jumped into her trousers and wriggled until she had them hugging her behind just right. Blitz nodded sagely. Aye. That was definitely a Human female courtship signal. The tight clothing must signify readiness to mate. Although, that particular text had been scribed by an elderly Dragon with, one might say, a roving eye for the Dragonesses. Blitz decided he could not trust that opinion as far as he could stuff it up said Dragon’s left nostril.

Him being so ready with the ‘reproductive independence’ line.

He eyed his companion judiciously. The Princess had her boots on already. Just the top part of her body to go. Much more likely, the idea of readiness to mate resided largely in the male’s head, primed to be imposed upon the object of his desire – if Humans and Dragons were in any way alike.

“Ready,” she said.

“Let’s go!” he thundered.

The Princess poked at her ears. “Not bad, Dragon! But in future, please save general draconic thundering for the outdoors, or when you are trying to impress Juggernaut the Impaler.”

“He’s a Grinder. Better not make that mistake around him. You might get impaled and grinder-ated at the same time.”

She stuck out her tongue.

“What does this – this wet, grotesque appendage waggling out of your mouth mean?” he threw over his shoulder as they raced up the stairs to the upper valley.

“It’s rude,” she said.

“Repulsive is the word I’d use.”

“Some Humans kiss with their tongues, Blitz.”

“Blergh! Stop, or I’ll throw up. Please. I know I keep asking about Human customs, but that one’s – I mean, are you experienced in this vile cultural tradition?”

“Blitz! No!”

“So there has never been a male – a boy – with whom you wanted to –”

“Dragon, you are dead. So dead!”

“Well?”

“My lips are sealed.”

“Apparently not,” he said, and had the great satisfaction of seeing and sensing her blush like a miniature volcano.

Up top, Blitz showed her where he had positioned his Dragon telescope up on an outcropping on the lip of the valley. The instrument was so large that he had to raise her on his paw to the eyepiece, but once they managed to resolve its direction and how to focus it, the Princess nodded at once.

“Aye, that’s a – single Dragon slayer who appears to have come armed with a very large, poisoned lance. As in, the tip is a horrid swamp green colour. You can’t see it?

“No details, remember?”

“Blitz, I didn’t know there were poisons that could kill Dragons?”

“Kill outright, no. Make a Dragon miserable for weeks, aye. There are paralytic and necrotic compounds which –”

“Necrotic?”

“Eats your flesh in nice big chunks.”

“Ooh, sounds pleasant.”

“Insanely pleasant, aye.” He brought her carefully back down to ground level again. “The venomous sea snakes of the far north-western kingdoms are best known for that delightful contribution to the art of Dragon slaying. I believe that a particular favourite is the combination of a neurotoxin sourced from our friendly sea snakes, laced with a paralytic venom from the ultra-rare white-banded desert asp.”

“As we stand on a beautiful mountain discussing ways of killing Dragons. Lovely. Things I did not need to know. Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go load your second stomach up with oil.”

“Now?”

“No, genius. Let’s wait until tomorrow when he has a chance to get here with that ridiculous lance of his, and give him plenty of time to plan how he’s going to use it to murder you.”

“Oh.”

She gave him the look she appeared to reserve for Dragons who were behaving as if their craniums were stuffed with crushed granite. He gave her a look that suggested if she mentioned craniums and granite, he would destroy half the Human kingdoms in a paroxysm of rage never before seen beneath the suns. Impossible, but fun to imagine. He had been working on visualising flame billowing out of his agape maw in great, rolling waves of destruction. His dreams were drenched in yellow flame.

No deficiency in his imagination.

Twenty minutes later, Blitz spread his wings and tipped off his balcony. Princess Azania wriggled in his paw, getting settled for the flight. A small barrel of oil sloshed around inside his second stomach, the one which was meant to give rise to flame. It was not a pleasant sensation.

He tried to focus on other things, such as the twittering Princess in his paw, who was busy explaining to a Dragon how to use the last of Ignis’ setting rays to mask his flight approach. Honestly. Did she not grasp how beautifully his mud-brown scales would stand out against a ruddy western horizon? Nor understand how demeaning it was to listen to a wingless creature instructing a winged one in the nuances of his native domain?

Grumpy Dragon. Again. This was becoming a habit. He was stoic, composed and logical. Not petulant and ill-tempered. When had he become this Dragon? His wings stirred the air as he considered the tenor of his hearts.

When he realised there was more.

No, that he yearned to be more. That was the difference.

He had never been content. Nor had he dared to dream. One moment upon that high tower, one choice, one clenched fist – and everything had changed.

Now, a Dragon must find true courage, and he had this priceless pest in paw to help him do it.

Winging low, he swept down the eastward trail toward the place where an indistinct brightness played upon his vision. His Dragon senses sifted the hints and tangs upon the evening air. Rain in the north. The rising of springtime life in the mountains, almost a month later than the hill country and lowlands beyond the realm of Dragons. The acrid scent of the fire, made from sequoia deadfall. A tang – another Dragon? His muzzle jerked, seeking that strangely familiar scent trace. No. He must have been mistaken.

Fiery thoughts, Dragon!

I am fire! I am Dragon!

Focussing on his stomach, he gulped. Rather than sensing some upwelling of living fire in his Dragon magic, which all the scrolls talked about, he suspected he was about to be sick. Sparks. Fire. Bonfires. Lightning. Wildfires. He tried to picture every manifestation of fire he could possibly imagine. He was an artist who painted with his eye barely eighteen inches from the canvas. His flames came fully detailed, gorgeously vibrant, dancing …

Princess Azania said, “Ready for the ambush and snatch, Dragon?”

“Aye. This is a good idea, by my wings.”

“Tradition has the Dragon waiting in their lair for a Dragon slayer or knight to poke holes in their hide in a confined space. Total lunacy, in my untutored, undraconic opinion. Fairly close to some impudent girl trying to tell you how to fly, right?”

An involuntary jerk betrayed his shock.

Blitz started down at the occupant of his paw. Her scent traces were too complex and nuanced to distinguish at once, but there were hints of contrition, truthfulness and tentative humour that he could detect.

He said, “How do you do that? Wait. Almost as bad as some pompous Dragon explaining basic Geography to an educated Princess upon first meeting, right?”

“Er …”

“Just tell me I’m right for a change. Oh. We’re close already –”

“Not on the tip! Mind that tree … left! Go left!”

Flying faster than he had expected, probably because he had not been paying attention, Blitz whistled toward the Human’s campsite, scanning the area as best he was able. Every sense lit up as if the suns themselves had broken from behind a cloud to burnish the scene. This was the moment. Snatch, sharp turn, roast that fool in his own juices. He could not wait.

Leaping to his feet, the Dragon slayer grabbed his great lance off some kind of stand. As if in a nightmare, the garish green tip lowered to point at his flight path. Toward the Princess. In reality, he realised with clarity that was as perfect as it was sadly belated, that was the worst possible place for a person to be riding when it came to a Dragon attacking a target on the ground.

Might better have painted a target on the middle of her torso.

The slayer braced the deadly weapon against his boot. Poised. His posture was textbook, a study in exactitude.

Only one problem. He faced an unusual foe.

Blitz dipped, inverting his hind paws so that they scraped across the soft sward, shovelling up great clods of grassy dirt and braking sharply at the same time. At the very last instant, he slammed his tail against the ground to launch him up and over the sloped lance. Mounds of dirt showered over the man, blinding him. The lance tip passed his sucked-in belly with a margin of perhaps two inches. In passing, he swiped at the lance with his tail, cracking it in half and throwing the slayer to the ground.

Whirling on his wingtip, he slowed and landed twenty Dragon paces beyond the man.

He placed the Princess carefully upon her feet. “Sorry about the jolt.”

“No problem. Think flame!” she ordered.

Summoning up his fieriest thoughts, the infernal infernos of his most garish imagination, Blitz lumbered toward the man, squeezing his second stomach as he had read. This was supposed to work. One little spark in there, and the rest would be history …

The Dragon slayer, a rangy man with a crooked nose, raised the remains of his lance to threaten him as he stopped four paces short. Here it came.

DEVASTATOR!!

With a violent heave, Blitz vomited the oily gunge in his stomach all over the man.

* * * *

“Stop sulking, Dragon.”

“I am not sulking,” he said, spreading his wings to power them up into the searing beams of a white-dominant sunrise. “I am being thoughtful, introspective and calculating. I am considering my past failures, from which I shall learn many lessons and become a better, stronger Dragon altogether.”

“You are sulking like a child caught stealing sweets from the kitchen.”

“I am gathering my magical resources into a conflagration of epic proportions, which shall thunder forth from my agape maw –”

“Spelled, ‘sulking’.”

“You are incorrigible, do you know that?”

The Princess smiled up at him. For the occasion, she wore another emerald dress salvaged from the storage chests, together with her tiara and jewels. Pah. Overlooked starting his hoard with those, hadn’t he? He would have to find other places to pillage. Meantime, on her advice, he had cleared out his paintings and hidden them in the secret storage chamber behind the library, in case some intrepid knights decided to raid his chambers while they were gone. The last fellow, thoroughly basted in warm Dragon vomit, had been sent packing with orders to the effect that he should advise all his fellows that the mighty Blitz was not giving up the most beautiful Princess in the seventeen realms, and beyond the oceans, without a serious fight and a gigantic ransom.

Plus, there would be less vomit and rather more slaying next time. He did not say this last bit.

To his surprise, the girl had also found a weapon belt and wore the Dragon talon dagger in it. Making a statement, Princess?

Rising above the quartet of peaks that concealed his lair, he winged northward, gaining altitude. The ancient Devastator family lair lay beyond the next range of peaks, in a location all but inaccessible to Humans. The few ravines leading up to this small plateau were choked with brambles boasting highly toxic thorns, the grey cliffs were sheer and icy … checking his passenger, he blurted out:

“Sorry, I should have remembered how cold it is up here, Princess. Two thousand feet higher. The lair is very warm inside, however. It’s heated by a natural geothermal vent said to be over three miles deep.”

“I’m alright.”

“Says the dark icicle?” He cupped her body with his free forepaw in order to reduce the wind chill. “Is this better?”

“Thank you, Dragon.”

“Remind me to find you something warmer when we fly up to Juggernaut’s lair. We’ll have to overfly a pass of nineteen thousand feet along the way. That’s going to be tough, although hardly as tough as a little piece of gristle like you – hugh-harr-hurgh!”

She wrinkled her tiny nose. “Hilarious, Blitz. True comedic value.”

“I’m a master.”

Did she know how nervous he was? Her soft-eyed glance suggested so. Any self-respecting son of the winds ought to be insulted by her reaction, but this Dragon was tiptoeing into a wide world of nuance and complication that made his lonely bachelor days seem about as complicated as a sheep’s life. Eat. Sleep. Eat. Sleep. Be eaten – oops. Lair-bound life was simplicity itself compared to smuggling a Princess into his parents’ lair.

Azania had treated his eyes this morning. Twice-daily herbal washes had definitely reduced the chronic itching. Although there was hardly any apparent improvement in his long-range sight, the shorter range of up to about fifty feet was fairly consistently clear now. She had dared to tug his wings about wearing spectacles that very morning – snuff his mortal fires! Not that his belly fires needed much help in lacking existence. In more exciting news, she informed him that there were Human opticians in the western oceanic kingdom of Alaxarmis who had begun to experiment with the correction of sight using lenses similar to telescopic lenses.

A Dragon wearing glasses?

The Princess declared he would look distinguished.

Blitz knew his fellows would laugh their wings off. No Dragon had ever worn such a contraption. How many might have needed one … aye. Unwritten, never researched, and most certainly never admitted by any proud, noble son of the winds.

Gathering his strength, he hurled himself into the greying heights. A swift-moving tempest gusted in from the east, typical of the mountains. The weather could change in the blink of a Dragon’s eye. The girl gasped appreciatively as the powerful acceleration pressed her back in his paws. He was no slouch when it came to speed. Only, the fastest Dragons still needed to see where they were going, or they would have the best accidents, too. He snuck up on a lammergeyer which was lazing upon a thermal, probably contemplating tossing bones onto rocks to crack them open for the marrow, and sent the bird packing with a resounding roar.

His cupped paws chuckled, “Dragon thunder!”

Oh! She had been hiding completely out of sight. Small enough, he supposed. “A few relatives incoming,” he noted. “Still time to flee in abject fear and trembling, Princess.”

“Don’t worry, Blitz, I’ll hold your paw for you.”

Harr-harr-harr! he chortled with merriment he felt in no bone of his body. “May your wings surmount the winds until you touch the suns …”

That was no blessing for a Human. Well, not a standard one. Dragons did not, on the whole, wander about blessing Human villages before undertaking a spot of light despoilation. That reminded him, he must declare Azania his prize according to a tradition which had not been spoken in any mountain fastness in over three decades, ever since Hangry the Smiter had abducted the last Princess on record, the frail and sickly Amonette of Taribonli. She had not survived the experience, through no fault of the Dragon’s. Congestive heart failure. Despite that, King Azarkal of Taribonli had famously vowed to exact revenge upon the Smiter Clan, sending his entire army into the mountains to murder no less than twenty-seven Smiters in one bloody week’s work.

Unfortunately, the King’s mortal enemy on his northern border, Zobar the Warlord, had seized the opportunity to sack a kingdom bereft of its main army, which was busy decimating and being decimated by the vengeful Smiters. History had not favoured King Azarkal’s foolishness. He died after being tossed off his own battlements. Taribonli and its army were no more, the kingdom a ruin inhabited by wolves and crows.

Scooting up and over a ridge which concealed a montane plateau beyond, covered in wispy tan grasses, Blitz angled for the start of the peaks two miles further on. His sire and dam commanded arguably the finest lair in the mountains, the majestic ancient holding of the Devastators. It lay two and a half thousand feet higher up a sheer cliff, where a mated pair of Dragons – Uncle Grudge and Aunt Bonfira, judging by the light yellow smear of the Dragoness – were just landing on a wide ledge that fronted the deep cave system. In fact, some thirteen Devastators lived within these caverns, a substantial number by the reckoning of Dragons. This gathering would muster over fifty fully grown adults, making the Devastator Clan one of the largest and most prestigious in the Tamarine Mountains.

All of this, the Princess knew.

“Oh!” she cried. “Baby Dragons, Blitz – oh look, they’re so cute.”

“Cute is a bad word,” he said automatically, trying to focus on the family group and largely failing. “Aye, that will be Gemira and her mate Talonfire. He’s actually the last living Smiter. Our Clan adopted him as a hatchling.”

Her voice rose an octave. “They’re so tiny, their father’s carrying them on his back!”

“Tiny is also an inadvisable word,” he snorted.

“Ignita told me that they were born just last week,” she informed him, growing noticeably snippy at his censure. “That is fairly young to be flying, isn’t it?”

“Dragons fly within hours of birth. However, this is a substantial height. They would not have the strength to fly up here for months yet, which is why they are being borne aloft with honour – and before you ask, for Dragons the position on the back is honourable, while for Humans, it is unthinkable.”

Drolly, she riposted, “And the neck? Merely inadvisable?”

“Dragons not being the least stiff-necked creatures under the suns,” he agreed, bringing them to a smooth landing despite the rising gusts. He opened his paws to allow her to alight upon a dusting of snow.

Lightning!

Blinking a jagged smear of light off his retinae, Blitz whirled as the Princess cried out, “Talonfire! He’s –”

A vast thunderclap drowned out the rest of her warning.

Talonfire the Smiter reeled in the air, shaking off the effect of an unexpected explosion. Sensing far more than seeing the impending danger, Blitz dived into the abyss before further thought intruded. One of the hatchlings tumbled ahead of him. Flapping bravely, the rare blue tried to orient herself and fly, but a powerful gust crumpled her small wings and slammed her against the cliff face. Blitz’s hearts clenched in concert. No! Injured, her left wing hung poorly. Looked like a break, called a greenstick fracture in hatchlings, for their bones remained soft for some months after emergence from the egg.

Catch her, Blitz! He folded his own wings for maximum velocity. A death dive, the Dragons called this manoeuvre.

A passage the Princess had read to him just last night ran through his head.

Keep the wings close. As the inevitable gust buffeted him against the rock, he ran down the cliff face, taking the impact on his paws before reaching out to snatch the plummeting hatchling out of the air. Rock hurtled upward – three-legged, he sprang away from the jagged face, smacking the point of his hind knee against an outcropping. Not quite a vertical cliff and eyesight too poor … finding control with his tautly angled wings, he swooped away from danger, pummelled by the merciless wind.

Breathe. Live. Check on the hatchling. You’re safe now, little fire. Wings and paws alright?

A tiny, hot tongue licked the crook of his neck. Nice Dragon.

He chuckled soothingly. Let’s go see that your sire’s alright. I think the lightning struck a metal vein in the rock face just as he was landing. The blast knocked you loose – aye, there he is. Your dam’s looking down at us.

Big brother Dragon?

Gemira’s light blue paw hovered protectively behind the royal of T’nagru as Blitz executed his second landing within a minute. Opening his paw, he let the hatchling dash over to her dam. The two crooned and necked in the draconic way, snatching him into a scent memory of his own dam’s affections in the years before she started brooding over her second egg. Then, she had begun to snap at him when he approached, warning him off.

Those happy early years had been fleeting.

Blitz, how can we ever thank you enough? the Dragoness fluted.

Just fortunate I was in the right place and forewarned – thanks to you, Princess, he said gruffly. Talonfire, are you alright?

Dazed, the crimson male replied, shaking his head slowly. The blast caught me right in the neck. Sorry – thank you, Blitz. I would not have thought – without a scale’s thickness of doubt, your quick paw saved our Sapphira’s life. We are forever grateful.

He would not have thought? Blitz would not have thought, either. He did not entirely appreciate the smooth cover-up. Shaking his head slowly, he shivered to help the violent battle readiness abate. Logic was so overrated at moments like this. Yet the Princess’ incessant digging in the scrolls had been rewarded in that instant by a near-perfect run down the cliff, which had kept him and the hatchling alive. He would tell her so later.

Sapphira hurt her wing, he purred, stroking the hatchling with a gentle wingtip gesture. Please have her see a healer.

The parents nodded dutifully. As he spoke, a flurry of stinging sleet came lashing in on the gale. He reached for the Princess, but Gemira was already ushering her away from the cliff edge with a kind word. Instead, he lent a helping paw to Talonfire as he limped inside the lair.

Chapter 11: Dragon Meal

THE GREAT, SANDY ENTRY cavern with its massive age-carved columns and spectacular overhead stalactites, all glittering greens and blues, was full of Devastators of every hue cheerfully greeting each other, right until a Human walked in. One second they were welcoming one another with shoulder bumps and mock nips for Clan of the same gender, and wingtip caresses between females and males. The next? A stunned silence, in which a Princess’ delighted comment rang clear to the back of the cavern:

“Oh Blitz, it’s lovely in here. And so warm!”

Fifty Dragons and Dragonesses goggling at a person was enough give any sane Human pause. Azania was indeed sane. Good to discover this fact. Contrarily normal, in his contrarian opinion. However, one particular Dragon wished in that second that the sandy floor could have opened to gobble him up and swallow him without a trace, but he also knew this opportunity must not be wasted. Not even if his nostrils were yelling stridently at his stomach as he caught the scent of charred, Dragonroot pepper-basted mutton roasting in the kitchens a couple of caverns over. By his wings, the feast smelled amazing!

Summoning his courage, he called, Honoured granddam Furina, Talonfire and Gemira’s hatchling Sapphira needs your help urgently, please.

Wing-thanks to you, brother, Talonfire said hoarsely behind him.

Always. Next, Blitz set his stance and arched a wing above and behind Princess Azania. He boomed, Honoured Dragons of the Devastator Clan, I present to you the plunder of my right paw, by hearts’ fire and talon my own possession, her Royal Highness the Princess Azania N’gala of the Kingdom of T’nagru, the only daughter of King N’gala N’gala. She is called the Black Rose of the Desert.

He was quite sure the dark eyes of his so-called possession must have flashed with suppressed fury as she made a deep formal obeisance to the assembled Dragons, a desert n’gandura-naa, in which she raised her right hand to shield her eyes before dipping from the knees and supple waist much as a heron’s neck bent over water, with superb grace. Yet within, the roiling scents of her back-tinted emotions proclaimed outrage. Perhaps he ought to have warned her, but then, her reaction would have been less genuine.

Rising, she said in accented Draconian, May the magnificence of the suns fire your hearts, o noble Dragons, and your paws ever trample the enemy before you.

Another Dragon might have popped with pride, but Blitz managed to maintain a suitable air of decorum – only just. Not so much the younger Dragons. They murmured amongst themselves, wondering at the ancient form of greeting. She must have picked it up from a scroll somewhere and practised many times. Even he did not know the appropriate response.

Pausing before them, the aged yellow Dragoness Furina purred, May the fury of Taramis ever blaze from your eyes and ignite the glorious deeds of your hands, o most radiant Princess of T’nagru. Be welcome among the Devastator Dragons, the greatest Clan of the Tamarine Mountains.

The greatest! every Dragon repeated by rote.

Only he saw the clenching of her fist behind her back as the girl steadied herself. Mine the honour be, o … mighty Furina.

The Dragoness inclined her muzzle regally and moved on to take Sapphira in paw, leaving him more than startled. Unexpectedly formal, the elder had set the tone for the Dragons’ dealings with the Princess. He did not understand exactly how. Did she recall the days when kidnappings had been rife? Her archaic manners struck a modern Dragon as stilted, yet gracious in heart and not at all condescending. It now behoved the Clan to follow her example, despite that she was not the declared Clan leader.

An unshakable age hierarchy amongst Dragons, venerated the elders of their community. His sire, Blaze the Devastator, was in the old parlance the dominant male, while younger Dragons called him the alpha. Some Dragon Clans still staged formal fights for leadership, but among Devastators this position was an honour conferred or confirmed every five years by all elders over the age of seventy years, by a vote of paws.

When he had described this system to the Princess during the flight north, she had nearly fallen off his paw. “Voting? What kind of a system of rule is that?”

“A draconic one,” Blitz replied sardonically.

She made a face. “So, you believe you get the best rulers this way?”

“Oh, no. Sometimes it’s a popularity contest. Sometimes we get a great ruler, other times a tyrant. You never know what the scent of power will do to a Dragon.”

“What’s the point, then?”

“Well, you Humans have authority systems where authority is inherited by bloodline, no matter one’s merits or lack thereof.” She spat a pithy word that might have referred to her own father at this point. “Among Dragons at least, we believe that any Dragon or Dragoness can aspire to leadership, and by great deeds, wisdom and integrity, achieve this goal. Dragons are cunning and elections can be influenced in myriad ways. Let’s just agree that both systems are flawed, shall we?”

“Agree with you? This must be a first.”

Stepping up to her side, Blitz courteously offered the Princess his upturned right paw. This was a symbolic gesture they had discovered in the records, and agreed to use – yet it was with a visible quiver that she laid her left hand upon his fore talon and together, they walked amidst the Dragons toward his sire.

Imagine being the only Human in a congregation of Dragons? She acted serene, chin raised and pose regal, but inside … browns and dark greens of alarm sparked from her thrashing heart.

If ever a Human must have felt edible, now was the time.

Blaze was a stolid yet striking flame-orange Dragon of middle years, while his dam Indigofire was an unusual shade of red which often looked more purple or indigo, especially by lamplight. She was still a sleek, handsome female, except that her expression was as hard as a diamond, and about as welcoming. Squaring his shoulders, he told himself he would not grovel before them as before – not literally, but in his thoughts and behaviours. Bigger by ten feet in length than his large father, and standing three feet taller, he need stoop before no Dragon. Respect. Honour. Loyalty. By the honour of his wings, he must absolutely not let anything they did or said get under his skin.

He would be a river stone. Let it all wash over him.

“Blitz, my eldest son!” his father rumbled, making sure he could be heard all over the cavern. “Today, you have become a true Dragon! How well the revival of this ancient practice suits you.”

Bite the tongue. Bite – the – tongue!

He would never curse the father of his egg over his snide insults, but he both heard and scented every Dragon in the cavern react as the unsubtle implications washed darkly over their senses. Twenty years old and only now being declared a true Dragon? What a rebuke!

“O Princess of T’nagru, I am Blaze the Devastator, leader of the greatest Dragon Clan in the Tamarine Mountains. Be welcome in my caverns! May you bring the Dragonkind much honour, the attentions of many knights and slayers whose bones shall litter the slopes of our peaks, and of course, wealth according to every report of your great beauty, which reputation justly goes before you – BRAA-HAA-HAA!”

The Princess stiffened. He held her gallantly. Indeed, it was that grip alone that kept her upon her feet as, to his surprise, his sire shoulder-butted him as equals might.

First time for everything. Bite holes in the tongue.

Blitz kept his posture tall but lowered his head graciously to nuzzle his mother’s cheek, every inch the obedient son, and he caressed her back with his right wingtip. Flawless formality.

She whispered for his ear canals alone, Congratulations, Blitz. If you think your honour restored, think again. You cannot fool me.

He purred, Dearest mother of my egg, how you shine this day.

Knowing she loved a well-turned compliment.

The glare she turned upon him was positively evil. It shook him to his bones. What? What was this? Jealousy toward the Human Princess? Of course, his mother must think that she had dropped into his paw by convenient delivery at the end of a rainbow, whereupon her stumble-footed fool of a non-fiery son had somehow contrived, by some unimaginable miracle, not to spoil his good fortune in a matter of minutes.

Meantime, the Princess repeated her lithe genuflection for his dam and sire in turn, and complimented them upon the splendour of this gathering, which outshone the cavern in which they stood.

Smooth diplomacy. Blitz found himself scrambling to take mental notes.

Next, he introduced her formally to his brothers and sister, Brand, Brawl and Inferna. All behaved themselves in front of their sire and dam, but Brawl was positively bristling with impatience to let rip with the insults and innuendo, probably during the meal if Blitz knew him at all, while Inferna wanted to talk to a girl. A real girl. The crimson Dragoness soon monopolised the Princess with her chattering.

Burnt-orange Brawl brushed past him with a disrespectful nudge. Still the same fireless brown worm, aren’t you, brother? Nothing’s really changed.

It’s good to see your strength, brother, he said. Keep it neutral. Move on.

Let’s feast! Blaze roared.

He stepped forward to rescue the Princess from the delicate clutches of his verbal waterfall of a sister. The girl touched her brow as if dazed. Aye. Took one parakeet to know another, did it not? They followed the crowd strolling through to the feasting cavern. Fifty quads of paws on the move made the mountain shake; the padding of tiny Human slippers was lost amongst the living earthquake.

“Do you like mutton?” he asked.

“I prefer oryx,” she replied. “I thought I smelled some earlier.”

“Depends how far the raiding parties flew,” he agreed. “I believe some villages in eastern Vanrace farm oryx.”

“It’s a wild country– that whole band northeast of Vanrace isn’t truly ruled by any King, and it’s separated from T’nagru by miles of badlands,” she replied. “A few bandits scratch out a living there. And traders.”

“Aha. Now, please remember that Dragonroot peppers are unsafe for Human consumption. They act similarly on Dragons to how alcohol affects Humans, minus the belligerence and throwing up.” She nodded, saying she had not known that. He added, “So you can expect our gathering to become very merry as the meal drags on, with exceedingly dull speeches and such.”

“Can’t wait. Sounds just like a royal feast back home.”

Her royal feasts had never seen anything like this. Stretching the art of comparison there, Princess, he thought sourly, while pasting a genial expression onto his lips. The Dragons gathered around great brass platters set on pedestals a little taller than the Princess, which were loaded with charred meats, fire-grilled vegetables and piles of the great lime green Dragonroot pepper pods. If a Dragon wanted a drink to cool his fiery throat, there was a small waterfall at the southern end of the cavern, which poured into a pool just a couple of Dragon paces across. Great flaming braziers functioned as lighting, pouring smoke up to the roof of the cavern, but it all cleared away through a clever ventilation system. The golden light flickered most pleasingly off the gold and copper flecks in the rock faces and roof of the cavern.

Now, how could they do this? Blitz cast about for a chivalrous way of not placing the Human Princess on a platter. Some fool might mistake her for a snack.

Occupational hazard for Dragons.

Although, he had to admit, the temptation had at times been severe.

Gemira paced up to his side, walking with that attractive fluidity of a younger Dragoness. “Princess, why don’t you join my hatchlings at a smaller platter? I appreciate it isn’t a seat of honour, but I don’t believe Blaze has made provision for a Human – in fact, I believe you may be the very first Human to grace our hall in the history of the Devastator Clan. If this arrangement is not beneath your dignity …”

“I am too hungry to fuss over protocol,” she admitted. “Lead on, Gemira. Thank you.”

The Princess did appear to become slightly queasy as the hungry Dragons dug in with a vengeance, slicing portions off the whole grilled sheep with their talons and smacking their lips in proper appreciation of the delicacies. There was a great deal of rambunctious talk and the usual tossing of choice portions to one another, to be snapped up out of the air. A miss led to teasing and booming laughter. As they strolled over to where the smaller, lower platters had been set for the hatchlings and fledglings, Blaze led out with a ripping belch that rolled off the ceiling with a touch of thunder, making her start visibly.

“Appreciation,” Blitz grinned toothily at his guest. “It’s cultural.”

“I couldn’t.”

“You will have to. It is most unseemly not to appreciate the fare.”

“You’re going to make me, aren’t you?”

He gave her his best ‘call me Dragon’ smile. The one he would never in a thousand years admit to having worked on in the mirror in his sleeping chamber.

The hatchlings were more than happy to have a royal guest at their platters. None of them had ever seen a Human up close before, so she was a great curiosity. She had to explain about her non-scaly skin, her hair, her lack of fangs or fire, and her possession of an actual brain and intelligence. Azania told them stories about the great desert sandstorms – obsidian in the south and west, and blood-red in the aptly-named Blood Desert to the east of the Kingdom of T’nagru. That area was a favourite with Dragons, full of hot springs and tasty oryx.

To his amusement, there were at least as many ways of wearing Human hair as Dragons had to polish their scales and fangs, which made sense. The Princess was just explaining to Gemira how she had to submit weekly to having her curly black hair flattened with hot irons in order to give her a smooth, sleek look in keeping with acceptable fashion of the lighter-skinned Human kingdoms.

“One cannot attract a suitable Prince to mate without the right hair?” he blurted out.

The Princess said ruefully, “There is such a thing as being too black, Blitz. I must rouge my cheeks, straighten my hair, use colours I would never choose to beautify my eyes, and act in a demure and reserved way.”

“Frankly, Princess, those men you’ve been courting sound like a flock of stupid sheep. Let me guess. Wearing your hair natural – these crazy, rebellious curls I see escaping from your braid here – would not only bring down the wrath of your father, but ruin your prospects of marriage? Do your kind not wear their hair in the way it grows?”

“Aye, and any such style is referred to as ‘peasant bush’ or ‘farm girl frizz,’ both of which carry connotations of lesser intelligence, ugliness and promiscuity.”

“Ouch.”

Like a Dragon wished for anything but common, mud-brown scales. Lowest of the low in terms of desirable colouration. Little Sapphira was a beauty, he thought, noting the hatchling arriving shyly at the feast in the company of Furina. Her wing was firmly fixed in a wing splint. She gave him a tentative smile filled with needle-sharp fangs; he smiled encouragingly and gestured with his wingtip that she should join them.

The adults’ party grew raucous. Several of the elders made speeches about the high points of the Devastator Clan’s history, including their successful involvement in ejecting the Skartunese troops from the Tamarine Mountains. Chewing meditatively upon a pepper – he partook sparingly of the Dragonroot because it always gave him a vile stomachache afterward – Blitz enquired of the Princess whether she knew what had become of those captive Dragons, as the retreat had taken the Skartun back through Vanrace and T’nagru.

She said, “That all happened before I was born, Dragon, but it was said they had ways of controlling and forcing Dragons to work for their army as slaves.”

“None of our kind would ever submit to such treatment.”

“I’m only reporting what I read. They were supposed to have secret ways of subjugating Dragons, which was what they were doing in these mountains in the first place – they are slavers, Blitz, who built brutal martial culture on the blood and backs of their slaves. Thank the stars the Skartun retreated back over the Obsidian Desert and have never been seen again.”

Bending her muzzle between them, Furina breathed, “There are rumours, Princess. Rumours that greedy eyes look north, seeking fresh slaves.”

Azania shuddered. “Please, no.”

“We’re being summoned to the head bowl,” Blitz said.

“Best paw forward, Dragon.”

Brawl greeted him with, “Ah, it’s the coolest Dragon in the land!”

“Enough, Brawl,” his sire snarled, yet his smile was jovial. A great deal of Dragonroot pepper would be the underlying reason. He slurred, “So, my first son, do tell us all about your glorious adventures in the south. How came you to acquire such a valuable Princess?”

“Plucked her from the sky?” Brand chortled.

“Scared her off her horse?” Inferna giggled. “Wooed her with a picture?”

“My son is a Devastator!” his father announced to the room at large. “Never done a day’s devastating in his life, but there we go – all that has changed now, not so? Tell me your tale of Dragonish derring-do. Make it good …”

Blitz the Fritz, his sister hissed. She was always silly on the Dragonroot.

Silly and cruel.

Masking his emotions with care, Blitz raised the Princess upon his right paw, bringing her up to the level of the Dragons. She crossed her legs and smiled prettily at them, like a Dragoness preening before an adoring audience. By his egg, she had far better command of this situation than he. No Dragon wanted to feel an inch tall, but this was merely the icicle’s tip of years of family teasing. Here, he was a fledgling all over again, his scales heating up with shame – but never enough – as the fiery eyes turned upon him. A dull roaring filled his ears.

He said, “A few weeks back, I flew down to the Kingdom of Vanrace in search of a little light pillaging –”

Laughter. Roars of laughter.

“You, Blitz? Be serious, son,” his sire chortled. “You’re the gentlest Dragon I know. You’ve never pillaged so much as sheep in your entire life.”

“Well, I – I was resting on the roof of the castle –”

“Translation: He was down in the moat, blending in with the mud as only Blitz can,” Brawl sneered, drawing the desired round of guffaws.

His left paw clenched into a fist beneath the level of the bowl. Ignore them. Forge on. “I was on the roof, as I said – it was – uh, evening, and I heard this noise below. Inside the tower.”

“Which castle was this?” his dam put in.

“The big one. The one in the centre of Vanrace – King Tyloric’s own fortress.”

Cruel laughter beat against his ears. Jeers and incredulous questions rained in. He tried to explain where it was, what he had been doing there, when the Princess stood upon his palm and tried to corroborate his story. He hissed at her to be silent. How shameful to have a female, and a Human female at that, speak for him, as Brawl made sure to clarify for everyone.

She bit her lip just as he did; her fury washed white upon his Dragon senses. Even that much was pure humiliation. He could not summon so much as a spark of rage. She burned bright. The old despair curled about his gut and innards, squeezing like talons of ice.

Worthless worm. Fireless, smokeless excuse for a Dragon!

Appalled, he roared, “I stole the Princess of T’nagru from the highest tower in the land – I swear it by my father’s own egg!”

Silence. The strong oath silenced them.

He growled, “Let all of fiery hearts hear my truth ring forth. King Tyloric had abducted the Princess a month before. He locked and chained her first in his dungeon and then in his highest tower, yet his heart never lusted over the gold her ransom might bring. Instead, this King determined to degrade the Princess by forcing her to marry his son Prince Floric. So aye, sickened in every heart by the stench of such degradation, I broke her out of that tower room. I destroyed the tower and part of Tyloric’s castle as I made my escape with the Princess in paw, killing many of his men along the way.”

“You may be many things, Blitz, but you have never before lied openly to your Clan,” his dam murmured, but many Dragons heard her.

What could have passed for support, from her lips twisted into the vilest of accusations, snatching the very breath from his lungs.

Azania cried, “It’s the truth! Why will none of you listen to him?”

At her words, something visceral snapped deep within his chest.

Turning very slowly to his dam, Blitz heard himself in a taut, terrible undertone, “I swore upon my sire’s egg. You may fly to Vanrace to see the damage with your own eyes, mother. Or, tell me, what manner of curst fires burn in your Dragoness hearts?”

He snapped his jaw shut with a loud clack. Too late.

Chapter 12: Family Feud

THE THUNDERING THAT RATTLED the chamber until dust and pebbles rained from the ceiling was as nothing which had come before. His despicable accusation moved the Dragons to a righteous fury. No creature of true fires spoke to his dam in such a tone. Never. She could censure him in any way that she liked. He could not dare the same.

Dazed, Blitz cast about in confusion. The Princess had vanished off his palm. His dam sprang over the bowl in a spitting rage that struck his senses with feelings both intense and brutally dark, but he ducked and somehow managed to bounce her off with the sharp arching action of his back, sending her flying into a knot of relatives gathered in stupefied silence at the next food bowl behind. The fire of Brand’s attack bathed his left flank, but he ignored his brother. Nothing else mattered. Would they murder her?

His aching eyes focussed on the thief.

“Brawl! Put her down!”

His smaller brother dangled the Princess teasingly, holding her dress behind her neck with pinched talons. “Since you have no heart fires, brother, your vow of possession means nothing. This creature is mine, now, and I shall claim her ransom for my –”

He saw a colour like an unbearably brilliant silver. Swinging his right fist in a brutal arc, Blitz thundered a blow into the lower side of Brawl’s jaw, just beneath the near eye. Perfect connection. His brother dropped like a stone, but when his intended prize fell too, it was a desperately awkward landing. Her right foot caved beneath her.

The Princess clutched the spot, her face twisted in agony.

ENOUGH!!

Blaze the Devastator’s thunder shook them all.

His lowered right shoulder rebuffed his mate’s return assault upon her son. I WILL SPEAK!

The Dragoness recovered with ill grace and prowled around behind him, letting the fires of her wrath and humiliation leak between her fangs. Clear enough.

Blitz lowered his paw for the Princess. She mouthed a ‘sorry,’ and then gazed at her leg in surprise. It hinged below the knee where no joint was ever meant to be. Was it even possible for a dark-skinned person to look so pale?

More work for Furina.

Drawing a deep breath, his sire said, Furina, please see to our guest. “Princess Azania, my five hearts shiver that you ever had to witness such shameful behaviour between family, beneath my own mountain, no less.” Dragons, I have failed as your leader.

Now, the silence became as a terrible beast lurking in the corners; even the massed breathing of the Dragons beneath the mountain, unbearable. Indigofire halted her pacing, coming up behind her mate with a soft query that he did not reply to, for with a loud groan, Brawl opened his eyes.

What … hit me?

On another occasion, the timing might have been comical. When no Dragon replied, he whined. But I … Blitz, you … how dare he hit me?

Rounding upon him, Blaze snarled savagely, If you know what’s good for you, Brawl, you will not utter another word. His son’s jaw snapped shut like a sprung trap. Council. Meet with me. Blitz. Attend to our guest’s injury. Do not leave this mountain until I have delivered the word of my judgment.

I shall not, Father. He bowed his head in contrition.

In all his sordid history of chewing upon the idiocy of his own paws, he had never, ever done anything as bad as this. Not even close.

* * * *

Cooling off. In the context of what had just passed inside the mountain, the irony was not lost upon him. He stood in the whirling snow, gazing into a nothingness of stormy darkness. The wind’s sobbing moaned around the portals of his soul, matching the dirge within. Trying to feel … something. Yet he did not. All he knew was a numb, cavernous grief as great as the drop out there. Just over the edge of the cliff, a mere half-step from where he lurked.

No-one had ever meant for it to go this far.

What had the flash of his hatred led to? Only the desolation of knowing how deeply and soberly this Dragon had just considered throwing himself over the edge and never opening his wings. Welcoming the crushing impact of skull against rock somewhere far below.

Better that he had never been born. Better that his dam had never known the psychological and emotional suffering a fireless son had brought her.

It was all his fault.

He could not even hold his silence when it mattered most.

Why, even in his extremity, could he not bring himself to blame any of them? Surely he should thunder the injustice to the very skies. Twenty years of merciless cruelty he had endured. Some of his earliest memories were of his dam’s consternation, bitterness and disgust when the extent of his disabilities became clear. Since then, his whole life had been one long, many-clawed struggle to earn their respect. What a sham. A joke. Now, a tragedy.

To think he had hoped having a Princess might change his stars.

He must let her go. She deserved better. He would fly … somewhere. Elsewhere. Someplace where there were no Dragons and no more anguish.

At the awareness of a tread behind him, he stiffened. To his consternation, the Dragon’s footsteps receded, leaving a much lighter step in their wake. He did not move until Princess Azania had walked right up to his side, and then he realised she was leaning heavily upon a stick, trying to keep her leg in its thigh-high cast up out of the gathering snow.

Automatically, he put out his paw to steady her. “I’m sorry.”

Snowflakes salted her hair. Beauty so ephemeral, yet so perfect. What paw had crafted the snowflake, the play of suns in water, the delicate treasure of a petal or the scent of a flower’s heart? What creative genius had framed the delicate rondure of a black Princess’ eyes, like a night sky’s darkness unexpectedly endowed with stars that so eloquently disclosed the beauty within?

He tried to banish such thoughts from his fevered mind.

“No, I’m the one who is sorry, Blitz,” she said. “I goaded you into this. Nothing changed for you, but that I ruined everything. If you want to blame anyone, blame me.”

Shaking his head, he asked tonelessly, “You met the council?”

“Come away from the edge, please. It’s not worth it.”

She knew! Shocked in every scale of his body, he stepped backward, before halting. He rasped, “Why? Nothing you could possibly tell me –”

“My mother took her own life.”

Except that.

Blitz lowered his muzzle toward the mite clasped in his paw. Gently, he touched foreheads with her, and then the grief welled up in a haunting, throbbing lament unlike anything he had ever heard rip from his throat before. This was a Dragon literally crying his fifth heart out. Spilling all his humiliation and pain, loneliness and disappointment before another creature; she spread her arms, and held him with a tiny Human hug, but nothing in the world could have impacted him more just then. She did not say anything stupid like, ‘Everything will work out, you’ll see,’ or, ‘You never know what the future might hold,’ or any of the ridiculous platitudes the stories always had Humans telling one other.

She knew it was not alright. It never could be. Knowing he was hurting, she held him.

He was defeated, yet she bore him up on a soul’s wings.

After a time, he whispered, “I’m so sorry about your mother, Azania.”

“I’m sorry about yours, Blitz.”

An inexplicable heaviness lifted off his wings, his hearts, even his tail. In that moment, he knew he could place one paw in front of the next, and walk away from the edge. He would live.

He had faced the worst, the darkness of a soul born without its gift of fire. Nothing they could do or say could be worse than this place he had been.

“You must be cold, Princess. Let’s go inside.”

She touched the plaster cast. “I’m not sure Human healers know this technique. We should share it with my kind.”

“Good idea.” Heavier, wetter snowflakes twirled out of the sky now, but they would not stick much until the wind eased. Snow, even in the springtime, was not unusual at this altitude.

As he carried her toward the warmth and safety of the cavern, she said, “Talonfire and Gemira argued eloquently for you. I told the tale – some of our tale – of what we accomplished, and how you hope to learn more about fighting from Juggernaut. At least they heard the truth, this time. What they will believe or decide –”

“You stuck up for me. I’ll never forget that.”

“I tipped you over … the edge,” she finished tightly.

Almost. He shuddered.

Hot, dry air tingled his nostrils in the entryway. He said, “At first I was angry. Angrier than I’ve ever been in my life. I saw your intervention as shameful – yet I did not have the courage to speak for myself. Not … fluently, like you. I was bent on making a mess of everything as usual. Then, I realised why I did not speak up – why I never have. Because it’s easier not to.”

“That was easier?”

How articulate the disbelief, the outrage in her voice! Yet, how could he communicate what was in his hearts? “Easier to act the coward, aye. Far easier.”

“Blitz! No. Now, you listen to me.” Struggling around in his paw, she wagged a finger up toward his nose. “A coward is the very last thing you are. Cowardice did not speed you after little Sapphira. That – that Dragon – is a creature of uncontainable nobility, and I am not talking about the stuff of birth and heritage, here –”

“It’s time.”

They both looked up as Talonfire walked across the cavern toward them. His measured paces were poorly coordinated, his left wing drooping from the standard Dragon posture. Had the lightning struck him directly? How unusual.

The Princess hissed, “We need to talk. Later.”

Holding his forepaw as a moving seat for her, Blitz carried the Princess into the inner cavern where they had been feasting and laughing – and being family, with all the warmth and rancour that meant – but an hour before. Only an hour? Perhaps it was so. He tasted upon his tongue and breathed deep of the scents of this lair he had known from his hatchling years. So many scent memories. So much love and loss, unpleasantness and hope; those tiny tottering paws turned into huge, blundering ones. This had never been a comfortable place for him. Never home, apart from those early years when his calamitous condition had not yet become clear.

Crimson fire, born of Ignis, made so much of what a Dragon was. Yet, was this him?

Did fire define who he was?

Despite his three-legged walk, the nature of a Dragon’s gait could make it smooth, with only a minimal hop. The Princess clutched her rough stick to her chest. Her knuckles whitened as she beheld and sensed the grave air of the Dragons within the cavern. Blaze the Devastator stood upon a black onyx plinth which long ago had been made for occasions of formal Dragon governance, with the elders and Indigofire arranged beside him, a full Dragon’s shoulder-height below. The rest of the Devastator Clan, from the oldest to the youngest, had gathered around. There were greens and a couple of blues, but the majority of the Dragons had colourations in the hot end of the spectrum. Although brown was common among the other Clans, Blitz saw now that there were only two others of his dark, earthy colouration amongst this number.

His gaze rose to his sire, his pose upon that rock, majestic. Yet his eyes did not flame with the old crimson that he knew so well. The gaze that had assessed, judged and dismissed a fireless Dragon. They were tinted blue with grief – and from that alone, he knew what the decision must be.

Dragon law was sacrosanct.

He halted amidst the congregation of Dragons, his five hearts pounding in a mad, jumbled cadence of pure fear. A familiar sharp pain dug in below his lower ribs, arising beneath the powerful keel bone that supported his massive wing musculature. His stomachs churned with nausea. Here it came.

In rolling tones, Blaze announced, Blitz, this is the unanimous decision of the council of Dragons. We all heard you curse the womb from which you were born. Dragon law is clear in such a case. You must be banished. Yet, the law is less clear about what came before. Upon this occasion, a Dragon finds himself weighing the import of that undeniable law which you spurned by cursing the sacred womb of the Dragoness. This act is anathema to any Dragon of true fires, and I see in your eyes, scent in your hearts, and read in the truth expressed of your magic, that you fully understand what you have done.

Furthermore, it is also anathema for the congregation of Dragons to despise, dismiss and torment one of our own kind over a period spanning many years. Even today, your mighty paw saved a hatchling from certain death. No act of heroism could more clearly capture the fiery honour of a true Dragon.

Terrible of gaze, his eyes raked the assembled Dragons, and there was not one who dared to meet the blazing fury he displayed. Yellow flames licked from his lips as he growled, In our mistreatment of you, we are ALL guilty. Every Dragon is to blame. And I, as your leader, must shoulder the Dragon’s share of the blame. I let this undraconic persecution flourish right under my own nose, even revelling in the abuse of the son I sired! No behaviour could be less draconic, and the shame is scorched upon our hearts forever.

To Blitz’s shock, every Dragon bowed their muzzle to him. Even his father.

He could not … believe. What was this? He had trampled all over a sacred law, and they were apologising? A numbness dislocated his paws from his brain.

Blitz, the will of the Clan is that you be cast out from our congregation, and that the name of Devastator be stripped from you, with all title, inheritance and family bond that signifies. You are no longer a Devastator. You will seal up your lair and depart our territory forthwith. No Devastator will speak to you or acknowledge your presence. However, you may find refuge with other Clans if you wish, according to the unbreakable laws that bind all Dragonkind.

There was no breath left in him. No thought, but that he must square up his shoulders, look his sire in the eye, and say, Father, I –

You are no longer my son!

His outcry was a crack of thunder.

Blitz squeezed his eyes shut against the agony. I receive your word.

I have not finished speaking. Sucking in a ragged breath, Blaze added, In addition, it is my determination as the leader of this Dragon Clan, and the unanimous decision of our council, that you shall be banished for a period not exceeding three years and three days. During this period of separation, I command all Devastator Dragons to reflect long and well upon the transgressions committed here today. You, o Dragon of no name, must fly forth in a quest to find your true fires. Well is it said, that every Dragon is fire, and fire is the Dragon. You are not exempt from this natural law. YOU ARE DRAGON!

Steady on the paws, Dragon. What … what was going on here? Through the thundering in his ears, he heard the judgment rolling on: After the period of banishment, we Devastators shall welcome you back, if you will have us. You will be a Dragon without history, without name and without blemish. None shall speak for or against you save for reason of the honour that I, Blaze the Devastator, attest to and swear by my own sire’s egg, permeates your every Dragon heart. By your deeds shall a true reckoning be made.

Mercy? After cutting off his own son from all Clan alliances and banishing him, he offered a path of mercy? His eyes snapped open. His sire gazed upon him with a shocking blaze of love.

Love!

Three years, and he could return? He had never heard of such a law. Being Blitz, he had read it all, every last line. It couldn’t be … Blaze inclined his head, inviting him to speak.

Lowering himself upon the elbow of his forepaw which held the Princess, he heard himself say, I humbly accept your word, mighty Blaze. I am no longer Blitz the Devastator. Nor am I Blitz, son of this lair. Call me … call me Dragon. For that is all I am.

His dam’s expression was stone, and her eyes a blaze of dusky resentment. Nothing was forgiven. He knew that his father acted against her wishes.

Somehow, the realisation gave him new strength.

Blaze thundered, FLY, DRAGON! FLY!

* * * *

Cupping the Princess protectively to his breast, Dragon hurled himself away into the last buffeting storm winds. Thick snowflakes kissed his nose and scales, each weightless, yet somehow substantial. How could a sane Dragon dare to fly in a sky where visibility was less than two hundred feet? Even so, he could not stand to wait any longer. Stretching out his great wings, he powered toward a home that was no longer his home. Not for three years. How would he leave his sanctuary? The place he always retreated to re-centre himself, find his balance … aye, and lick his wounds; where he could be alone with his woes.

The wind rippled beneath his wings, buoying them along in that first great swoop away from the mountain. Already, she shivered uncontrollably. He clasped the Princess between both paws to better protect her tiny, fireless form. The wind chill must bite her brutally.

No word of complaint did she make. Indeed, for two hours, neither spoke.

Blitz – he repudiated the name quietly, call me Dragon – brought them to safe landing in the entrance of his lair. He carried the Princess through and settled her beside the fire with care for her broken leg. “Food? Water?”

Where had the day vanished? Failure had a way of eating up time.

“First a fire, please, Bl – Dragon. I’m an icicle. Never been so cold in my life. Then, I’ll have a nibble.”

“Coming right up.”

“Could you repeat what your sire said? Some of the Draconian was beyond me.”

“Me too.”

He bustled about in all his familiar routines, setting and sparking a fire, blowing on it to make the dry wood catch. He passed the Princess the last hunk of a rough barley loaf she had tried to bake, and a goblet of fresh water.

He whispered, “Blanket? Comfortable?”

“Thank you.”

The day had wrung all words out of them. If he was not mistaken, she was as pensive as he, her heart full of reflections and regrets. Her eyes had the dullness of a haunted soul, as if the spark of life had somehow been quarried out, misplaced, left to be kindled another day.

On an impulse, he added, “Princess, would you do me a favour?”

“Anything.” Even her smile was faulty.

“Would you loosen your hair from its braids? I would see it … free. In its natural state. Breezy.”

“Freezy,” she quipped. “I’m surprised it hasn’t frozen and snapped right off.”

Returning with the blanket, he judged her expression painted this Dragon a very peculiar creature indeed. He did not know why he had asked this, but he did have a tiny silver hair brush in paw. It must once have belonged to another Princess. He handed over the brush with sober mien, before spreading the teal blanket over her lap. The girl worked steadily at her unruly curls while he repeated and translated for her as best he could, everything he remembered of his father’s verdict.

She said, “So, we’re free to fly up to Juggernaut the Grinder’s lair next week, since that’s in another Clan’s territory?”

“Ah – no. I will take you back to your Kingdom first.”

The Princess went very, very quiet. After a long time, she crooked her forefinger at him. “Come here so that I can hit you.”

He pretended to quail, but curved his body around her back, concentrating the heat radiating from the fireplace upon her spot. “Like this?”

“I see that the words ‘you’re stuck with me’ clearly need to be slapped into your brain, Dragon. I repeat, I am here and I am staying. My work is not finished.” She sounded more saddened than frustrated. “I have nothing to go back to; indeed, I refuse to go back. So, you stubborn reptile, you can just shove that up your left nostril and –”

“Refusing a Dragon is a dangerous business.”

“Yet, I am.” Leaning back against him, she sighed deeply. “Rough day.”

“Why?”

Taking his paw in her tiny hands, she drew it across her legs. “Are you truly as daft as you sound, Dragon? Because this is what friends do.”

Chapter 13: This Way

BEFORE FLYING UP TO Juggernaut’s combat training centre, at her suggestion, Dragon and Princess flew back to the long valley which they had first negotiated on the way up from Vanrace. The maps in his library showed that the far eastern slope of this valley, and all the mountainous territory eastward thereafter until the vast grassy plains of the Umber Steppes, was not claimed by any Clan. One hundred years before, wild Dragons had made modest lairs here, but since the hunting was poor, the organised Dragon Clans had left the area alone. If they could find a suitable cave or abandoned lair, they might have a place to call their own.

The wild Princess and the outcast Dragon.

It took them four days, but eventually they found a narrow crack at the end of a narrow, fantastically meandering valley, concealed behind a waterfall, that led to a Dragon lair which had the air of decades of neglect. Two whole caves. The space was dry and very warm, courtesy of a boiling hot spring that bubbled up at the back, but would need a touch of tidying. A black panther had once made her home here before curling up in a back corner to die. The discovery of the skeleton certainly woke the Princess up with a stifled scream that brought him to her side at a thumping, flustered run.

“Ooh, our first bit of home decoration,” he purred.

“I’d kick you if I could use this foot. She had nice fangs, though.”

“I’ll show you fangs! Ah, you wretch. Walked right into your trap – alright, you can stop chortling already.”

Azania’s sharp eyes spotted the entrance to a third cavern right up at the top back of the inner chamber, one hundred and fifty feet off the ground level. Dragon climbed up and found a cave which had once been bolted and padlocked shut, with a strong metal door. No hoard, of course. Nothing but dust piled on top of rotted shelves. Still, he could transport his paintings here, and have a hiding place which was extremely unlikely to be disturbed.

That evening, as they settled into their new, decidedly basic accommodation, the Princess sat carving and picking at a piece of driftwood she had picked up the previous day.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Making a sign. Don’t look.”

“What are you up to, you rascal? Can I get you something for your leg?”

“More of those painkilling herbs would help,” the Princess admitted. “I was trying to distract myself by working on this.”

“What’s distracting is your hair.”

“Uh … why?”

Taut, her voice; dark blues and browns coloured her emotions as she braced herself for the hurt that was farthest from his intent.

Gently, he said, “Because of the way these sable curls frame your face. I see at last what males of your species must find attractive about you – one aspect of your attractiveness, I mean. This hair acts like the border of a masterpiece.” He indicated the wealth of her curls. “It softens, frames and highlights the characteristics of your dark eyes, and your high, slanted cheekbones. Herein, I see the very apex of feminine mystery expressed.”

It was not often he could reduce her to wordless silence.

Her slim fingers wound into the curls that clustered with such bouffant joy around her face. Moisture glinted in the corners of her eyes.

“You can’t mean that.”

“You can’t say ‘can’t’ to a Dragon, especially not one who is being as thoroughly annoying as me. It just doesn’t work.” He grinned, trying to sneak a peek at her wood carving. Wise to his tricks, she pressed it flat upon her lap. “Very well, allow me to pontificate further. I am speaking as an artist. All my life, I have had to look very closely to see the beauty in things. My hearts have always responded to beauty, and in nature, there is an endless bounty to gladden the soul. Here, in you –” he indicated her heart “– this Dragon has found such a bounty. A treasure hoard worthy of the name.”

She gulped hugely, moved by unknowable emotions. “Don’t … oh, Dragon. Why – why did you ask me to loosen my hair, the other day? I don’t understand.”

“I’ll admit, that was for both of us. First of all, you told me about its significance for you as a Human woman of dark skin colouration, but also – and this is what I did not understand until just now – it was my seeking to find a way to express that I feel … lighter.”

“How’s that?”

“All that happened at my parents’ cave has lifted a great burden off me. I – I wish I knew …”

He shrugged, lying down behind her again so that she could rest against his flank. That leg was troubling her. Should he take her to see a healer? Curving his head around beyond her outstretched leg, he rested his jaw upon the sandy ground, deep in thought.

“The lightness of freedom,” she realised aloud.

Once again, she named the very feeling he had been chasing for days, now. “Aye, tingle my wings! You’re brilliant! This is freedom, my sire’s gift to me – do you understand? That was what he was doing. My life, until now, has been all about how others see me, and my desperate need to please them. My sire – oh, Azania!” Words tumbled over one another, as if conversely trapped by their own drive for release. “He is far more perceptive than ever I imagined! He wanted to free me … from everything. The past. Others’ expectations. My …enslavement to who I am, to this disability. You see, I don’t actually know who I am. I’ve never known! I was always the Dragon with no fire, the claw-tip of every joke, the smoke of their derision, and I –”

“Dragon! Come out and fight!”

They gasped identically and exchanged wondering glances. Had they been followed? Clearing his throat, Dragon boomed, “Who’s there?”

“I, Sir Reginac of Vanrace, Knight of the Realm, hereby challenge you to a duel of honour, Dragon.”

“Sounds young,” the Princess commented, her eyebrows dancing. “Handsome?”

“From Vanrace? Blergh.”

“Could not agree more. Nonetheless, this being your first knight and all, we should play the game properly. Attend.” Raising her voice in turn, she cried, “Oh Sir Reginac, how timely thy advent, come to save a poor Princess from yon beastly draconic fiend!”

“Beastly fiend?” he hissed. He’d beastly her kneecaps for that line!

The girl made a shushing gesture.

“Princess Azania!” Judging by his amazement, she was not meant to be alive. “I swear upon my honour as a knight that I shall deal with this ruinous beast, this despoiler of mighty castles – for thy sake, o beauteous maiden, if only you shouldst look favourably upon the daring of this humble knight.”

She rolled her eyes. “Very young. Does the chivalrous rulebook allow you not to slay him?”

“Fools need slaying, in my humble opinion.”

“As a favour to me?”

“How many body parts is this going to cost me?”

Rules being rules, the Dragon emerged from his foul lair unmolested by the gallant knight, who waited a short ways from the waterfall’s plunge pool upon his white destrier. Had this been a professional Dragon slayer or ten – well, no trick was too sleazy for their sort. Spear in the back, net, poison, rockfall … there were many ways to attempt to fell a Dragon. Sir Reginac had turned up in full plate armour together with no less than three squires. Their primary job appeared to be to observe from the sidelines and look stupefied at the Dragon’s dimensions as he emerged from his lair, and then even more stupefied as the Princess limped out using her intended signage as a crutch.

“My sword for thy extravagant beauty, o Black Rose of the Desert!” cried the knight, smacking the blade of his longsword against his oval shield. His emblem was the lion argent upon a field of silver with crossed spears symbolising death to the enemy, if he recalled his heraldry correctly.

“Fight bravely and well, Sir Knight!” called the Princess.

The squires sighed as one.

Whirling his sword above his head with an uncanny lack of either skill or coordination, the knight dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks and charged. The Dragon formerly called Blitz, blinked. That little man in his tin-pot armour thought he could best a Dragon in a straight charge? Mindful of the Princess’ orders, however, he sidestepped with a low growl of not entirely simulated outrage. A modicum of skill would have been less of an insult. He swung his tail in a slow sweep, which the destrier at least was smart enough to leap over. Not so much the knight, who almost lost his seat at the jolt.

Two of the squires cried out in amazement at this manoeuvre.

“The Princess is mine, little knight!” he roared, clawing at the air to give the knight a moment to recover his balance and reseat his helm.

Good one.

“I shall succour this maiden most fair, thou foul, panting fiend of the nethermost hells.”

Fair and foul, foul and fair?

He had not expected to enter a literary contest.

Best dust off his thesaurus of medieval tomfoolery and get started.

He roared, “Through force of arms thou shalt never prevail against the might of the Dragon!”

“Guard thy scaly, fulminating self, thou nefarious draconic scourge!”

Oh, enough nonsense already. The Dragon clashed with the knight, and discovered that he could actually manage to hit a fifty-three foot target. His blade struck sparks off his scales, a glancing blow. Whirling, he went for the bite, but baulked slightly at the last second. Clack! He snapped at the air a foot behind the plate-armoured knight. Princess! By his wings, he was not going into every fight with a handicap like this. They needed to talk, once he finished dealing with this fool. He growled, snarled, raged and thumped his paws about in what he hoped looked like a properly draconic show of rage.

The squires certainly appeared awestricken, when they were not gaping at the Princess with quite the most staggering range of bovine expressions he had ever seen. Morons.

Evidently, the assessments of the Princess’ beauty he had received were right on the mark. Perhaps even shy of it, for these buffoons clearly took her for the incarnation of some goddess.

Four or five passes later, the clever destrier managed to sidestep a clumsy paw swipe and brought his rider into striking range. The sword point pierced his left shoulder. Thundering for real at the pain, he pounded his left fore-talons into the knight’s armoured gut, lifting him clear of his mount. He landed with a loud clatter of metal and tried to rise, but fell back with a terrible yet theatrical-sounding groan.

Dragon raised his hooked forepaw, scenting the victory.

“Nay, o Dragon, I beg thee!” the Princess wailed in piteous entreaty. “Spare thee this noble knight, who fought thee so bravely!”

GRROOAARRGHH!! he disagreed.

“Ah, Princess, I shouldst die but for the touch of thy delicate hand.”

“O most valiant sir, art thou fearfully wounded?”

Where did they get these lines? Seeing from the corner of his eye that the hobbling Princess was not yet close, he bared his fangs and vented another thundering roar – his best yet. One of the squires actually fell over with a bleating curse. Mostly, that roar was to release his battle rage, for the temptation to put a kink in this man’s tin armour was almost unbearable. It would be instructive to see how his juices leaked out of the seams of this ridiculous plating.

“ ’Tis but a scratch, milady.”

So heroic. Dragon nearly retched on the spot.

“Dragon, I beg thee once more, do not eat this good knight.” Her dark eyes pleaded with him to see this game through to its conclusion.

No, not even if he came pre-wrapped in a roasting tin – mwaa-harr-hurgh! He laughed horribly at his own joke, and threatened, “Thou canst but whet the appetite of a starving Dragon, thou mighty knight of Vanrace!”

“Ah, I fear to perish this day,” moaned the knight, clutching his belly wound.

Still hobbling forward, the Princess declaimed, “Thy bravery shall be scribed in every legend – back up, thou spavined, motley beast of ignoble airs. Let this poor knight be whilst I –” she pulled up with a coughing fit. Aye. Wrap a man in that much plate armour and send him running about the mountains, and the result was entirely the wrong sort of salutation to the nostrils. Recovering, the Princess held out a white handkerchief to one of the squires. “Please wet this, that I might most tenderly soothe his noble brow.”

Or, he could just dump the youth in that stream. He began to wonder if the people of Vanrace knew anything about bathing at all. Ghastly cultural mishap.

Although, wrapped in that much metal, he might just sink to the bottom and never rise again. An oceangoing vessel could find him employ as an anchor, which struck him as an entirely reasonable solution to the body odour issue, plus being clean and sanitary. Forever.

He rubbed his paws together, giving the knight and his squires an evil leer that they could not fail to agree, had horrible death written all over it.

One of the squires appeared to have wet his trousers.

Dragon decided this somewhat redeemed what had threatened to turn into a farce everyone was calling victory.

Meantime, the Princess of T’nagru loosened the knight’s helm to reveal a plain but honest face, if his Dragon senses read it right. The squires applied cloths to his middle to slow the bleeding, and unbuckled the stout breastplate. Impressive. His talons had sheared right through the metal. After threatening dire consequences for the knight if his Princess lingered over him, and the Princess having swabbed his fevered brow and entreated the squires to return the knight to Vanrace with all haste and tender care for treatment, they departed bearing their man upon a temporary litter.

The royal artiste waved energetically and managed to squeeze forth a couple of theatrical tears. Despite his dreadful wound – cough splutter – the heroic Sir Reginac did not stop spouting prosaic lines until after they departed from the Dragon’s earshot.

Heroic being a synonym for idiotic.

Nice rhyme.

At least the fellow had a smart horse. That was one factor in his favour. Otherwise, he could not imagine that such prize chumps lived long enough to write any history – or perhaps, the truth was that glorious tales of Dragon slaying were written by even greater fools?

Someone ought to educate them.

Dragon transported his Princess back into the cave, whereupon they both collapsed in a heap, howling with laughter.

Once they had recovered their dignity somewhat, he snippily bade Azania not to try to save the next fool. One must attempt to improve the intelligence quotient of the species, even if it was one village idiot at a time. She demurely suggested that the situation might be irredeemable.

However, the squires had revealed that a much more formidable foe, the celebrated Sir Rumanic, had been discussing raising a force to ride forth seeking redress for the King’s honour. He was credited with no less than nine glorious Dragon slayings. Dragon inquired how leading fifty men-at-arms against a single Dragon fit within the code of chivalry. Azania politely informed him that there were grey areas of fairness and common practice. Sir Rumanic was not known to engage in battles he did not feel he could win, and certainly did not approach any encounter without heavy backup.

One way of staying alive, Dragon approved sarcastically. Ganging up on the foe.

“Must I call you only ‘Dragon?’ ” the Princess inquired.

“My identity crisis being what it is, and considering all the personal agony it entails,” he snorted humorously, “I shouldst be most honoured if the indescribably beauteous Black Rose could find it within her power to so endeavour.”

“The indescribably beauteous Black Rose shouldst rather biff the colossally quibbling quadruped a swift one up the hooter,” she returned, quirking her lips in a manner that had made one of those squires half-swoon.

More hilarity!

“So, what is this sign meant to be?” he inquired finally.

She showed him. It read, ‘This way to the Dragon.’

“This way to – Princess Azania! I am not some … tourist attraction!”

“Not that you’d make a bad one,” said she, pursing her lips. Wingtip tugging tease! “Perhaps that’s one way to make us some money? Sir Reginac will boast till the end of his days about how he fought the biggest, baddest Dragon in the Tamarine Mountains and barely escaped with his life –”

“That scratch I dealt him? Pah.”

“Belly wounds, I should inform you, have a way of going septic.”

“Oh, that’s unfortunate. Well, do make your point.”

“Dragon, we would not want any potential visitors to miss where you now live. Besides, this might just save your old lair from being ransacked.”

“Fair point, o most unfair maiden.”

“Dreadfully unfair,” she agreed, chuckling merrily. “Stir the fire, please, since you’re the fireproof one in this friendship. We both need our rest after that show we put on, even if my part was only to shout myself hoarse while trying not to throw up at the reek of our fragrant young knight.”

“You were magnificently silly.” Prodding at the fire with his talon, he added in a moodier tone, “Yet, we have been fortunate so far. I cannot help but imagine future encounters might not be so light-hearted.”

“Indeed.”

“Legend has it that most Princesses want to be rescued.”

She rested her dark ahead against his flank. “How many times do I have to tell you –”

“ ‘I am not an ordinary Princess, Dragon,’ ” he declaimed in a rather dreadful soprano voice, drawing an appreciative giggle. “ ‘I am not here to wash your dishes, nor to scrub your smelly paws. Who knows what foulness you might have been galumphing through? Nay, I do not sing haunting songs to the moons as I wait for my one true Prince to rescue me from the lair of the foul, sulphur-snorting despot.’ ”

She said sleepily, “Oh, shush, Dragon.”

“Has there ever been one?”

“If I ever wanted a Prince, he would be a great deal like … uh, never mind. There was one. But I was young and timid, and he never came back. What about you? What’s your sad tale?”

Who could that prize fool have been, he wanted to roar, who chose not to return for this Princess? Concealing his reaction, he dwelled a moment upon his reply.

“My Clan wrecked my chances before I even started. I was always the odd one out, the last picked for chasing or battle games, the bumble-pawed Dragon the others laughed at. I’ve never met a Dragoness who saw beyond the fire issue – always, my excellent reputation had long since preceded me, and the inter-Clan gatherings became too painful to bear. Brawl and Brand played it up to the females and made sure to be sniggering around the corner to third-heart-shame any young Dragoness who dared to take so much as a passing interest in their older brother. I’m big, but not handsome of colouration. My hoard, as you can see, is characterised by a great deal more moth and dust than fine yellow metals.”

“Don’t I count?”

Lightly she asked it, but he saw dark colours touching her mood.

Why were they both so fragile? How did one ever rise above the unkindness of fate?

After the longest time, he managed to force out of his cramped throat words that touched the truth. “I count not any ransom as the true measure of your treasure. Princess, I could not bear to exchange your friendship for gold. So actually, I’m happy you don’t want to go … home. Is that so very selfish of me?”

“Not so much.”

Drawing his paw across her lap as she was wont to, he saw her eyelashes flutter. Falling asleep. He could not sleep. As her breathing slowed, he pondered what she had meant by that incomplete sentence. What would her ideal Prince be like? Where was that man? What kept him from her; could they go find this absent paragon of manly virtues? Might he be rich enough to – no. Gold would never even make a top ten of what he considered important when it came to her future.

There was one. I was young and timid.

Somewhere amongst the seventeen Human realms, or even the Isles across the Lumis Ocean, there lived a man who set this Princess’ imagination aflame. Only a man of worthy character could love an unconventional girl who dared to make friends with a Dragon; he surely must see beyond the dark skin and crazy hair to the luminous heart within.

Aye. He would want a Dragoness like that, too. One who saw beyond fireless emptiness, into a Dragon’s very soul.

Chapter 14: Juggernaut the Grinder

WITH THE SNOWMELT RIVERS running high, the Princess of T’nagru correctly predicted that no more foolish would-be slayers, knights errant enough to think they could beat a Dragon, nor questing Princes, would come up into the mountains in search of undying glory. Not until the flooding subsided.

After planting their sign above the high water mark in a place it could not possibly be missed from the main trail, they flew up to Dragon’s old lair in the dead of night to engage in nefarious deeds. Like burgling one’s own lair and stealing a few blankets and warm clothing. Robbery most uncouth. And to surreptitiously check his gardens and wrest a few vegetables free of their earthy domain.

Oh, the wickedness!

Mwaa-haa-haa! A Dragon’s soft, mischievous laughter echoed beneath the moons as they raced back out of Devastator Clan territory, having spied the fires of two Dragons watching the boulder-plugged lower entrance to his lair. Brawl and Brand. Charming to have two brothers so dedicated to the business of further smearing his reputation. Could their motives be darker than he had ever suspected?

Back at the lair, there might have been an incident involving shredding a blameless tree with his talons. Startling rage. If a Dragon could summon more of that, this fire issue would soon be consigned to the past. Yet all he knew was a sharp pain like severe indigestion beneath his lower ribs, somewhere behind or alongside his main food stomach, as best he could tell. Dragon ate soothing herbs and may have indulged in a touch of self-pitying chuntering and moaning over his misfortune, until a small plaster-bound foot introduced itself to his scaly backside by way of censure.

“Shut the fangs and go to sleep, Dragon.”

“Far too busy having a pity party here.”

“No creature wants to attend your pity party, not even you,” she said acidly. “It’s a long flight tomorrow. You need to sleep. Now!”

“Bad mood?”

“You’re keeping me awake. Plus, your breath stinks … which is unusual. Even after you scoffed all those aromatic herbs? Very odd.”

“I’m working on my dreadful sulphurous breath wafting from the seething volcanic hells of my fire stomach,” he professed, more in hope than anything based on actual evidence. “It’s working, isn’t it?”

“If the smell’s anything to go by …” Wafting some air from his slavering draconic jaw down toward her face, she said, “No. That’s something else completely. It doesn’t even smell like food. Besides which, do I detect a hint of minty coolness upon your breath, Dragon?”

“One for the ladies. Mint is a masking agent, besides easing this infernal pain in my stomach. Great-Aunt Ignita and her everlasting list of suggestions …”

“Ah, you’re an infernal pain?”

He pretended to clack his fangs next to her legs. “I’ll show you infernal and pain, morsel!”

Unfortunately, the foolery triggered a strange nightmare about being clamped into a device that shot bolts of lightning into his brain; an endless, inescapable torture that lingered until morning. Dragon dragged himself into the land of wakefulness. Charming. A new favourite. Curled up in his paw, Azania slept the sleep of the blameless. Vastly annoying. He blew upon her hair to wake her.

“Sing with the dawn chorus, Princess! The day flees before us.”

“Ah … do I have to?”

She even made waking seem dreamy. No wonder those squires had lost control of their salivary glands upon sight of the diminutive royal. It must be another disgusting physiological reaction.

Odd how Humans found quality in lack of quantity. Less of a girl was more? Very hard for a Dragon to understand such twisted logic.

Packed and ready, since her Royal Peskiness was nothing if not an organiser, there was nothing to it but to make one last sweep of their lair before departing. He hoped any unwelcome visitors would leave the skeleton of the panther alone. He had grown fond of that feature. Macabre, educational and frightening to timid bipeds, all rolled into one.

With the Princess clad in her leathers and wrapped up in every warm item of clothing they possessed, he walked a hundred Dragon paces down-valley to where the low cliffs widened enough to accommodate his sixty-foot wingspan. The watercourse chuckled down between a series of mossy boulders here; the scent of wild herbs delighted his nostrils as he took a great, steadying breath and settled the Princess in his grip. Long flight today, all of one hundred and ten miles. Ten to twelve hours in the air, depending on air currents and weather conditions – on that note, the sky looked and smelled fine and clear, if a tad chill.

Bounding off a twenty-foot drop, he launched himself skyward with the all-important first five or six powerful wingbeats. Getting those right saved one a humiliating second landing, or worse, an outright crash. Flying was one thing he was born for. Being distracted by Human fingers poking between his digits was not. After checking he was heading around the sequoia growth lower in their valley and curving his flight path to rise over the easterly ridge before turning to the north, he peered down at his passenger.

“What are you doing?”

“Science.” She licked her fingers with a dart of her tiny tongue.

“What are you – are you licking my scales?”

“Ew, please. No, I am scratching this exudate here with my fingernail and tasting it. Pretty salty, actually – seeing as someone I could poke with a short stick and occasionally imagine smacking over the head with a stupidly enormous sledgehammer, is extremely touchy about the subject of Human moisture. Tears make you flinch. Tongues make you rush outside to throw –”

“It’s the moisture,” he pointed out, showing her his tongue. “Perfectly dry, see?”

“Anyways, do you take a lot of salt in your diet?”

“Enough.”

“More than other Dragons?”

“By my egg, it’s too early for this manner of interrogation,” he complained, trying to shake the sleep out of his eyes. “Can’t a Princess sit tight and appreciate the scenery?”

“I am.”

“In silence, perchance?”

“Sunrise in the mountains is something else, Dragon. In the desert the sun is hot and huge, and the day can start so dusty-crimson the sky looks like blood. Up here the air is so pure, it’s like the peaks and snow and lonely trees crowning the ridges are picked out in crystal.” His sigh created a wing-bounce in the air. “I know you wish you could see it all. We’ll keep searching for improvements. So, on the subject of salt –”

“I’ve always wanted more than others,” he said gruffly. “Much more.”

“There now, was that confession so hard?”

GRROORRRGGH!!

“Something stuck in your throat?”

“Very soon, I believe. Charred thigh-bone of snarky Human royal.”

“Do you think – as a teensy-weensy favour to this little morsel you’re hauling about the mountains with such mighty strength and ease –”

“What do you want, Princess?”

“Do you think we could stop on some snow? Land on it? I mean, I know we saw a bit of snow up at your parents’ lair, but the day was so fraught … I wondered if I might walk on snow?”

“Consider it done.”

Blergh. Dispensing favours? One step closer to becoming a tourist attraction, he supposed. Still, the idea of giving the Princess a gift, however small, made his wings bounce. Baleful glare for the treacherous appendages. Be still.

The morning’s flight was a long haul up into the centre of the Tamarine Range. They left Devastator territory behind after a few hours and entered the much smaller Windchaser range. Their Clan colour was often light blue, and they were renowned for an ability to fly higher than any other Dragons. By late morning, Dragon stretched his wings to begin the great climb up to the nineteen thousand-foot Malnoose Pass. Snowy peaks towered all around them. The white peaks contrasted strongly with the montane greys, blacks and purples of the lower slopes and the pristine sky. Achingly turquoise waterfalls sprayed off the cliffs and ran down into small lakes.

A shiver from his passenger reminded him of the altitude. Blue-brown was not the best colour for a Princess. Landing on a scree slope, he bade her unpack her blankets. He proceeded to wrap her up like a Human baby in swaddling cloths. Soon, only the dark eyes protruded from a large wad of protection. Even her head was wrapped up. Watery nose, disgusting tongue, the whole moist ensemble. He had her eat a few nuts and cacao leaves, said to help Humans tolerate high altitude.

Then, they flew up the Malnoose Pass under the shadow of three snowbound peaks to his right wing that exceeded twenty-five thousand feet. The terrain was bleak and rocky, the silence immense. Only the creaking and flexing of his wings and their breathing proclaimed they were alive. Dragon had always loved the heights, far from anyone and anything. This pass was famously deceptive. One thought the final saddle was nigh, only for yet another, even higher ridge to reveal itself as the land folded upward. Listening to his passenger’s increasingly laboured puffing when he took a wing-break, however, he knew he must remain as low as possible.

At last, around high noon, as Taramis peeked out from behind the westerly flank of Ignis and set the snows ablaze with white brilliance, he landed again in the middle of a vast snowfield.

The Princess clambered stiffly out, and giggled with wonder. “Oh … it’s amazing!”

Southward lay ridge after ridge of mountains that eventually led to the Human kingdoms clustered in the green belt above the Obsidian Desert, except for T’nagru. They stood alone, more easterly and southerly than any other. East and west the view was obscured by the towering peaks and broad-shouldered ridges of the central Tamarine Range, but could he have seen several hundred miles to the west, that was where the ocean lay. And north. Nine smaller kingdoms clustered along that fertile northern shore, more than obscured by the backbone of their world.

Shading her eyes, the Princess gazed north. “Are those lakes?”

“Aye. We call them the Seven Beaded Jewels. The colour is extraordinary, a very clear, light teal created by glacial minerals.”

The Princess stomped her good foot on the snow, laughing. In a minute, a snowball smacked against his left flank. “Always wanted to do that. Ah – don’t you – Dragon! No, your paws are too large! That’s totally unfair. I can’t even run away.”

“Stand still so that I can bury you,” he mock-growled, raising his not at all hard-packed pawful threateningly.

“Dragon!”

Though he tossed it as softly as he could, his snow boulder knocked her right off her feet. Cursing unhappily, he rushed over to dig her out, only to find a laughing Princess shaking snow dust out of her hair and face.

She gurgled, “Brute!”

“I wanted you to truly appreciate the snow.”

“Oh, very appreciative – brr, it’s so cold. Thanks for the lesson, I think.”

“Anytime you want to be bullied, just let me know.”

Gliding upon wide-spread wings, he took a slightly slower and more scenic route down over the lakes. Each was slightly different, the luminous blues like snatches of sky somehow captured and mirrored below. Azania told him how different and wonderful the world was when seen by Dragon flight. Indeed, every nonconformist, disloyal Princess should want a Dragon of her own once they heard what she had been up to. He suggested that pampered rabble could rather peck out their own livers in futile jealousy. His passenger truly enjoyed that image.

With the benefit of a freshening tailwind, he piled on the speed during the afternoon, sweeping left and right through the peaks. They blazed over a mighty herd of albino ice yaks, sending the huge, two-tonne beasts in their shaggy piles of fur into a lowing, multi-ring defensive huddle. Later on, they passed the strange and little-understood phenomenon of the rainbow springs, a valley in which the multitude of hot springs emitted light which was said to be magical. They filled the deep, forested length of the valley with rainbows, end to end. Ten miles of glorious views. Sweeping low but not too low, he provided the Princess with a couple of glimpses of the massive emerald Serpent Dragons sunning themselves in the treetops. These arboreal Dragons were related to Sea Serpents. According to the best research, this was the only population in the known world. At three times his length and many times his weight, the wild, fierce Serpent Dragons were not to be disturbed. Not even by their smaller cousins.

Azania’s eyes were doing her cute, wide-eyed in amazement expression. “How big are Sea Dragons, then?”

“Sea Dragons and Sea Serpents are very different,” he reproved. “The difference, for the discerning learner among us, being the body shape and lack of wings. Serpents are elongated and wingless, and daily get themselves legless –”

“Ha ha,” she chortled like the dutiful Princess she most certainly was not.

“– while Sea Dragons are migratory oceanic Dragons. I really don’t know much about them, but they are said to be very large. Bigger than me, anyways. They fly through the waves and rarely, if ever, leave salt water. Have you ever been to the ocean?”

“Never. Yourself?”

“Once or twice. Just along the shore. It’s –” he had many evocative words in his head, but what eventually emerged from the muddle was “– salty.”

The Princess teased him all the way up the next pass about that.

At the top, they passed over into a vast white snowfield that stretched as far as the eye could see. This highland plateau was inhabited only by wolves and albino yaks, and was an occasional hunting ground for the northerly Dragon Clans. For three hours of flying, they saw no creature. Dragon relied upon his directional sense and a few hints from the person who could see properly, when she was not sneaking a snooze and calling it ‘resting her eyes.’ He helped her resettle her aching plaster cast leg from time to time, and she complained for half an hour straight about the itching.

So much itching, he was even itching in sympathy by the time she was done. That was some impressive complaining. Women. He was quite convinced no male would have the vocabulary, stamina or creativity to endeavour such a feat of verbosity. Not unless he had a large splinter stuck in his paw, a bad case of haemorrhoids, or the mildest of sniffles. Then, all bets were off.

As the suns settled over the far peaks and the shadows stretched long, his efforts were at last rewarded by the Princess pointing ahead. “Is that it?”

“You see a small crater?”

After eleven hours of constant buffeting in the wind, his eyesight was taking a dive toward its worst again. Rest and moistening definitely helped, but they had written off more than a third of the proposed herbal remedies as unhelpful or even worsening his affliction.

“Small?” The bundle he carried wriggled with renewed energy.

Aye, this was it. Actually, he was unsure if this was a crater or a sinkhole, but either way, it was an impressive geological feature, lying on a slope that faced the final, tall ridges of the northerly mountains. The hole was two miles deep on the near side and seven miles wide. Inside? Hot springs, lush plant growth, and the famous lair of Juggernaut the Grinder. There were plenty of Dragon Clans clustered together around here, to be sure, but they flew through the heart of Grinder territory. The Grinder Dragons were on the alert, because he saw four red and orange blobs closing in on their flight path. What was going on? Clan feud? Dispute? Friendly neighbourhood goons?

Cupping his wings to slow down, he glided in the initial signal of peaceable intent. The pursuit did not slow, but when the Grinders came alongside, the leader called, Fiery wing-ho, Dragon of no Clan.

“Great, news has travelled,” he muttered, before raising his wings in a salute. Fiery wing-ho, brothers and sister. We travel to Juggernaut’s lair. What news upon the airs?

A hoard plundered by the Crushers – a long-running feud, said the other. How burn your fires, nameless one?

Well, not at all.

Grinding his fangs in helpless fury, he replied, Call me Dragon. I bear in my paw the Princess of T’nagru, called the Black Rose of the Desert. We seek no quarrel with any Dragon, and will tarry only with Juggernaut in the hope that his prowess will lead to a breakthrough in my fighting capabilities.

The other grinned. Well, strange one, you shall find good company down there. May your wings soar, Dragon.

May your wings soar, sister and brothers, he replied, switching the farewell around in the prescribed manner.

The Grinders acted incurious about a Human, he told the Princess. Few of her kind penetrated this far into the mountains. They both knew that the only viable trade route around the mountains was the coastal route, which ran all the way from T’nagru to the western shores kingdoms before swinging north.

Odd comment about the good company. Did Juggernaut have a visitor? A mate? He had never heard of the warrior Dragon taking any female to lair, although many had aspired to be that one.

As they swung in over the northern cliff, he saw a flame-orange blur out in the open space in front of his lair, a series of cave openings in the northeast cliff face. Juggernaut. This was his training ground. Many a Dragon knew its hard sands very well indeed, although it was said that Juggernaut took in fewer students these days, or perhaps, it was whispered, modern Dragons feared his famously robust training methods. He would be one of those. He felt no fear, of course. Just healthy respect. A touch of shivery awe. Juggernaut was fifty-seven years old, and he knew of no Dragon who had ever bested him in combat since he was a hatchling.

As he swung in to land, politely keeping from sweeping over whatever might be happening on the training ground – although he saw no sign of other Dragons – he was finally able to take in some details of the legendary warrior. The flame-orange Dragon had flares of crimson and a dark, burned orange upon his upper parts. He measured a decent forty-two feet in length, but he appeared as solid as an ambulatory brick. A lifetime’s training had given him massive strength, but it was quickness of paw and discipline which were said to be his biggest assets.

Landing deftly, he inclined his head respectfully. Juggernaut.

Young Blitz – how should I address you? barked the other. No niceties for him.

Call me Dragon, Master. I am a Dragon of no Clan.

Dragon, what is this – you bring a Human to my lair? So gruff, so clipped his accent, Juggernaut talked with a mouthful of verbal talons. So, you stole a Princess from Vanrace and lived? Good tale, I’ll own?

Aye, Master. “May I present the Princess Azania of T’nagru?”

“The toast of the seventeen realms,” said he, bowing in a way he had not done with his draconic visitor. “Welcome, Princess. I like your blade. Know how to use it?”

She bowed respectfully from the waist. With the leg, that was all she could manage. “My skills are modest, Master Juggernaut. I am ready to learn.”

“Ignita the Devastator has briefed me. Stand back and pay careful attention. Ariamyrielle Seaspray is about to make her final pass.”

Dragon began, “Uh …”

“From over the trees, youngling. Attend!”

He wanted to object, ‘What kind of name is that?’ His head swivelled slowly. Targets and obstacles lay scattered upon the sands in front of him, arranged to represent an army’s deployment, he concluded. Several of the obstacles could fire projectiles or nets.

As he moved the Princess to his side to ensure she was out of harm’s way, he saw from the periphery of his eye, a diminutive cobalt Dragoness rocket over the treetops at such a velocity, several branches cracked at the shearing force generated by her wings. What wings! They were lean and spiny in structure, yet patterned and frilled at the edges so as to be the envy of the most extravagant butterfly. Her forepaws held a pair of slightly curved blades measuring eight feet in length, unlike anything he had ever seen before.

Paw weapons? For a –

Swooping toward them in a colourful smudge of supreme elegance, the Dragoness struck the course like a tornado. Towers toppled. Heads hurtled free of their dummies. Obstacles rocked slightly as she wriggled past or between them, he knew not how. She was striking with everything she had – blades, wing bones, muzzle, hind paws and tail. Even had his eyesight been perfect, he knew he would still have had no idea how she was doing, only that it was a dazzling display of martial fury. She out-dazzled dazzling. Landing with the delicious deftness of a moth, she kept right on churning toward them, mowing a wave of destruction through the battlefield. A cacophony of catastrophe! He was quite certain that wooden soldiers the Dragoness could not possibly have touched were leaping out of the way of their own accord. Wood exploded into splinters at the unholy power of her kicks and tail flicks.

She was moving at such speed, he only realised she was not slowing when the butterfly wings seared the air five Dragon paces in front of his nose. Her blades leaped at his throat as one.

His right paw snapped out, catching her wrist by some means his rational brain could not immediately process. Protecting the Princess. Her other blade touched his neck scales. Perfect control. Merely the slightest kiss of metal.

Belatedly, he realised that she had never meant to actually hit them. She was that good. Just a friendly old scare.

From the scariest Dragoness he had ever seen, bar none.

In a voice like oceanic flutes, she purred, Did I invite you to hold my paw, Dragon?

Wheeze. Gasp!

He made to drop his grip as if he had grabbed a Sea Serpent by the fangs, but she applied a cunning wrist lock with her free paw, capturing him in a painful submission hold.

Panicked, he tried to wrench free. Somehow, his great strength broke the agonising grip and returned the favour, twisting her paw so sharply that she had to flip onto her side or endure a broken limb. Kerump! She landed heavily upon the light grey sand.

A stunned silence settled together with the dust thrown up by his inadvertent manoeuvre.

Strike me down with a feather, he spluttered.

Juggernaut’s mighty laughter boomed over his training ground.

Chapter 15: Seaspray

FLEXING UP TO HER paws as if possessed of some insanely wound-up internal spring, the foreign Dragoness eyed Dragon up in a way that made him blush. Dragons did not often blush. Fireless Dragons had barely imagined the possibility in their lives, but the fires snapping and raging in her luminous eyes did things to his hearts he could only equate to spitting them each one upon the point of her terrifying swords, and holding them up for her inspection. Never mind his knees. He could not feel his joints. Any joints. He really hoped she did not summarily disjoint his joints … ah …

She was a lunatic squall on paws.

Quivering with a taut, wholly fathomable excess of rage.

Some lumbering know-nothing moron had just dumped this magnificent warrior Dragoness in the dirt. Completely unintentional, he wanted to bleat. Please don’t dice his brain into fifty million pieces. Oh, and if she did, he would die as happy as that hapless fool he had hung off a tree a few weeks back.

Whatever her name was, she was unspeakably gorgeous. And lethal. Let him never, ever be unmindful of how lethal she was. Even her wings came with razor edges upon the major bones.

Flicking him beneath the chin, the Dragoness showed him a jaw full of razor fangs, and cooed, You’re a brave one, taking on Ariamyrielle Seaspray. So … burly.

His innards fulminated like a volcano as she paced gracefully around him, taking in the details in a way that did absolutely nothing for his composure. Mmm. Where did they find a Dragon of your size?

A Princess-ish hand smacked him beneath the chin. Dark eyes twinkled.

Mweh-ma-wibble, he whined. Mwaaa …

She smacked him harder.

Mweeep?

“Dragon!”

He shivered all over as one of those razor wings ran along his left flank in a gesture so blatantly flirtatious, the pain beneath his keel bone came roaring right back. The Dragoness made fluting inquiry of Juggernaut where amongst the mountain Clans such a colossal hunk had been lurking. He wanted to know if she had ever been thrown like that before. Not in a decade, she admitted, finishing up her purring circuit with a teasing genuflection before his astonished nose.

She said, Dragon, in my culture, females are warriors and the males, roost keepers and egg-raisers. Are you a mighty warrior? You have such an evocative scent about your scales … her razor snout snuffled his neck, instantly wrecking any intelligent response he might have been capable of producing. Such intimacy! What is your name, mighty one?

Dragon! he spluttered.

Dragon? Did I make you forget your own name?

Aye. No! Erm …

What did you make of my weapons display?

With a sense of sinking desperation, he tried to cobble together an intelligent response. Utterly smashing, Aria – um … and I’m still sort of mesmerised … over here, that is. Still sort of recovering from the frisson you introduced to my bones.

Do I make you shiver, giant Dragon? How very droll you are.

Her butterfly patterns danced in front of his eyes. Actually, that effect was properly hypnotic. Grief, how many weapons did she possess?

Do you find me alluring? I scent sense that you do.

Should I answer in the negative, my every heart should call me the worst liar and fabulist that e’er flew beneath the suns, he replied, startled as something approaching actual eloquence flowed from his tongue.

How she preened! Now poetry, o hefty one?

“This Dragon is a great warrior,” the Princess put in stoutly.

“Artist warrior thingy,” he agreed.

“A born killer, and the first Dragon to kidnap a Princess in over thirty years,” she added, not quite rolling her eyes at his return to thick-tongued incoherence.

He appreciated her pugnacious display of female covetousness, especially since he was still trying to wrestle his tongue back into making some sort of connection with his brain. Aria. Aria. She was a song of sublimity on paws, quite the most alluring marauder he had ever clapped eyes upon. Fact. Somehow, the prospect of being destroyed for his temerity by this Dragoness did not strike him as so terrible.

“He is temporarily without a Clan due to a family dispute. He had a name, but until the period of banishment is over and he earns new, honourable titles, we have agreed to call him ‘Dragon’. I am the Princess of T’nagru –”

“Azania? Princess Azania?” interrupted the hasty Dragoness, rearing back to clap her forepaws together in delight. He tried not to duck in case this presaged her twisting his head off. “Oh, what fortune smiles upon our meeting, as if the brightest gleam of the suns broke from behind the clouds – although, the description hardly does you justice, Princess. How you shine! I can see why he has never stopped speaking about you.”

“He who?” she inquired. He had the same question. Who? What? How could this Dragoness possibly know his Princess?

“The King.”

“King?” Dragon echoed. “The King of what and how much?”

The Princess gasped, “He – the who? I’m … oh, it must be … but, what happened to his parents? Are we even talking about the same person?”

“Taken desperately ill,” Aria explained. “Poisoned by a distillate of Sea Serpent poison, the King and Queen lie unresponsive but alive in their royal bed, these last three years –”

Juggernaut put in, “I see you youngsters have some catching up to do. I’m going to bathe. Training starts tomorrow at dawn. Be late, and I’ll make sure you barely live to regret it.”

On that note, he stumped off muttering darkly about rude visitors.

Meantime, one seriously confused brown Dragon put in, “What’s going on? Who are we talking about?”

“Prince Azerim.”

“King Azerim.”

The two females spoke at exactly the same time. They looked at each other with some mysterious sense females shared, even though they were different species and, for that matter, had never met before. He did not plan to try to understand it. Frazzle the poor brain! They came from opposite ends of the map, but somehow had a friend in common? Truly, the world had just dissolved into a cloud of pink, sparkling dust.

The Princess said, “He does?”

“Never stops.”

There and then, he discovered that even dark-skinned Princesses could blush like the suns. So violently did she blush, his sensitive Dragon hearing actually caught the throbbing of her pulse in her neck, and she gazed at her toes in a most uncharacteristic manner. His mind put two and three together, and made one more than seventeen.

“Everybody, clench your paws. We are talking about Prince Azerim of the Archipelago Islands, who is now King?” he inquired. “Ariamagic Seaspray, are you truly an Isles Dragon? Shiver my wings!”

“Call me Ariamyrielle, or just Aria,” said she, flirting with a twirl of her inner eye fires. “You couldn’t say my real name if you tried.”

“Aria Seaspray is … ah, by the suns, your name is …”

Azania elbowed him unhappily. “Dragon. Mind on the job.”

“You’re an artist?” the Dragoness fluted, looking enormously pleased at how she had just reduced his intelligence by a thousand percent. “I’ve never heard of a Dragon artist before.”

Her exotic vowels rolled like ocean billows, making him feel as if the ground were swaying beneath his paws. Most pleasantly disconcerting – until reality reasserted itself and he remembered why he was here. Dragonesses did not rub wingtips with Dragons like him. Most especially not destructive warriors capable of razing entire armies on their own.

Quietly, he said, “I am an artist and novice warrior in search of my fires, Aria. I am here to learn from Juggernaut how to fight, for since I kidnapped the Princess of T’nagru from her captivity in the Kingdom of Vanrace, every Dragon slayer, knight and Prince in the seventeen kingdoms has been seeking my head.”

“Your true fires?” she inquired.

“My Dragon fires.”

“He does not breathe fire, yet,” Azania said in a small voice, plainly aware of the implications of this admission. “We’re working on that.”

The Isles Dragoness’ eyes glittered in a way he had never seen before. She sang, Thou art of mystery and majesty most undeniably conceived, o Dragon of no name.

So lyrical – was this the origin of her name? His five hearts all sighed at once. His paws had long since disconnected from the rest of his body.

He said, Ah, well …

Aria purred, I should long to unravel thy every mystery. If only more time were gifted unto my paws, but the King and Queen are dying, and I must on the morrow return to the Isles, sorrowing that my quest has proven futile.

For talk must we … lots, the Princess said, and chuckled at her Draconian. “Sorry. Is Juggernaut done with you for the day? And have you finished demolishing everything in sight, o Dragoness?”

“Aye and aye, Princess,” said she. “Come to my lair.”

Behind her departing back, Azania raised an eyebrow. He could not agree more. Forceful, and then some. He could only imagine that any disagreement on his part would be met with a world of pain.

The Princess nudged him. “And?”

“Exquisite express executer,” he whispered back, making a cutting sign at his neck that drew a bright giggle. So excited! She had every right to me. This meeting could hardly be called chance or coincidence, could it? Nay, the fires of destiny swelled before his very eyes.

Ariamyrielle Seaspray had use of one of the guest lairs beside Juggernaut’s private lair. She related that she had been using his training centre as her base for several weeks whilst she made inquiries amongst the Dragon Clans about a remedy for Sea Serpent poison. Without the slightest hint of self-deprecation, she explained that she was the finest warrior Dragoness and explorer of her generation, and the first to work out how to cross the Lumis Ocean from the Vaylarn Archipelago without the use of Human ships. As it turned out, the real reason King Azerim had never returned to the Kingdom of T’nagru in search of she whom he declared was his muse, his intended, the poetry of stars, his one and only beloved, and – well, the list was greatly in excess of the most epic and self-indulgent poem – was to do with the Sea Serpents.

As in, he now had exactly five oceangoing brigantines left of a once-proud fleet. The rest of his trading and warships lay at the bottom of the ocean, courtesy of a number of belligerently territorial Sea Serpents who had moved in and made the Archipelago their favourite hunting ground. Indeed, upon his return five years before, the Prince had been shipwrecked by Sea Serpents but succeeded in swimming no less than sixty miles through serpent- and shark-infested waters to safety on an outer Isle, where he had survived for four months before being rescued by a passing fisherman.

He politely whispered to the Princess to stop salivating over this description of Azerim’s bravery. Most unbecoming behaviour.

Upon request, however, he produced a sheet of white scrolleaf and began to sketch the T’nagrun Princess as a gift for the young acting King, who would be required to drool over the artwork, Aria purred archly. Just like she was slavering over his statuesque shoulders, she added, rubbing her flank affectionately against his upper right forearm.

How was a Dragon supposed to concentrate?

Meantime, she told them that the Islanders had discovered record of one purported remedy for Sea Serpent venom which had been developed by the Tamarine Dragons over two hundred years before – sithnarik serum. Unfortunately, no-one knew what it was, nor could anyone work out what the reference meant. Neither could Dragon, nor the Princess. They stared glumly at one another. No clue.

The cobalt Dragoness bustled efficiently around her lair, lighting lanterns against the growing dark. She was not large, he realised, certainly more compact than that swathe of destruction could possibly justify. He estimated a dainty twenty-nine feet from muzzle to tail tip, a little over half of his fifty-three feet length. Certainly less than half his tonnage. He had no illusions about relative lethality, however, trying and failing to tear his eyes off her compact serpentine beauty. Blitz the Fritz was in full flow. Aye, even Azania had noticed his attempt at self-destruction by immediately mentioning his disability – but to both of their surprise, Aria had acted intrigued rather than put out.

No idea what to make of that reaction.

Bamboozled.

Aria peered past his foreleg to take in the details of a swift but creditable chalk sketch of the Princess. Excellent likeness, he thought, even if lacking in some of the finishing detail he would usually obsess over for a few weeks. The ugly voice in his brain tried to convince him that any self-respecting Dragoness, even if she came from across the ocean and far, far away, must soon revert to type. The disgust, the thinly veiled insults must soon arrive.

Aria stared a moment at the Princess. “Aye, you’ve captured her spirit. Bravo, artist.”

“Did you draw my hair straight, Dragon?” she asked nervously.

“Absolutely not.”

“Dragon –”

“Your curls are symbolic of the mischief bursting out from the inside. Look. Is this not a true likeness?”

Raising a thin, deadly-sharp talon, the Dragoness pointed it at the Princess. “Do you have any idea how disgusting it is when Humans salivate as much as King Azerim is bound to?”

Azania looked doubtfully at the sketch. “Will he … like me, the way I am?”

“He’ll die,” Aria stated confidently.

“Dying is not recommended. Disgusting drooling is far preferred,” he quipped quickly, making both females laugh. The Dragoness gazed at him as if feistiness in a male startled her. He wondered how docile males in the Isles came. Boldly, he said, “I should like to paint a Dragoness as striking as you too, Aria – by my wings!”

Ten talons menaced his neck. He had not even seen her move.

“Do I sense a polite refusal?”

“Made you jump,” she purred, stroking his chin with one teasing talon.

Gnrr-rrmm! he growled, as something inside his brain popped and floated away to a very, very happy place indeed.

Fine. Drooling was most definitely not restricted to Humans. Feeling vastly and unjustly narked by this discovery, he was further discomfited to hear the Princess explain how they had met, narrating their weeks together so far, including the abortive family gathering which had led to his expulsion. She made him sound – well, heroic and misunderstood. That was as much appreciated as it was frustrating.

Still, it was hard to fulminate in a lonesome corner when the brazen young Dragoness – she was only eighteen years of age, by his sire’s egg – kept giving him the fiery eyeball. He really was not sure she did not mean to eat him alive. Maybe this was a prelude to a secret cannibalistic feeding ritual? He kept seeing her kaniaxi blades mowing through those dummies and weapons like a Dragon rending his prey’s tender intestines.

He dimly heard the females discussing how Isles Dragons were allied with their Humans, unlike any other Kingdoms or the Tamarine Mountains Dragons, but the fire was warm and his eyelids weighted with sand after a very long day’s flying. To his utter chagrin, he must have nodded off, because the next thing he knew, the Princess was rubbing his right forepaw and saying something about saltiness and unusual webbing. He came fully awake when the Dragoness voiced a yelp and cried out.

Azania grinned. “It’s a spider, silly.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Not if you’ve just stood on it, like you just did,” the Princess pointed out.

“We don’t have those on the Isles. Plenty of crabs. They aren’t stupid enough to climb my scales either.”

“Scared of spiders?” he murmured before his brain quite caught up to the fact that his statement lacked even the slightest modicum of good sense or forethought.

Aria seized his fore-talon and bent it backward.

“Not that one!” he gasped.

“Which would you rather I snap like a twig?”

The Princess said quickly, “That’s the one he broke smashing a hole in King Tyloric’s tower. Please don’t break it again. We’ve just finished patching him up.”

“Oh. I do apologise.” She caressed his paw, and did not let it go. The use of his tongue rather departed him at this point. “I see you were recently wounded here in your chest? It is plain as the very suns that you need a female to look after you, Dragon. Now, here’s my key question. Are you quite sure who your sire and dam are?”

A wheeze escaped his jaw. It was all the sound he could make.

The Isles Dragoness played with his digits as if wondering how such a large paw had ever turned to art.

He wondered the same.

She said, “The Princess and I have been talking. One, you have a very distinctive body odour and scale secretion – which is salty, far more Isles Dragon than Tamarine. Two, you are unusually large in size, more Sea Dragon than any Dragon Clan I know of. Three, have you ever noticed this unusual, flexible webbing between your digits? Four, this matter of you not being able to breathe fire. That is impossible for a Dragon. We are fire. How many stomachs have you?”

He spluttered, “Eh …”

The beautiful Dragoness brought his paw to her cheek. “Total incoherence in a male. It’s so satisfying.”

“Stop toying with me!”

He found himself up on his paws, looming over the pair without knowing how he had come to be standing. Panting. Aghast. The cobalt Dragoness gazed up at him with narrowed eyes, like a feline who had just discovered her mouse had turned into … well, a Dragon, for want of a metaphor that escaped him in the heat of the moment.

The Princess said, “Peace, Dragon. What riled you so? We were just discussing trying to help you. Aria has some special knowledge which –”

“I don’t mind you discussing my deficiencies, honestly I don’t. But I do mind you disparaging my birth. I know my sire and dam! I know where I was born and who I am …”

He bit the words off. Such a bitter taste filled his mouth. That strange, pinching sensation had returned together with a huge, bitter lump of ire, lodged deep inside his chest once more. Maybe it was a heart issue. Maybe it was just an acidic wrath at their temerity. He was a decent Dragon. He had always honoured his sire and dam as best he could, and he knew – well, he knew his sire, at least, had the very best in mind for him. Dark, acrid scent memories swirled through his being.

Why his dam’s lifelong hatred for her progeny? Why?

The girl said, ever so gently, “No, Dragon. You don’t know who you are.”

ENOUGH!! His Dragon thunder boomed in the chamber. JUST STOP – CARING FOR ME!

He stomped outside in a blind rage. How dare they – how dare she? As if his strangeness was not enough, and the wagging of his tongue before his entire Clan evil enough, now they doubted his very birth? The outrage of his hearts! The painful, knotted digits of his paws! The shivering, accursed air upon his wings! Why could he never, never, never be normal?

Why were the answers not written in the stars? Because this half-blind, half-Dragon fool could not even read that much!

Female trouble, youngling?

He jumped nearly a foot in the air as he realised he had not just head-butted a boulder. That heavily muscled lump would be Master Juggernaut’s shoulder. Sorry, Master, it’s just – it’s –

Spit it out, there’s a good fellow. I haven’t got all night, you know.

Do I look like a Devastator to you, Juggernaut the Grinder?

What an odd question, the older Dragon began, before he suddenly pulled up with a smoky snort. Do you really want to be asking this question, Dragon of no name? You might not like the answer.

Juggernaut, I’m … lost. His shoulders slumped. A thousand-tonne weight called his tail dragged from his hindquarters. My life’s flight is utterly shambolic. When a Dragon loses his Clan, his family and his name, he begins to question all he knows and believes in. I don’t know if I am being foolish or not. I don’t know anything, and it has me so twisted up inside, I don’t even know where to start to unwind this knot. I am a Dragon of no fires! How can this even be? How can I be a decent student if I’m such a worthless, hopeless snarl-winged lump of angst and anger? I’m so … confused, Juggernaut. Life is so unfair!

Did Ariamyrielle Seaspray say something to upset you?

No. She was … gracious. Not at all what I expected in a Dragoness as … sharp, in every way, as she is.

She is extraordinary, by my sire’s egg.

Juggernaut looked him up and down. In his eye was a blue-white fire, a fierce and knowing brand of wisdom that he realised must come from many, many years of dealing with students and other Dragons. His breath sucked at the very stars above, and his stillness matched the night. He listened with his every Dragon sense, for such a long time that his bigger, younger student could no longer hold his breath, and had to let it out in a rasping exhale.

Laying one scarred paw upon his student’s shoulder, Juggernaut rasped, If I were as unusual as you, Dragon, I too would question … everything.

Chapter 16: A Different Chase

COME THE DAWN, THE Princess slept in and a brooding brown Dragon watched as a matchless speck of cobalt steadily receded into the crimson-burnished purple skies. His eyes burned and his hearts yearned to see, just once, the unblemished glories of the dawn.

Ariamyrielle Seaspray must have seen him standing here, and departed without a word.

There. Life was back to humdrum.

Dragon mooched over to the obstacle course and paced out her destructive whirlwind from the previous evening. Shiver his wings. Incredible. He touched the marks of her shearing through dummies and tree trunks with his talons. Whatever he had expected at Juggernaut’s lair, this was not it. She was not Juggernaut’s mate, but a Dragoness in loyal service of a Human King – slap him over the head with a Sea Serpent’s coils!

He loathed all things predictable.

Juggernaut stalked out of his lair growling as if a woodpecker had woken him by trying to drill holes into his skull. Right, youngling. Let’s see what you have. Dance for me.

Then again, maybe he should just snap his jaw shut and get on with it.

An hour’s dancing and the Grinder still looked as if he wanted to grind holes in large young Dragons’ skulls, but he was making marginal progress. Juggernaut had joined him. They stepped together through a series of what he called poise exercises. Drills designed to make an overlarge Dragon move – well, less like a thumping great boulder and more like a Dragon bent upon destruction. Sidestep, sway, whirl, tail poised and wings quiet, for now.

“Dragon! Dragon!”

The Black Rose came running out of her lair with her hair dishevelled, and promptly fell flat on her face. Aye. A leg encased in plaster would tend to do that to a person.

Groaning, she raised herself on her hands. “Dragon! I’ve got the answer – go fetch her back!”

“What?”

“Go fetch Aria whatshername – you know who I mean!”

“Aria Skylark? Long gone.”

The Princess snapped, “I know the answer to her riddle, the sithnarik serum.”

“Oh.” His scales prickled. “But, Juggernaut –”

“Juggernaut says, go fetch the Dragoness, youngling. The Princess and I can work on training while you toddle off into the sunrise. One piece of advice?”

“Don’t get myself killed?”

“There’s a good Dragon. Shoo now. I have a charming Princess to entertain.” To his shock, he gnashed his fangs toward the instructor, who acted most pleased. “Even better.”

“But she’s too fast –”

“Dragon! Shut the fangs and fly!” Juggernaut roared, losing his temper in spectacular style. Smoke, fireball, clacking fangs and flaring wings, the whole draconic volcanic explosion.

He had never launched into the air with such speed. Amazing what a Dragon could achieve with the right motivation – which was the whole point of that little exercise, wasn’t it? Every moment a teachable one. Gnashing his fangs a second time at the Master’s casual virtuosity, he powered off to the north. Time to fetch him a pretty young Dragoness.

Hope his audacity did not cost him a wing.

After flying for an hour and a half, his weak eyes finally caught a glimpse of cobalt against the azure sky. Her dominant colouration was a thrilling, rich cobalt, the precise hue of the pigments he used to create his paints, with that extraordinary, oceanic patterning of many shades of blue upon her razor-sharp wings, slender limbs, underbelly and tail. Oceanic? Butterfly? All he knew was that it was one mesmerising packaging.

Not that he had looked less than a hundred times.

Cursed eyes!

He chased on powerfully, expending more energy than she would with a very long flight ahead of her. Now, where had she gone? Aye, dipping into that canyon ahead. Dragon put on a burst of speed, but when he slipped with subtle grace through a swirling updraft and swooped into the canyon beyond, she was gone. Squint. Stare. Sniff the air. Her slightly briny tang was definitely present, clear scent traces of her passage that put him most favourably in mind of –

DRAGON!

He almost shed his scales in a fight-or-flight reaction. Wretch!

Falling into wingtip space with him from absolutely nowhere, Aria Seaspray’s gleaming eyes fixed upon him. Her expression was not exactly comforting. Why are you chasing my tail? Couldn’t leave me alone?

Aye, your tail is the sole reason I’m here, he snorted, warming as her smile widened in toothy appreciation, since my poor little male mind cannot possibly process anything beyond that. I spent the night scribing odes to your gloriously serpentine tail. Oh, the tail! Oh, how it writhes behind you like a … uh, I’m struggling here –

Stop that. Deliver your message.

Baiting a creature this dangerous was nothing short of exhilarating, he discovered. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he said, The Princess of T’nagru bids you return, Ariamyrielle Seaspray, in order that –

She bids?

Aye. I’m asking nicely on her behalf. Grovelling, actually, in the hope that you won’t immediately destroy –

Dragon!

She has the answer to your serum question.

Oh – why didn’t you say so? With a byzantine flicker of her wings, the Dragoness faced the other direction. He zinged away before belatedly discovering she had already started the return flight. Catch up, Dragon!

Gnarr!

By his wings! He was not built for rapid changes of direction. Banking as sharply as he dared, Dragon chased her adorably lethal tail once again, grumbling to himself that there really was no pleasing some females. Flighty creatures. Naturally, she gave the tail an extra wriggle as he rejoined her at the wingtip position, suggesting without words that he might have been contemplating matters other than the spectacular mountain scenery. Guilty of a prolonged gratuitous ogle there, Dragon? Pain of death and so on, he was not about to admit anything of the sort.

He nodded across the gap separating them. Shall I break wind for you, Aria?

Break wind? She folded up laughing.

Break the wind … break THE … GRRROOAARRGGHH!!

Well. That cleared his throat, plus it kicked off a nice avalanche on the steep slope below as they climbed up to the head of the yawning purple canyon. She flicked his wingtip sassily with her own, shaking her head in amusement until he could not help but chortle as well.

Epic slip of the tongue.

Eventually, she said, Definite articles being rather important in grammar, wouldn’t you agree?

Quite, he agreed, blinking rapidly as a swarm of insects peppered his head.

If you learned to focus your sound waves, you could develop quite the auditory weapon, she added brightly, slipping into wing-second position just behind and slightly below him. Perfect slipstreaming. By my dam’s egg, you shift an airstream, Dragon! I barely have to flap my wings back here.

Be ready to dodge. I’m an impressive windbreaker.

Mmm, she murmured, turning him instantly into a puddle of steaming mush.

Females!

The Dragoness wore her blades slantwise in thin metal sheaths upon her flanks for ease of draw, he noted. A waterproof tube was also strapped to her right-side sheath, which he assumed contained the sketch he had drawn for the Prince, now the King of the Vaylarn Archipelago. He wondered if Azania might not have added a personal note. To think she had told him just a week ago that there was no boy she liked. Nasty little liar. Still, five years was a very long time at her age. She had been twelve when last she saw this Azerim. Now she was seventeen. Most Human royals were married around this age, he understood. Certainly, twenty years would be regarded as old for a Human woman to marry.

Do you always think quite so ferociously, Dragon? she goaded.

That, or it’s a bad case of constipation, he shot back, since we’re into the tasteless digestive jokes this morning. I was just – tell me about King Azerim. Tell me about your Archipelago. Uh … please?

Smiling as if she knew exactly why he sounded so abrupt, she told him of a young man forced into rulership by ill circumstance – the attempted double assassination of his parents. He was tall for a Human at six and three, she said; certainly more than a head taller than the diminutive Princess. He was a warrior, a poet and a leader upon whom the mantle of authority had fallen heavily. Several of the Archipelago Lords chafed against his rule and muttered that it was time for a change of kingship. Azerim was under enormous pressure to solve the Sea Serpent issue, for without trade, the kingdom would wither and people would begin to starve. There were massive public works underway to try to increase cultivation and harvest from the ocean, but with the danger to the boats, little could be done. They needed trade.

He asked what had changed. Why the Sea Serpents; why now? That was one of the mysteries the Isles Dragons were trying to resolve. However, being bound to the Archipelago Islands was no help. The flight across the Lumis Ocean was a prodigious three hundred and fifty miles, or at a Dragon’s average long distance flying speed, over thirty hours on the wing. He sucked in his lip. Impossible.

Aria, how did you manage the flight?

Trade secret, she smiled. Up until five years ago, we relied upon our Human partners – since we are relatively small in stature, we are able to land and take off from their ships. There was no need to find another way.

You found landing places?

Good guess. It’s trickier than that. I almost perished a couple of times. You see, the tides rise and fall twice a day. There are shoals and reefs which are only exposed at low tide, and some, only during particular phases of the solar cycle. So you have to get the timing exactly right, or risk a water landing. With the Sea Serpents about, that tends to be inadvisable. We tried five different routes before finding one that worked.

Impressive.

Necessity being the sire of death-defying foolishness?

Chortle. Snort. Try to shrug off a creeping sense of disbelief that he was winging through a clear midmorning sky chatting to a cute death-wish of a Dragoness, and a reputational lightning bolt had not yet contrived to fry his ridiculous head off his shoulders. He checked if the sky had developed yellow and purple spots by accident. Or changed places with the mountains. Not so.

He wriggled every part of his body, limbs and wings in turn for the pleasure of feeling the delight of her presence coursing through his arteries.

Laughing, she barrel-rolled over his tail and assumed position upon his right side. Tell me, did you forget to question the Princess about her actual discovery so that you could report it to me?

Aye. It’s all a conspiracy related to chasing your tail.

Fire curled around her lips. In my culture, Dragon, I would destroy a male for such a flippant comment.

Look, I chased in haste. Unlike you, I don’t have any reputation to worry about –

What makes you think I care for reputations? she snarled, flipping beneath him this time to smack his tail. He stilled a wobble. She manoeuvred like a bat! Many Isles Dragons consider helping our Humans as the lowest form of undraconic behaviour. Aye, I see your thoughts. The Princess told me of your troubles – and you made sure to reveal how very awful, undraconic and wretched a creature you feel you are. And do you know what I say to that?

He could only shake his jaw in the face of her unexpected rage.

Dropping away, she almost clipped a rock face as she sprayed yellow fire across it. Grrnarr! Grooarr! Rock exploded beneath the heat of her Dragon fire. Whipping her tail about, she pulverised a flying boulder with a terrific blow, spraying fragments everywhere.

Pity? Nothing of the sort!

Pointing a talon at his chest, she snarled, This Dragoness makes up her own mind, hear me? So shove that into your misfiring male mind and process it!

Jaw agape, he could only sieve insects out of the air in response.

* * * *

“Sithnarik serum … zisrazix serum,” said the Princess, pointing at the runes she had scribed in the sand beside Aria’s offering. “Languages change over time. Look here. See how the stems and accents changed? Subtle, I’d argue, but accurate.”

“I agree,” Dragon said.

The cobalt Dragoness pretended to push him away. “Go ruminate somewhere else, wind-breaker. Princess – how do I say this?”

“You ask, what is this zisrazix?” he offered politely, and collected a clout in the jaw for his trouble.

“Black and yellow desert viper,” she said, measuring about a foot with her hands. “As rare as it is deadly. I’ve heard that a derived, diluted serum has been used in healing in the past. I also know where it is most likely one might find a source of supply. Chakkix Camp.”

He spat, “That cesspit of thieves and bandits? Princess, you are absolutely not –”

“Going anywhere near there without two blistering behemoths to back me up?” A black eyebrow quirked rather dramatically in his direction. “Exactly what I was thinking, Dragon. You’re always a step ahead, aren’t you?”

He clacked his jaw shut. Females!

Now they were both laughing at him. Not. Happy!

Twenty minutes later, they were in the air. Delay courtesy of a minute creature who created trouble in utter disproportion to her size, needing to pack her effects. The Dragons packed their scales. Ready to fly.

Juggernaut was phlegmatic. “You hasty youngsters! Of course you can leave. Kings and Queens need to be saved. Draconic honour quests must be met. Bring your Dragon back soon, o Princess.”

“Her … Dragon?” he spluttered. “Master!”

“It’s debatable who has kidnapped whom at this point, I believe,” said he, with a wicked, many-fanged grin. “Fly high and strong, Dragons and Princess! May you find all you seek.”

One way to raise a Dragon’s steam levels to ‘violent explosion likely’ status.

As they flapped hard to gain altitude, Aria said, “So, Princess, which parts of Chakkix Camp shall we destroy to find this serum?”

“While I do believe that even the most despicable rogue will be moved to deal fairly with us, given the incentive your sweet smile most undoubtedly provides,” the Princess observed calmly, swinging her good leg as if she were playing a foot above the ground and not at an altitude of four thousand feet or so above the thin ribbon of river down there, “their primary desire is for money, and plenty of it.”

Sweet? She could say that with impunity. He would have suffered multiple contusions for such a quip.

Narked, Dragon put in, “Let’s put it this way. Chakkix Camp is not the kind of place one tends to find any respectable Princesses.”

“No. This Princess, however, finds respectability to be wholly overrated.”

“Wicked wench.”

“Despicable draconic despot.”

“Giggling girl.”

“Blustering bonehead.”

The Dragoness stared across at them. “You two have the weirdest relationship, do you know that? So, where are we flying today?”

“Northern T’nagru. The bit the King likes to think he controls, but doesn’t.”

Azania chuckled throatily, “I like the way you put that, Dragon, but no. We are flying first to your lair to pick up our riches.”

“All that dust and a panther skeleton?”

“Your paintings.”

Gnrrr black-death-on-wings! he swore sulkily. “Those so-called artworks are not worth the canvas they are painted on. This is your big idea for building up my hoard? No-one in their right mind will pay for –”

The Princess shook her head pityingly. “What do you do with a miserable bag of guts like him, Aria?”

She rubbed her paws together. “Give me ten seconds. I’ll convince him.”

“FLEE FOR YOUR LIVES!” he bellowed, pumping his wings to shoot away from the cobalt Dragoness before she conceived any ideas about how to convince him about anything.

He fancied the idea of keeping his wings attached to his body.

After resting the night on the far side of the high pass, two Dragons and a semi-frozen icicle gratefully winged down into the lower mountains the following day, reaching the temporary lair by the hour of noon. The white sun blazed glorious, warming them thoroughly. The two females poked through his collection and deemed much of his work suitable for inflicting upon the unwashed hordes.

Humans. Uncivilised brutes, except for a select few.

Dragon prepared twenty canvases for transport, since nothing he said was about to make any difference with this pair of insufferable females he had somehow invited into his life. One as bad as the other. Still, they had three river trout grilling on an open fire by the time he emerged from the lair. His growling stomach informed him of a certain ferocity of hunger, and he ate gratefully, even if that two-foot tiddler barely occupied a corner of his capacious stomach. Ten more would do nicely. Now, how could he ask in a way which would not shorten his life by decades?

Still hungry, Dragon? Dragging all that muscle around the mountains must consume a great deal of energy, Aria cooed, finding a scab to pick off his shoulder.

Starving, he agreed. Are you offering?

Watch me.

Fifteen minutes later, he was sharing fresh kill with her. Unlucky dusky deer; excellent huntress. He tugged her wingtips charily about how spending a day and a night chasing his tail must give a Dragoness an appetite. Aria offered to help him train at paw-to-paw combat. One could not reasonably refuse.

She did not hurt him too badly, nor make him eat dirt more than a dozen times. After all, they needed him in a fit state to fly.

How thoughtful of her.

* * * *

For the remainder of the afternoon, they followed the long valley southward. Aria lagged visibly. Dragon slowed until she gave him a ripping broadside involving her strength, capability and never-say-die attitude, and how dare he suggest she was weak? Since he could actually dodge her snapping jaws, he realised the Dragoness was more tired than she admitted.

“Just searching for my favourite camping place,” he called, whisking his tail out of danger of being turned into her personal chew-toy.

“We can fly on.”

“We might, but the Princess is bushed. I mean, she needs to find a bush.”

The Dragoness gazed curiously at the royal. “What do Humans do in bushes? Oh – knight!”

“Absolutely not. How dare you insinuate such a thing?” Azania sniffed, folding her arms primly.

“No, look down, there’s a man bathing in the stream.”

“Right in my favourite camping spot,” Dragon snarled. The white blob was his horse. The silver beside, a pile of plate armour perhaps? “Is this one handsome at least?”

“Pathetic flea. How shall we squash him?” Aria sang, sounding cheerful for the first time in hours.

“Ooh, he is handsome. That’s Prince Faratic of Garome, if I’m not mistaken. Red hair, see? Couldn’t miss that anywhere in the realms.”

“He’s completely naked,” Dragon pointed out.

So helpful of him to point out what was said to be taboo among Humans. Clothing? Nonsensical.

“I know! Squee!” The Dragons shared a startled glance. “Joking. Wasn’t looking. I’m a decent Princess, I am.”

Not entirely, judging by her scent. White lie, Humans said, which did make him wonder how lies were restricted to all the white-skinned Humans and not the black or brown ones.

“Very well,” he decided. “We’ll test him. If this redheaded Prince is in any way worthy, he will stand and fight. You go bait him whilst we sneak up on the other side of the river. Pinch his clothing or something. As the legends say, any Princess worth her title ought to be able to turn him into a witless slave with one flash of her dusky eyes.”

“Dragon, I will have Aria deal with you if you don’t clap those fangs shut this instant.”

“No. She’s another independent-minded creature, remember? She doesn’t take orders from a mere Human.”

“Only when it suits,” the Dragoness grinned. He scowled darkly at her. “Or, on the promise of fun.”

“Nobody appreciates a sword-wielding maniac, Aria,” he snorted. “Still, that unfortunate victim pinched my favourite campsite. Unforgivable sin.”

The Dragoness chortled, “Dragon, you’re a hoot.”

Landing downstream, the two Dragons snuck up on the unsuspecting Prince, who was singing lustily but very badly out of tune as he bathed in the stream. Azania winced and suggested that his head might need to roll merely for the offence he dealt to anyone who knew the first thing about music.

Gamely hopping forward using the walking stick Juggernaut had found for her, the Princess greeted the Prince with her signature style and charm. There was a scream and a splash. Then, some mortified spluttering. She had not even kicked him where it hurt, and the Prince appeared to believe that his manly parts required protection. Or support. He could not quite tell which. Still, it was instructive to see a man turn the same colour as his hair. What a physiological marvel this young fellow was.

Indeed, his Princess’ smile had instantly drained all semblance of wit or actual brain material out of this young man’s head. Or was it the tight trousers? He admitted, however, he had come to slay the Dragon – uh, and where was the Dragon?

“Right behind you,” Azania said, with her most radiant smile.

It took no less than twenty seconds for the stunned young fellow to turn and spy his doom lurking behind the bushes, not doing anything much at all, to be honest. Oh, very well.

Grrr? Dragon said courteously.

Next they knew, a pair of little white buttocks was sprinting away from them at top speed, flashing hither and thither between the bushes. The Prince did not stop wailing until he was at least half a mile away. Great set of lungs. Astonishing runner. He must be a champion amongst Humans.

The Princess raised her eyebrows. “Well, that was disappointing. Handsome, entertaining, and a feeble damp squib. Not my type in the slightest. I wonder if he thought to pack some nice food in his bags?”

“Thief,” he accused.

“The early Dragon divides the spoils,” she retorted.

Chapter 17: Bandit Princess

MOMMY HAD DEFINITELY PACKED Prince Faratic a very decent royal lunch for his merry outing to Dragon territory. She could be glad her little boy was returning in one piece, even if it was minus any stitch of clothing. They reloaded his mount and sent it after him, for hopefully, he had the good sense to realise he was unlikely to reach home without it.

The Princess distinguished herself by packing away more than he thought could reasonably be fit into her stomach and legs combined, except for the wild boar, which had been matured to the point that it was crawling with maggots. Dragon graciously helped with that titbit. Protein was protein. He had always been partial to wild boar, but he did prefer it slightly fresher. A week fresher, say.

The following morning, upon Ariamyrielle Seaspray’s insistence, they flew down to the Kingdom of Vanrace to observe the mess Dragon had made of their tallest tower. Aria was a Dragoness of the ‘females are to be feared’ persuasion. She said King Tyloric had violated her sense of justice.

Spoiling for trouble, in other words.

Two Dragons circling above the King’s castle an hour before noon did rather stir up the peasants, Dragon commented nastily. Aria appeared to be impressed with his bloodthirsty attitude – all the rage in discerning artists, she murmured approvingly. She was even more impressed by the hole he had slammed into their battlement.

“I used the Princess’ head for that,” he boasted.

“They have five new ballistae installed,” Azania pointed out, smacking his wrist just in case he missed her displeasure at the head comment. “Trying to cover all the angles, right? I see they’ve started to repair that tall tower as well.”

“All that wood piled up at the base,” Aria observed, with predatory interest.

“Ah, how’s about we fly on?” he put in tentatively. “I’ve no desire to swallow eight-foot projectiles flung at me at high speed.”

“I’ll just warm them up. Back in two minutes.”

Furling her wings, the cobalt Dragoness hurtled toward the castle a half-mile beneath them.

“Aye. Try to stop a thunderbolt while you’re at it, Dragon,” he muttered.

His companion chuckled, “What’s not to admire about a vengeful warrior Dragoness? Anyone would think she has someone to impress.”

“Try another joke, Princess.”

Was she right? No chance, never in a gazillion years, but what if … what if what?

Sigh.

Today, he concluded, no god they believed in would spare King Tyloric the wrath of a Dragoness. How he shuddered!

Beautiful morning. Nary a cloud in the sky. From this height, the pentagonal castle looked like a hatchling’s toy. Circular towers at the five corners of the inner keep. A strong curtain wall formed a second layer of defence above a sparkling moat. Someone had even hung banners from the towers, a pretty touch. He wondered what they were celebrating – perhaps annual bath day? A great many colourful people crowded the streets. He sincerely hoped it was a sign of impending regime change. That would be perfect.

Moving so fast that the ballista crews could not possibly keep up, the cobalt blur made a complete circuit of the inner keep, kicking the weapons to splinters or hurling them off the battlements. Then, she darted down into the courtyard to mangle a troop of men-at-arms who had been trying to make a defensive formation. She skidded to a halt at the base of the tallest tower. Her yellow fire blossomed. If he was not mistaken, she shovelled a pile of blazing wood inside the entrance, before breaking for the Great Hall. Tapestries. She was smart. There went the yellow flame again.

Maximum destruction, delivered with brutal efficiency.

Five knights on the charge!

Aria ran partway up onto the roof of the hall, before spinning and reversing direction. Her swords flashed in her paws. Dragon wanted to cover his eyes. He truly did, but it was like being glued to irresistible entertainment, even given the limitations of his eyesight. She scattered them like sand. He thought he knew what was coming – bad mistake. They had no idea what hit them. Neither did he.

Net! Almost trapped, the Dragoness squirmed free, probably tearing her wings on the hooks that these Dragon-catching metal nets came with.

She darted over to the ajar wooden doors of the royal family’s living quarters. This time, the flame was hidden within the building, but dense black smoke started billowing out of the nearer windows almost immediately. Having warmed up the Humans to her satisfaction, the Dragoness flung herself skyward.

“Wouldn’t want to meet her in a bad mood,” he observed drolly.

The Dragoness wore half a knight’s lance in her left haunch, to her evident annoyance. “Poor form and execution,” she said angrily.

He said, “The three columns of smoke are symmetrically arranged. Was that planned?”

Aria snarled, “Absolutely! Let’s fly on.”

They winged eastward, leaving a fiercely burning castle behind. Even the one with the poor eyes could see the flames leaping from the scaffolding around the highest tower. Half an hour later, the Dragoness told him that the tower had collapsed. The smoke only increased in volume.

One might reasonably expect to have to plan how to remove a lance from her behind without getting his paws chewed off. That was what he spent the next couple of hours worrying about as they soared over the patchwork farmland toward the eastern border of Vanrace. The terrain grew markedly drier as they approached the Black Canyon, the huge, jagged canyon that split the northern reaches of Vanrace from the badlands beyond.

The Princess suggested they land on the far side and rest there for the night. Chakkix Camp was still the better part of a day’s flight farther into the wilderness. A storm approached from the mountains. Aria spied a shallow cave in the canyon wall which should provide shelter. A waterfall ran off the cliffs right beside it, suggesting that this spot was perhaps a regular stopover for Dragons. Although the terrain beyond the canyon was technically T’nagrun, this northern region was inaccurately regarded as uninhabited – except by sundry rogues, thieves, bandits and lowlifes, and the odd renegade Princess.

Landing, Aria’s hind leg buckled.

Pain in the butt there? might have been the injudicious remark that earned him a stinging slap, but a clever Dragon like him would never be accused of such folly.

Aria tried to grip the cracked-off lance herself, but a few pithy words soon betrayed her inability to exert enough leverage to draw the shaft free of the muscle. The Princess tottered over on her plaster leg to try to help, but she too was not strong enough.

Dragon. A little help here? the ungrateful cobalt death-trap snapped.

Putting on his thickest, most boorish accent, he slurred, Place my paws upon your peerless haunches, Your Majesty? Oh, can I? Can I?

Dragon, you are impossible, she snorted. Get over here!

Been dreaming about this moment all my life, he added, before reverting to character. So, would you like a portrait of this end of you? Or the other?

Even as she began to complain, he placed one paw flat upon a dainty but exceedingly attractive behind, gripped the lance with the other, and smoothly extracted the offending wooden shaft. She howled at the brief pang, leaped forward so fast she rebounded off the cavern wall, and ended up staring at him in disbelief.

Tiny splinter, he said, displaying the six-foot length upon his palm.

You didn’t wait for me to be ready?

He flexed his massive shoulders. I didn’t imagine for one second you would be so shy and skittish, Ariamyrielle Seaspray.

Shy – what? she spluttered.

Total incoherence in a female. It’s so satisfying.

As the Princess burst into helpless fits of the giggles, the Dragoness’ gaze whitened and he heard her fires make a dangerous popping, crackling noise he had never heard emanate from a Dragon. So speechless was she, yellow-white fire licked unheeded from the right corner of her jaw. Perhaps no male had ever dared to speak to her like this before. Certainly, his every Dragon sense was coiled, on the alert, ready to fling him backward into the yawning canyon not ten feet from his hind paws, should she react as he sensed she might.

The Princess limped between them, waving her arms as if to clear the air. “Oh get a room, you two – I mean, a cosy cavern for two.”

They snarled at her simultaneously, and then both broke off laughing.

Little tease.

Stomping over to the roaring, foaming waterfall, which landed upon a ledge perhaps fifteen feet wide before plunging farther down the cliff, he dunked his head beneath the flow. Lovely. Just the stuff to clear a Dragon’s head of images of irresistible cobalt rear ends and other mortal dangers. He poked his nose out to offer the Princess a pawful of moss.

“Stuff her wound with this jaramoss.”

And her mouth too, while you’re at it. He strictly forbade that thought from going anywhere near his tongue. Not even in fifteen layers of disguise. Never.

She beckoned to him, ‘you do it.’ With a soggy snort of discontent, he ducked back beneath the waterfall. Not touching that crazy Dragoness for the next year. Her eye fires made his peril more than clear – oh, and here she was, flicking water in his face with her wings! There was more than a hint of challenge in her manner. Moving over peaceably to give her plenty of room, he arched his back beneath the rushing water and wriggled in pleasure. What was it about water that was so glorious? Could Aria be right about his nature, against all the odds?

Shaking the water out of his eyes, he cast about for the Dragoness. Where was she –

A hard shoulder to the gut and a cunningly hooked paw toppled him.

Bellowing in annoyance, he caught onto the cliff with his hind paws, scrabbling to climb back up, but the surface was wet and mossy. Barely grip for so much as a talon.

Aria loomed over him, smirking, Oops.

She might be half or less of his bodyweight, but she was evenly matched in vexation.

In a split second, he made a decision. Kicking his hind legs outward, he pushed powerfully off the cliff edge with his forepaws, swinging his shoulders and muzzle clear before turning to the vertical and diving headfirst down the waterfall. An ultra-tight flexion of the wings won him a barrel-roll so close to the cliff face, he felt the spines on his back scrape several times. He galloped downward with the lightest steadying touches of his paws. Chasing that invisible hatchling. Speeding up until he was one with the flow, he realised rather too slowly that the waterfall was a series of steps and he was hurtling toward the first in a proper death dive.

One called pride.

Kicking off as hard as possible, he snapped out his wings and changed orientation so fast he must have blacked out for a second, because next he knew, the far canyon wall was approaching at a hazardous speed. It flashed through his mind that one should never argue with a rock wall at high speed. That endeavour was unlikely to end well, no matter how well-armoured one’s cranium. Or how stubborn the personality behind it.

Slap the tail like a rudder. Bend the back, the wings, gather the strength of Dragons within his breast, and fly! He hurtled up toward the suns, before curving his belly to the sky and back-stroking his way across the canyon. Rotating his wings in small circles, he swivelled his body back into its normal orientation and nonchalantly landed in the waterfall once more. There might have been a sneaky glance at the ladies to see if they were watching. But he was not that Dragon. Ego the size of a gnat.

When he flew like that, he felt so alive.

Water steamed off his back and flanks, to his surprise. Heat. Now, where had that sprung from? He explored the sensation, ruffling his wings to catch the water and shivering when Aria came back to join him.

After a moment, she gave him a sly hip bump. Inspiring flying, Dragon. You frightened the Princess, however, who feels your neck is best left intact rather than disjointed.

Was she subtly talking about herself – gnarr! He jumped back three feet as she sniffed beneath his left wingpit! Honestly. Talk about uncomfortable. That much familiarity with his personal space was not something any Dragon of the Tamarine Mountains could claim to be used to.

Softly, he said, Why did you question my heritage?

Because the deepest conundrums require the hardest questions to be asked.

He nodded slowly.

I am … sorry, if my directness disturbed a Dragon. Her luminous eye fires blinked through the sheets of falling water, spellbinding. Yours is not an easy fate. It is said of Sea Dragons that they have a fourth stomach or organ related to breathing fire underwater.

Underwater? I’ve never heard of such a thing.

I’ve never heard of a Dragon unable to produce fire – yet, you are hot stuff. She gurgled at her own joke, which he appreciated. Tension crackled over their wingtips, despite their relaxed postures beneath the waterfall. I scent sense an … let’s call it an affinity, perhaps? Aye. An affinity for water lies within you. It is only because this Dragoness was so shocked, so fourth-heart dismayed, that she spoke in haste. I meant not to disparage. I … think aloud, sometimes.

Quite the apology. He had never received such from any Devastator Dragon, save for his father’s final words to him.

I understand, Aria, and thank you.

He licked at the water, enjoying its tangy, cool sensation slipping down his throat. Minerals. Flow. Power. The medium of life itself. Attuned to the mighty ocean, Sea Dragons must be powerful indeed. Aria’s manner suggested confirmation of the saltiness of his wingpit. Dragons did not sweat. They did not exude salt in the oils that kept their scales in excellent condition, by his sire’s egg! Time to tame the tempests of his thoughts. Think – he must allow reason to lead where it may.

Still, I would hear your every thought, Aria Seaspray.

By his egg! Dragon bit his tongue in horror. Now who was flirting with intent?

The Dragoness stretched her razor-sharp wings, before touching the lower edge of his blocky jaw with the lightest flick. We should speak with our Princess. The quest is paramount. She knows you better than I do. Let us seek her insight, before this loneliness grips her fourth heart too heavily.

Her fires incline to this Prince – the King?

Dragon, your own nuances of speech betray your knowledge of this fact. Yet she surely knows how the Vaylarn Archipelago is cut off from the seventeen realms, perhaps forever. That is a sadness which grips like the very talons of death itself.

His own talons clenched reflexively upon the slick boulders, while his shoulders squared up. Is that so?

Another impossible fate to challenge.

* * * *

Two Dragons winged swift and sure over the broken, tangled badlands toward Chakkix Camp. The whole landscape was fractured canyons overrun by brambles, old-growth baobab trees eking out a living where their roots might claw deep for scarce water, and few trails. Black-maned lions fought eternal battles with marauding troops of chabada baboons. Both equally dangerous.

The notorious camp lay directly ahead, a motley, city-sized collection of huge brown tents, warehouse caverns, carousing dens, kilns and furnaces. It nestled against a ridge that offered some protection from the blasting badlands storms that afflicted this area.

Dragon sniffed the air. Ah, the best of humanity.

“How does one create fire out of water?” the Princess mused aloud. “This must be mysterious Dragon magic indeed.”

“Or, simple science,” he replied mildly.

The undisputed owner of his right paw smacked his wrist for emphasis. “What is water even made of, I ask you? Crazy stuff – it flows, steams, evaporates, freezes, falls, rises, rests in oceans yet fills the air, and, according to a wonderful experiment performed by my ancestors in times past, comprises about three-quarters of the Human body. Aye, they dried corpses in the name of science.”

“I did not need to know that about you, Princess.”

“Desert folk being obsessed with drying things.” She shrugged. “Now, don’t you two go scaring everyone in there, alright?”

“How?” Aria purred politely.

Dragon hooked his opposing talon toward his wing mate in a Human gesture. “You’re asking her to look less deadly? Pah, woman. Where do you come from?”

“South of here.” Before either could speak, she raised her hand, “We are not going there. Focus on the mission. We need gold or at the very least, the promise of it.”

Dragon said, “Bet I could scare some up – murr-hurr-HARR!”

Was that a wink of cobalt, or just the suns glinting in his weak eye? Maybe Isles females did not go for the whole murderous Dragon laughter show?

The Princess said, “Of that, I’ve no doubt. Believe it or not, these you call cockroaches do sometimes serve a purpose in Human society. Ours is not the least repressive. Here, we might find means to achieve ends – such as healing Kings and Queens – that are impossible in any other way.”

Now he understood.

“I also happen to know a man with whom we can start. The crown of T’nagru has long kept unofficial business here. Any dutiful daughter ought to know her father’s affairs … thoroughly.”

Aria’s eyes widened at her insinuation.

Aye. This Princess was a jewel who constantly revealed new facets to the viewer. Well did he know it, but every new surprise was an aromatic bouquet to the complex process of draconic sense and memory. Settling the dark green half-cloak borrowed from her latest princely conquest – which was near full-length on her – about her frame, she drew up the hood and stared ahead, grimly intent. She had managed to pull the trouser leg partway down over her cast, but the leg still looked very odd.

He called to Aria, Low pass to that open area on the southwest?

One way to wake a Human populace and all of the animals they kept, was to buffet their tents with the passage of a pair of Dragons’ wings. They put down on the dusty open ground, sending a herd of sheep in a nearby pen into a bleating panic. Dragon gave them a predatory stare. The sheep turned into a herd of woolly icicles. Most pleasing to five want-to-be-fiery hearts.

Aria nudged his shoulder slyly. Persecutor of sheep, are we?

Just reminding them who’s the Dragon around here.

I like your style, Dragon.

The Princess disembarked. Leaning heavily upon her walking stick, she hopped over to the nearest man, who did not even turn his head when she spoke behind him. “Could you please direct me to the tent of Tarangis Lionbaiter?”

“Who wants to know?”

“The Dragon.”

Hard-eyed, thug, tattooed man of few words was he, but when the Princess casually indicated the large Dragon breathing over her shoulder, the show of overconfidence evaporated.

“At once, milady.”

They wound between the large tents, clearing a swathe through the chaos with miraculous ease. Glancing here and there, Dragon noted that the tents were further subdivided inside, creating shadowy interior areas guarded by large men who appeared to abruptly discover they were not as large as they imagined when he caught their eye. Chakkix Camp was not accustomed to draconic visitors, he concluded, judging by the ripple of activity that expanded away from the epicentre of their walk. Gold clinked into sacks. The lids of interesting-smelling chests creaked shut. Treasure? His sensitive nostrils caught a whiff of dank underground air nearby. Aye. The inhabitants were reacting to their presence by hiding everything valuable as quickly and surreptitiously as they could.

Fear the Dragon!

Ahem. Dragons, plural. One was large and not so much in charge. The real terror stalked by his side, dainty and lustrous, a slender talon poised to strike. Aria was so jittery, he was afraid her hearts might explode. Telling her as much would probably trigger that explosion.

Instead, he said, Harken to how thy talons stir this tiny anthill, o Dragoness.

I mislike this place. It has a stench of suffering.

We must walk wisely here.

His ears noted the easing of her defensive posture, however. The Princess’ jaunty hopping proclaimed how much she enjoyed the effect of having such an entourage. Would this threat aid or hinder her negotiations with this Lionbaiter fellow? Good thing he had not called himself Dragonbaiter. He could not imagine Aria would let that lie without showing him exactly what it meant to bait a Dragoness.

The man paused outside a large, light-brown tent indistinguishable from any of the others. “Wait here.”

He ducked inside. Dragon smelled spices, weapons oil and plenty of Human body odour. Hmm. Not a space in which he might expect to find someone important. Raising his muzzle, he peered over the tent tops, tracking the man by the signature state of his emotional colouration until he disappeared out of sensory range a couple of tents over. Trickery was absolutely no surprise either.

At Aria’s nudge, he said softly, “They mean to isolate the Princess.”

“Not happening,” she growled.

“Stay with her no matter what. Take these paintings. I’m going around this way.”

He stalked away, never lighter of paw, sniffing the air as he wound between the close-pitched tents until his nostrils seized upon a hint of incense. Aha. Here was that man’s slippery, soapy emotional scent again. He was just returning from a space hid deep within the maze of silken tents, a space concealed by further layers of cloth within, and a wooden screen or lattice, judging by the scent of lacquer. This was much more like it. Casting his senses further, he waited upon Aria’s scent – oh, shiver his wings! Far too distracting. Ocean spume, bright golden sands, waves crashing upon boulders … go for the Princess rather. There she was, her unique, spicy scent moving closer behind the layers.

Veils within veils. Outlandish place, this. He tried to ignore the waves still turning his male brain into a sloshing puddle of bewilderment. Was he not rather old to be acting like a fledgling scenting his first female?

A gruff voice said, “Only the girl from this point.”

Aria purred, “She’s with me.”

“Lady Dragoness, you will not fit. These tents are not made for –”

“Call me a lady again, and I will fit your skull upon the point of my fang, little man. Do we understand each other?”

“The Lionbaiter meets customers upon his own terms. Have a nice – aah!”

“I am about to.”

“Aria, please put him down. Men are so fragile.” The delicious irony in her tone made his hearts sing. Oh, this Princess truly was a bandit! “Now, I’m sure you don’t need me to explain a second time. This Dragon is presently holding me captive for ransom, a fact of which your boss has been undoubtedly long since been informed. More than five feet separation, and I’m likely to have the same happen to my other leg. I’d really, really prefer not to annoy a Dragon.”

Shakily, the man said, “I will make inquiry.”

Again, he tracked the movement beneath the silks over to his left side. Ah, interesting. Metallic tangs zinged off his questing senses. If he was not mistaken, there was a partially armoured enclave hidden amongst all the rich fabrics. A cultured voice issued from within, almost imperceptible to a Dragon’s hearing. Magical masking? How fascinating. He inched closer.

“Deal with Dragons? Which of my enemies wants me dead, I wonder?”

“What shall we say, Master?”

“We have no choice. Show them in.”

Chapter 18: Business is Business

HIS EARS TINGLED AT a Princess’ light footstep, but Aria was even quieter, despite that the tents were floored with rush mats. This inner enclave must have the plushest furnishings yet, he concluded after assessing the sounds. Deliberate? Of course.

The cultured voice breathed, “Where’s the other Dragon?”

“Master?”

“How do you lose a fifty-foot – Princess Azania! What a pleasant surprise. Your father has been searching for you.”

“Has he?”

There was a silence of mutual sizing up. Dragon ducked down as voices approached behind him, men and women searching for a gigantic Dragon at large in a tent camp. Think tiny thoughts. Chameleon brain. Down on the belly, mindful of the solid, lance-like tent pegs and the taut ropes. Bending his ribs, he crept around a heavily pegged corner until his muzzle almost touched the nearest sheet of tent fabric. Her Royal Highness of T’nagru could be no more than six feet from his nostrils.

Certain instincts deep in his lizard brain buzzed with predatory pleasure. Dragon clamped down on the urge to ambush, rend, destroy!

Why did it always feel so good to be bad?

Azania explained their desire to do business with Tarangis Lionbaiter. Profitable business. He lightly suggested that the reported ransom on her lovely head could have him swimming in gold for the rest of his life. The Princess explained the regrettable awkwardness of being detained by a ferociously jealous Dragon.

“This Dragoness? She does not fit the reports,” Tarangis said smoothly.

Princess Azania chuckled sweetly, but he was certain her voice betrayed nervousness. “The one listening right outside your tent, Tarangis.”

“I don’t scare easily,” he blustered. “What do you want, Princess?”

“Zisrazix serum,” she said.

“Fabulously rare. However, I should be very surprised if there were none to be had around Chakkix Camp,” he noted smoothly. “That will cost you a pretty sum. While I’ve no doubt your smile could conjure riches out of the very rainbows, Princess Azania, I don’t spy very many sacks of gold around your person.”

“I can be very persuasive.”

For a dislocated second, Dragon could not work out who had spoken – the Princess or the Dragoness.

Tarangis’ chair creaked slightly as he probably considered this statement as it was meant. Flaming destruction. A casual flip of a talon beneath the chin. Girl after his own hearts!

He said, “I don’t doubt it. You should equally not doubt my staff could make life very uncomfortable for your … captors. However, business is business. First, a frank exchange of information.”

“Why?”

“I want to know that we can trust each other.”

“Very well.”

“Who sent you here?”

The Princess said, “I did, in agreement with the Dragon. This is nothing to do with my father or anyone else. We need money. This Dragoness, Aria, needs zisrazix serum, and you and I both know you are the man to get it for me. I need clothing, and weapons and armour for both me and a Dragon. I have some ideas – aye, quirk your eyebrow as far as you like, Tarangis. I appreciate Dragon armour might be expensive. My weapons ideas will require design.”

There was a very long silence.

Tarangis said, “I will answer if you tell me how a fifty-foot brown Dragon disappears inside my camp, and no man can find hide nor scale of him?”

“Your protections are not worth the sum you paid to the mages, Lionbaiter?” Aria prodded.

For the first time, a slight edge entered that oily voice. “Apparently not. You showed up like a blazing sun. The bigger Dragon does not appear to exist –”

“Except in your nightmares,” he purred.

There was a muffled yelp and a curse inside the tent. The cobalt Dragoness laughed scornfully, and louder still as he opened a peephole with his left fore-talon. Right behind a more than startled warrior’s twitchy behind. The man beat a hasty retreat. The wise rodent lived to scuttle another day. Cutting his hole larger, he reached through and patted the heavily disguised metal cage behind. This fellow must fear a dagger in the back like nothing else.

“Trapped like a mouse in a cage, Tarangis?”

Melodrama. He loved it.

Certainly, he heard the Dragoness roll her eye fires. Yet he thrilled to a new realisation. He had a magic few Dragons possessed; the next best thing to complete invisibility.

No idea what it was. But it lifted his mood like a breeze buoyed up wings.

Three faces appeared around the edge of what he had taken for a wall or veil within the tent – Azania, Aria and the pale, bearded Tarangis. The man sat in a wheelchair. Dragon’s eyes dipped.

“Aye,” Tarangis said wryly. “The lack of legs is why they call me Lionbaiter. Never bait a lion. Nor, as I have recently learned, creatures with four paws and the cunning of forty. What do you want of me, Dragon? Have you come to slay me? This is a ploy of considerable craft, I’ll warrant –”

“No,” he said directly. “We need your help, Tarangis.”

“Forgive me a disbelieving chuckle.”

“I swear upon my dam’s egg that the Princess has been completely honest with you, apart from the bit she just concocted about Dragon armour. That is a surprise to me. We have no plan to take or endanger your life. What we desire is clear. We will provide you valuable merchandise against which you will advance us gold sufficient to purchase zisrazix serum, and whatever else my profligate Princess requires.”

Azania’s eyebrows shot upward.

The man twirled one of the waxed ends of his moustache. His brown eyes were not unkind, but neither did they lack for cunning in their own right. Dragon observed that he was richly dressed in a fine velveteen jacket. Many costly jewels adorned his slim, neat hands.

He said, “You expect me to bear the cost of moving your merchandise?”

“We will negotiate once you have made your appraisal,” said the Princess. “I believe this offer lies in your realm of expertise – fine artworks.”

“I expect to be fitly compensated, Princess and Dragons. Once the story of your dealings with me gets out … let’s just say, the walls of tents are only so thick, and the ears behind them are numerous.”

“What were you going to tell me?” she challenged.

He nodded slowly, coming to an unspoken decision. “Princess, I have on ironclad authority, that the royal deal regarding your future was that Vanrace would cover the cost of your ransom over a period measured in years, with bonuses paid upon the successful production of heirs.”

Azania wheezed, wobbling so badly that a blue paw snapped up to catch her.

The man bowed from his seat. “I regret the undoubted hurt, Princess. Your father has never been an easy customer, but I expected better of him.”

Hurt? He might better have punched her in the gut.

Why not just stake his daughter out in the desert for the army ants to ravage?

“I am sorry. Please, show me your merchandise.”

After passing the Princess over to his proffered paw, Aria Seaspray unwrapped the load and began to show the pieces to the man. On the third artwork, a close-up of the magnificent, variegated flower ironically called ‘the Queen’s ransom,’ he lowered the canvas to glance between his guests.

“Are all unsigned? Who is the artist?”

“I’m sitting in his paw.” Azania made a brittle smile. “He’s a touch shy about his gift.”

His reaction to ‘shy’ almost blasted her curls off her head.

Acting utterly unmoved, the Princess added, “The quality is consistent. Twenty-one pieces. We can bring more, and bigger works, if that is of interest.”

“Interest?” he muttered beneath his breath.

Of course, he insisted on looking through each and every piece. At length. Dragon almost shed his scales in frustration. The longer it took, the more nausea churned in his gut, until he feared he would need to find a different corner in which to lose the contents of his stomach at high speed.

Finally – finally! Tarangis Lionbaiter stopped driving his guests absolutely batty, and said, “These will sell richly, to the right customer, of that I have no doubt. You will need to sign them, Dragon. The artistry is exquisite. Unique style. Attention to detail, breathtaking – right down to shining droplets upon petals, and insects. Truly, Dragons see the world as no other creature.”

What irony. If only he knew.

“What are you thinking, Princess? Dragon?”

Azania said steadily, “We will cut you in to the profit of every sale. Aye, I appreciate that means you take the financial risk. You advance us money against this first consignment of merchandise, and later report your results on an item by item basis. We appreciate this may take time.”

“You seek an honesty deal? Some might call that naïve.”

Her dark brows twitched. “Some, when doing business with Dragons, might call that the only way.”

* * * *

So, to the waiting. The weary Princess slept in the crook of his foreleg, as ever. Dragon brooded over this peculiar business of Sea Dragons making fire underwater. An extra magical organ that did the impossible? Gnarr. He picked at the webbing between the talons of his left forepaw, deciding that he was far too good at brooding, mooching and ruminating for his own good. Nice of his friends to point out another weird feature about himself only his brothers had ever noticed, and that, years ago. Fritz Duckfoot, they had called him for a few weeks, before … hmm. Before his dam screamed at them to stop, and cuffed Brawl so hard he flew across the lair.

Most unlike Indigofire the Devastator.

Tarangis had left to make arrangements and tap his contacts. Finance was no problem. They had settled upon a sixty-forty split, with Dragon getting the Dragon’s share. Naturally. To be honest, he had no strong feelings about the terms upon which such a deal should be sealed, but the Princess told him afterward that to refrain from haggling would not only have been regarded as dishonourable, but highly suspicious. The second, he understood. The first? Humans were most irregular creatures.

Peculiar as a duck-billed platypus.

Those were supposed to be mythical, but the Vaylarn Archipelago apparently possessed platypuses in abundance. Showed what he knew about anything.

Platypus, platypuses, rhymed with … musses?

He needed to convince the Princess to purchase the hair oil her type of crazy curl apparently needed. Imagine. Hairy curls. What a perfect horror to a creature of smooth scales.

Ariamyrielle Seaspray, as restless as the ocean waves, had disappeared into the heavens. Scouting, she said. Probably checking if anyone happened to be leaving the camp in a hurry, intending to call King N’gala down upon his errant daughter in search of a tidy profit. Dragon kept one eye open a slit, in case any fool tried to pinch this treasure from his paw. It would be the last thing … ah, a subtle whisper of wings. The cobalt charmer, who dispensed favours at the points of her blades, landed soft-pawed outside the tent at the edge of the encampment which had been given over to the Dragons.

All the better not to disturb the natives.

Aria padded within. Sleeping? He nodded slightly. Nothing from that Tarangis? Hmm. This serum may be rarer than we thought. I see you know how to hold a female, Dragon.

He lazily showed her a few fangs.

Oddly enough, these Humans are giving our tent a very respectful perimeter. Must be your grumpiness.

Or your prickliness.

Chortling appreciatively, she … stalked him. It was the only way he could frame a walk so sinuous, it detached his brain from the rest of the universe, and made him float. Blissful. Uncaring that he stared. Spellbound.

Settling beside him, mesmeric eyes but a foot from his, she murmured, Made you look.

Oh, what did I miss? Was I snoring?

All the future pain her dumbfounded look promised was worth it. Surely.

The threesome dozed. The late afternoon sunshine turned the tent into a hothouse. This was the reason they used so many layers, Dragon remembered thinking at one point. Azania took off her robe and used it to pillow her space, but she did not leave the crook of his elbow.

Toward evening, the sound of a footstep brought the Dragons fully awake. The Princess sat up, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. A messenger informed them that Tarangis wanted to speak with them. Shortly, they were back with the man in his tent, being informed that they had a minor problem called Fazikil the self-styled Warlord. He held the only verified source of serum and would neither sell it to anyone for love nor money, nor would he emerge from his fortified cavern in the ridge behind the camp.

Rather suspicious.

“So, what are you suggesting?” the Princess asked curiously, as their host made a tent of his fingertips and waggled his eyebrows behind them.

“There are a number of parties in this camp who might be persuaded to part with solid gold should an unfortunate accident occur, especially one involving the Warlord. Including me. I have nine interested business partners. Besides which, I am just now looking at two large, vengeful Dragons.”

“We’re vengeful?” Dragon echoed.

“Of course we are,” Aria chirped, “just tell us why?”

The Lionbaiter said, “My partners’ research strongly indicates that Fazikil, a noted purveyor of toxins, may have supplied the compound used to poison the King and Queen of the Vaylarn Archipelago.”

He clapped his paw over the Dragoness’ nostrils in the nick of time. Even so, the snort of her fire singed the man’s eyebrows and hair as he jerked back. Rather usefully, he did not instantly lose the offending paw. Neither did Aria thunder and fulminate as he would have expected. Instead, she grew quiet.

As quiet as death itself.

After listening to the sounds of the camp, Dragon growled, “Let’s do business, Tarangis Lionbaiter. Dragon business.”

* * * *

Aria Seaspray’s idea of motivation was to tickle him beneath the chin and coo, Who’s a hefty, humongous hunk then, Dragon? Think you can shiver my scales? Think you can make me purr?

So un-Devastator-like. His sire and his brothers would have been exchanging fisticuffs and working themselves into a champing, fire-snorting frenzy. She said a few soft words, and that familiar, burning pain developed behind his keel bone. Frustrating, but less frustrating than his part in this raid. The plan was for him to be the diversion while a Human-Dragoness team did the dangerous work. He was the bait. They were the dagger sinister.

His reply? Twist off a few heads for me, would you?

How adorable you are, said she, batting her multiple eyelids outrageously.

That was more than enough to put the rumble into any self-respecting Dragon’s chest. Launching off a knoll just north of the camp, Dragon took to the air with a series of powerful wingbeats. The early evening crimsons faded toward night; the first stars twinkled above the horizon to the east, white blurs to his sight. Gathering altitude, he spread his wings over the forest of tan and brown tent spires, taking in the scents of cooking fires and roasting meat, and the ever-present stench of animal and Human excrement. This settlement needed a good, cleansing rainfall – not that any was due in the next decade. The small stream that served the place entered blue and exited muddy and brown, complete with the adornment of an occasional misplaced body part floating away to supply the hungry scavengers.

The ruckus of at least three drunken fights drifted up to his ears. As if the raiding party needed a diversion. Those vultures down below, and the snarling pack of wild badlands dogs, could do with a good scare. Never mind the Humans. Time to see if he could flush a few scuttling rats out of cover. Sucking in a huge breath, he wheeled upon his wingtip and prepared to make a diagonal run across the campsite, aiming to turn their attention away from the ridge, where a strongly defended double door guarded the Warlord’s caves behind – a mini fortress.

Wind wuthered against his ears as he accelerated toward the tent city.

FFAA-ZII-KIILL!! he bellowed. Thunderous! Fazikil the Warlord! Come out of your hole, you mangy, scuttling rodent! Come meet me! I – am – DRAAA-GOOONNN!!

It was not his wings that blasted dust off the tents ahead of him; that picked up a fold of fabric and its tent pole, and shovelled them brutally to his left. Krack! The tent tilted majestically. Despite that he was not meant to be sowing widespread destruction, Dragon’s five hearts lifted in fierce song. No fire had he, but there was some other unusual power about him. A sonic blast? He tested it repeatedly, thundering his challenge again and again as he swept over the tents, ensuring that every hearing being within a mile knew that his fury burned against Fazikil the Warlord.

The white and tan badlands dogs fled in yipping chorus as he exploded over them, back-beating his wings to nearly stall his flight before he turned to look over Chakkix Camp once more. He arched his wings massively, rising into the last crimson sunbeams fleeing away from the tent tops, making sure he looked as large and intimidating as possible – and that every eye remained fixed upon him.

Excellent. Now to vent his spleen upon these scuttling cockroaches.

Drawing breath once more, he thundered until the far ridge echoed the notes of his displeasure and invective. Dragon drifted above the camp, casually chasing knots of men and women to roar down their necks. Where was this Fazikil? Who was hiding him? He had the pleasure – or rather, the displeasure – of seeing two men lose control of their bowels as he pressed them for information. Was it the champing fangs? The thunder that belled, the paws that stamped?

He was having such a jolly old time, that when he saw the Princess’ yellow flag waving, his brain tried to trick him into thinking it was a joke. No. Aria was in trouble! Surging so violently through the air that his wingtips creaked and then smacked together at the limit of their stroke beneath his belly, he blasted toward the royal and landed ten feet aside from her so that the spray of dirt and gravel did not hurt her.

Four motley local militia guarded her person; he heard more scuffling about inside the cavern.

“What’s happened? What’s gone wrong?

“Doors shut inside. Aria trapped,” she gasped.

Gutless benighted fools! he swore, charging in through the narrow entrance. Two wooden doors had been ripped open by the Dragoness, gaining her and the strike team access to the first major cavern, but the one beyond that was sealed by metal doors deeply bolted into solid rock. A muffled, concerning scuffle could be heard beyond. No precise clashes of weapons, no battle roars. The cobalt Dragoness sounded as if she were flopping about like a fish in there, which meant one of two things – a net, poison, or both.

Blood fizzed behind his ears. Trap!

ARIA!!

Dragon … she coughed and choked on something.

He struck that door with everything he had, almost crushing a female warrior who was too slow to leap out of his way. Drawing back with a muttered apology, he shoulder-charged it again, barely making a dent in the solid metal. The hinges and bolts shook, but nothing cracked. It was bolted top and bottom as well, he saw. He needed a lever. Something tougher than his shoulder.

The Princess, hobbling through the cavern that he had crossed in a flash, not even seeing the bodies strewn about the sandy floor, shouted, “Boulder!”

Excellent idea. Roaring, I’m coming. Hold on! Dragon charged without again, remembering what he had seen just beside the entrance. Granite boulders. Most were too small to be of use, but a six-foot oblong was just the medicine that door needed. Grasping it in both forepaws, he heaved it onto his shoulder and staggered back inside. Alright. Juggernaut had been right about his lack of physical conditioning. He was strong, but should be so much stronger, unless one counted the fine muscles used in painting. Those were in excellent shape.

“Kill her! Kill the – urgh!”

Not so easily done, even if she was half-paralysed, or whatever was going on in there.

Hefting the boulder, he considered the door for a second. Bend it. Do enough damage, and he’d be able to get a paw through – no. The lower left hinge was the place to go for.

“Stand back, Princess.”

Dragon set about hammering the door down with the aid of several tonnes of granite. The metalwork was sound, the hinges well-made and the deadbolts solid, but they had never been intended to withstand the assault of a crazed fifty-foot Dragon, who decided he was acting a great deal like a maudlin knight in shining armour. Silly, but true. The phrase, ‘can’t help himself’ was foremost in his mind as he battered that first hinge into a twisted, pathetic curl of metal. The tonnage of boulder made the deadbolts squeal in protest; one sheared right off, and that was his way in. Forcing his shoulder into the gap, he peered beneath.

Aria’s back arched in a horrible spasm. Choking!

Exerting every last ounce of his strength, he bent the metal door back and up, creating enough of a hole for him to force his way through.

Aria! ARIA!!

Chapter 19: Hunting

AZANIA, SOMEHOW HOP-RUNNING on her plaster cast leg, dashed beneath him. “Get her tongue! She’s choking –”

Reaching around the Princess, he disembowelled an enemy warrior taking aim at her head with his sword. Picking up the body, he threw it at two others who considered themselves well enough to be trying to crawl toward the Dragoness. Not for long. He helped Azania to force open Aria’s mouth. So many dead. This cave had been heavily fortified in preparation for the trap, but the Dragoness had made a mess of everyone and everything inside.

Rough evening.

Casting about, he pointed with his talon. “Get me that board.”

The Princess dragged it up and together, they pressed it between her fangs, holding the airway open. The Dragoness’ horridly stiff posture relaxed by degrees and her breathing eased, until she blinked several times and focussed on them.

Not … here. Get Tarangis. Squeeze him …

Your welfare first, he countered, checking her over for injuries. Nothing too major. Dozens of cuts, especially around the forepaws and shoulders; a couple of imbedded arrows. She would live.

The battered strike force reassembled in the cavern around them, oblivious to the white fury swelling in his hearts. Could Tarangis have betrayed them? Why had he not examined the colours and flavours of his heart more closely before they embarked upon this revenge hit for a man they barely knew? Aria spat out the plank and then coughed up a greenish, oily substance that smelled like bitter almonds. Ardikx’xit root. Nasty stuff for Dragons. Had they shot it down her throat mid-battle?

In a couple of hours, she should be fine. Getting the taste out of the mouth could take weeks, he had read.

He rubbed her back. Need any help?

You did already.

Sadness? What was this? Before he could dwell on the question, however, several men appeared in one of the side passages, carrying Tarangis upon a litter.

“He’s not here, and neither is the serum,” he spat. “How did we get this so wrong?”

Aria growled, “You betrayed us! Tell me the truth –”

“No, I miscalculated. I’m sorry.”

“Dragon, squeeze the truth out of him!”

Narrowing his eyes, he glared at Tarangis, taking in every detail with the attention of an artist, from the dilation of his pupils to the scent of his heart. “He’s telling the truth.”

Dragon!

He met that smouldering gaze as steadily as he could, trying to communicate everything he could. The fires of her eyes modulated through teal, umber, gold, green and crimson before settling into a more neutral aquamarine swirl that complimented her colouration. Later, that hooded gaze told him. He nodded slightly, wondering if Isles Dragons did not share the same abilities many Tamarine Mountains Dragons did. Humans might react very differently to Dragons if they knew they could scent trace many of the emotions in their hearts. Blitz the – the Dragon he had been before, had been told he was particularly adept at the skill.

If so, he had much to learn. Neither Aria nor Azania were at all straightforward to read. He made many mistakes, but with Tarangis, he was certain.

Turning to the man, he growled, “What went wrong?”

“He had a body double. Plus, Fazikil must have built these inner defences without my spies learning of it. I lost a number of good people today. The prize has slipped from our grasp.”

“I scouted earlier,” Aria said coldly. “Describe this man to me.”

Tarangis instructed his men, “Turn that one over.”

They heaved over – well, somewhat less than half a man. It must have been Aria’s sword which had cleft his torso just beneath the ribs. The Princess gagged and looked away. Even the grizzled militia acted queasy. The two Dragons examined his features –square face, a neatly trimmed black beard, and a surprisingly hooked nose.

“The nose is the giveaway,” Tarangis said. “That one is partly false. See?”

“Ah, clever work with the modelling clay,” Dragon approved. “Even I barely –”

Aria threw him a disgusted look. “We do not admire the enemy!”

One of the warriors said gruffly, “This was a well-executed ambush, mighty Dragoness. Without you, we would have been carrion for the crows. We are grateful – men!”

The militia, male and female alike, thumped their right fists against their chests in what must be a salute or gesture of honour.

The Dragoness nodded, mellowing about as much as a petrified tree swayed in a breeze. He promptly locked up this errant opinion, bound in heavy chains and tossed into the Lumis Ocean. May she never hear him think such a thought!

She said, “Likewise, I should have been overwhelmed, save that I was surrounded by many fine swords. I am sorry for those who fell. As I said, I scouted earlier and took note of all leavers of the camp. There were two who might well resemble this man. I don’t think our treacherous Warlord could have gone far.”

“Tell me where …”

Dragon fell silent, tongue-tied with shame. Here was where it all fell in the trash heap. He just could not be what Aria or the Princess needed when it came to the final reckoning.

“It’s night. We will hunt better once the moons are up,” Aria said quietly. “You and me, Dragon. We’ll leave the Princess –”

“No.” Tarangis threw up his hands. “You must guard her well, Dragons. Word has already spread. The most stunning woman in all the realms is worth more than a princely sum. Ma’am. I know this camp. You are not safe here –” Dragon cleared his throat aggressively “– except with you two around. My team will go over these caves minutely looking for any hidden compartments, stores, all of that. There will be plenty. Plus, there’s a whole industry in burrowing into the back of other peoples’ caves. Princess, I suggest you purchase body armour today. Nice outfit, out of interest. Most of this camp could not believe a royal would not coming wearing … well, a rich dress. Or look like them.”

“Or drool like them,” Dragon put in politely.

“That too,” Tarangis grinned. “Guilty as charged. Those trousers are the most stupendously wicked example of … uh, with all respect, Your Highness.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take that as it’s meant, shall I?”

“Let’s go, folks. We’ve work to do.”

With ten local militia charged to guard the Dragoness – someone with cobalt scales was more than a touch grumpy about that – Dragon conveyed the pert yet devastating rump of the camp-stirring Princess over to Tarangis’ trusted armourer, a muscular woman called Yardi. She set about fitting the Princess for lightweight but strong body armour, wrist guards and greaves for her calves.

What kind of battles was she planning to get into?

As the women chatted, he sniffed around her forge, again set back in the ridge. This cavern was barely large enough for a Dragon to swing a sheep in. Yardi asked the Princess if the Dragon might permit her grandmother, Yarimda, to speak with him.

“Ask him,” Azania said. “He’s stubborn as a winged brick, but good-hearted.”

Good thing she had not said ‘gentle,’ the word on the tip of her tongue. Dragon showed her at least fifteen fangs. “I’m an unfeeling brute at all times, if you please. Yardi, I should love to meet your grand-dam.”

Especially since she happened to be lurking in a narrow corridor at the back of the forge cavern, just out of eyesight. Intriguing scent.

He said, “Honoured Yarimda, please come forth.”

The armourer’s eyes danced as, to the tapping of canes, a white-haired lady emerged from hiding. She stood tall and straight. Reminded him of his Great-Aunt Ignita, to be frank. Plus, she must be ninety if she was a day. He bowed his muzzle, and scented the air inquisitively a second time.

“Where do you hail from, ma’am?”

“I was about to ask the same of ye, young Dragon,” she said in a scratchy yet warm voice. Her blue eyes twinkled. “Large for a Devastator, are you not? I mark ye for kin of Bolt the Devastator, have I the rights of that?”

By her accent, she was from nowhere near this southern kingdom. Her skin was pale, her oval eyes slightly slanted and flared at the corners.

“Hamirythe Kingdom?” he guessed.

“Perceptive,” she agreed.

“I was of the Devastator Clan, ma’am, but am no longer. Bolt would have been my great-grandsire of my father’s line, could I claim kinship. I am without Clan and without name. Call me Dragon.”

“That would be Blaze, mated with Indigofire, formerly of the Crusher Clan?” she noted. Without waiting upon his confirmation, she said, “I grew up in the Hamirythe Kingdom on the shores of the Lumis Ocean. From our front porch we could spy the mighty Sanbris Whales or bluntnose dolphins, and see the Sea Dragons hunting the great Sea Serpents. Mortal enemies they are, and ever shall be.”

As she spoke, she approached him, until she stood unafraid beside his forepaws. Dragon hunkered down politely, bringing himself to eye level with her. Yarimda looked him over with an almost proprietary air. Her cane tapped the webbing between the digits of his left forepaw. She gazed deep into his right eye, and nodded as if something had just become clear to her.

Dragon shivered.

The old woman shuddered at exactly the same time. In a voice that threatened to scrape his scales free of his hide, she declaimed:

I hearken to the ocean, ocean deep,

I sense a magic deep asleep,

Deep within, a slumberous power,

Arise, deep fire, when knocks the hour.

Dragon blinked, never more taken aback. “Ma’am?”

She said, “Oh! I haven’t had one of those in the longest time.”

The Princess stared at him, her eyes so full of questions, he feared she might cry. He could not bear her gaze.

Instead, in a hollow voice, he whispered, “I have no fire, ma’am. It is my greatest affliction.”

Yarimda clutched her canes so tightly, he raised a paw, hesitated, and then clasped her frail form as gently as he could. He helped her to sit upon his folded foreleg.

Rest for a space, honoured one. I know deep sight costs the bearer much. My Great-Aunt Ignita had episodes like this. Which of them was the more shaken? He asked, Is it rightly said that Sea Dragons breathe fire underwater?

In water or in air, she said, once again speaking fluent Draconian. Dragon, I had a friend when I was but a girl, younger than the Princess of T’nagru. Her name was –

He blinked. Say that again?

She repeated the string of burbling syllables, sounding almost exactly like a stream chuckling its merry way between boulders and over a small waterfall. I called her Wavewhisperer. Each year when her kind migrated, she would stop by for a few weeks. We used to play together in the waves, this girl and a white Dragoness of the ocean. She took me for rides on her back for hours on end. One day, we were set upon by a Sea Serpent in the shallows and she was nearly killed. Thereafter, her dam and sire forbade her from visiting a strange Human creature who lived upon the land. We lost touch. I married and had children, and moved away to another kingdom with my husband. Yet, every time I went to the ocean, I would call for Wavewhisperer. Last time I was back in Hamirythe, they told me that the migrations have stopped, and I have wondered ever after what befell the Sea Dragons, and my beautiful friend.

When was that, exactly?

About twenty years back, they said.

He frowned slightly. That timeframe did not add up with what Aria Seaspray had shared about the Sea Serpents moving in and cutting off all shipping between the Archipelago and the mainland.

He prompted, She breathed fire?

O Dragon, thou seeker, she said. I am not sorry to have spoken over you. Something in you reminded me of Wavewhisperer, you see. I sense you need to hear this, a further word for you alone. Laying her hand upon the wall of his chest, she whispered, Ocean always rises. Ocean – always – rises.

He blinked again, trying to shake off the sense of being a hatchling at this woman’s paw. An ache spread from his tired eyes into his head.

Yarimda said, They had a word for it in wave, the speech of Sea Dragons. I … could not translate it except by explanation. Sea Dragon magic splits water into air, whereupon –

Water becomes air? Ma’am, they could not be more different substances.

I did not say I understood the process, young Dragon, she reproved. This is what I know. It is not about turning water to steam. Their magic deploys an energy similar to lightning to split water into air’s … parts. Different gases. Those parts are highly flammable. And in case your sense of disbelief is running high, I would swear to you on my own mother’s womb, that I have seen white fire blossoming beneath the water, and indeed, I have the burns upon my right leg by which to remember the experience.

I apologise.

She chuckled, and in her laughter was the fond echo of history’s remembrance.

He said, Ma’am, while your granddaughter and my Princess work together, could I prevail upon you to tell me some stories about the Sea Dragons? Everything you know. Please? I am eager to learn.

I understand, she said, reaching out with her canes to frame his shoulders. You have broader, more powerful shoulders than your kin. Your skull is sleeker, less blunt of a wedge. The structural qualities of your wings allow you to fly faster and farther than other Dragons. And even your eyes long for water and fire; that I sense most poignantly. Have you tried salt water? Have you ever immersed yourself in the ocean, Dragon, and trembled at its mighty embrace?

He opened and closed his jaw, twice. Words failed to emerge.

Fate’s falling had stolen his tongue.

* * * *

Four hours later, when he, the newly armoured Princess and Ariamyrielle Seaspray set out upon their hunt, he had still not regained the power of speech.

Ocean. Always. Rises.

This was the new drumbeat of his hearts. Could he believe?

Tarangis Lionbaiter had another word for them. Word was that in the fall, when the Obsidian Desert cooled enough to endeavour a crossing, the Skartun would march against T’nagru. King N’gala N’gala had already despatched his spies, although no-one truly believed the enemy would come. A desert crossing was a phenomenal physical feat. Inconceivable for an entire army to make it that far under such harsh conditions – yet these Skartunese must have their ways, for they had done it once before, rising like ghosts from the deep desert to fall upon and ravage the Kingdom of T’nagru. After that, Vanrace. Then, they had divided and vanquished the Dragon Clans and dragged many off into slavery.

How? What vile magic could enslave a Dragon?

Aria led them at a fast clip to the southwest, over a sea of dry gullies and barren slopes. The occasional brush coverage was the scratchy, dust-covered sort that survived where few other things grew. They surprised a pack of tan desert foxes scrapping over a small carcass, coming upon them so quickly that they were almost overhead before the pack scattered with shrill yips of fright. Half an hour on, the Dragoness’ sharp eyes spied the almost-expired glow of a coal not properly banked for the night.

Silent swoop! Nearly scared the trousers off a T’nagrun merchant and the brown-haired strumpet sleeping beside his shoulder. He was not the man they wanted. Dragon had to snarl at the woman to stop her screaming.

Azania asked him to convey a message to her father that she was well, safe and not coming home anytime soon. Life with a Dragon being far too stimulating, apparently. Broken leg and all.

Nonetheless, he was more pleased by her response than he cared to confess.

Back on the wing and circling more easterly to intersect the trail of the other man Aria had tracked heading in this direction, he told the two females what he had learned from Yarimda. The Princess pressed him to admit that his heritage may indeed be more complex than he had imagined. The hulking mountain of brown scales snapped spitefully at her prodding and poking into what, for a Dragon, was a topic of great sensitivity. Sigh. Apologise. Explain how great a store Dragons set in what others thought of their heritage, reputation, deeds of paw and size of hoard.

All those shallow indicators meant … what, exactly?

Blergh!

Princess Azania said, “We value birth, station, wealth and beauty. Humans are so much better than Dragons, don’t you see?”

“Tastier than Dragons, for sure,” he agreed, snuffling at her legs.

“Dragon! Get off.”

“Tell you what, Princess. When you meet your sweet little King, allow me ten minutes or so to interrogate him thoroughly regarding his intentions toward you. We’ll soon smell out the mettle of the man.”

She hissed, “I’ll fight my own battles, Dragon – much as I appreciate the sentiment.”

Feisty. Did that King have any idea what he was letting himself in for? He said, “Very well, Princess. Just remember, you’ve a one-Dragon army right behind you.”

“Which body part do I lose if I call you sweet?”

“Three.”

Ariamyrielle Seaspray looked askance at them. Did she feel left out of their silliness? Just weeks ago, he had been wishing he could meet a creature like this spirited Princess. Tiny spitfire. Rebellious and unafraid. Accepting of his deficiencies and differences.

Over there was a gutsy martial artist, still bleeding in seven places that he could count, who despite being barely half his size, could thrash the scales off his body any day of the week. The first Isles Dragoness to cross the ocean. Was she also different? A – how did Humans put it – square peg in a round hole? Did her service to the King of the Archipelago carry connotations of shame or dishonour? She had revealed only the most minimal minutiae of her life. Leery of prying, he refused to press her.

They passed over the area several times, gliding silent-winged above the broken terrain. Aria did not grow frustrated. She quartered the ground efficiently. Huntress. He took mental notes, not exactly being a mighty hunter on account of his wretched eyesight.

Landing, they found his trail, only a few hours cold. The man had not stopped even here, despite the dangers. Dragon tracked him by scent and occasional sight. This, he could do. Close up work. An hour later, they spied his desert pony staked on a long rope in the base of a gully. Azania gentled the pony with her Equitone skills. Scent led them to a narrow crack. Fazikil the Warlord had hidden himself well. Before Aria approached, Dragon sniffed out a trap, a quarter-sized crossbow concealed beside the entrance, armed and set to trigger via a tripwire.

Fazikil was a nervous man.

He flexed his talons. Hope he was a ticklish one, too.

Chapter 20: Juggling Act

FAZIKIL CAME OUT SCREAMING. Dragon considered bopping his head against the rocks a few times to shut him up, but Human skulls did not tend to respond well to such treatment. They cracked like nuts and spilled their contents. The Princess might be unappreciative of the mess. Besides, they needed information from him, not blood. No. Information now, blood later. Much better.

“I’ll question him,” said Aria.

Taking the quivering fool in paw, she launched into the air. Shortly, his screams were echoing all over the badlands.

Charming way about her, that Dragoness.

Meantime, he cautioned the Princess against entering the cave to make a search. There was another scent trace inside – but, no heartbeat? “Alright, enter cautiously,” he advised.

The Princess crept within. Within seconds, her whisper emerged, “Dead, Dragon. It’s G’nura, one of father’s … less official employees. I wonder if Fazikil murdered him?”

“Maybe earlier?”

“Would he have had time?” He heard her clothing rustle as she shook her head. “I’ll bring out all of their bags. We should search everything.”

“Good. Do that.”

Aria passed across the faces of the three moons, often simply called the triplets, tossing her captive from one paw to another. What was not to like about juggling skills in a Dragoness? Had he forgotten how to scream – no, there it went again, as she pretended to fumble a catch.

Music. Sweet music to a Dragon’s ears.

While Fazikil and G’nura had both been carrying pouches full of items and scrolls of undoubted interest to the Kingdom of T’nagru, there were no vials of serum or anything that resembled them. By the time they had searched twice, Aria Seaspray returned with a limp body in her paw.

“You killed him?” Dragon accused. “We needed –”

She spat, “Poisoned himself. I should not have left his arms free. Fool! Now we’ll never learn the location of this serum.”

He shook his head slowly. “That’s bad.”

“Dragon! I get the point! I’ve botched this entire mission. The King and Queen’s deaths will stain my paws forever.”

They flew back in defeated silence.

Aria was just leading him to a landing outside the Warlord’s cavern, when she turned to him, hissing, “When you said you knew Tarangis Lionbaiter was telling the truth, Dragon, what did you mean?”

“I smelled it upon him.”

“You smell truth?”

“I smell … emotions.” The Princess jerked in his paw. Dragon bit off the pleading, weaselling voice in his head. Truth. Only the truth. “I … look, I don’t exactly flap around the moons bleating my weirdness to everyone, alright? I know I’m a freak. No fire, weird senses, the whole artsy-cutesy Dragon thing – gnarrr-bloody-death! Just leave it, alright?”

“No, no, I think you can help – you alone,” Aria countered, threatening his right nostril with her fore talon. He chose to ignore that gesture.

The Princess whispered, “You can smell … how I feel?”

Grrrr! “Like reading a scroll, Princess – spot the sarcasm. Sometimes. Female emotions being so clear and uncomplicated –” they both chuckled on cue, but he steamed right on “– so, feelings present themselves to me almost like colours and scents, alright? Grief is dark and dank, serenity is blue, fear can be bitter browns or purples … ah, I don’t know. Look. Everyone knows their heart at some times, and other times, it confuses them worse than a new coat of multi-coloured scales – sorry, that was a terrible comparison. By some miracle, do you understand what I mean?”

“Sort of.”

“Sometimes the pond is clear and other times it is murky. Better?”

Aria chuckled, “So, how am I feeling now?”

“Grieved, yet there are flashes of daisy-yellow hope playing in your psyche.”

His every scale prickled at the weight of her glance. The cobalt Dragoness breathed, “Dragon, do you have any idea how powerful and world-changing such a skill could be?”

Flaring his wings, he landed with care for his passenger’s physical comfort. “Powerful, dangerous, untrustworthy, get a Dragon lynched in the wrong context – aye, I have an idea, Ariamyrielle Seaspray. That is why I do not use this power, most of the time. Or admit to it. What creature grasps even the nuances of their own hearts? And sometimes … sometimes you discover things you never wanted to know, like how profoundly your own parents loathe you.”

To his surprise, she stood tall and placed her right wingtip beneath his chin. In her rich, fluting soprano, she sang, Strength and honour to your right paw, Dragon. May the purity of your hearts shine as white Ignis upon the lands.

Was this some formal blessing among Isles Dragons?

She said, “If you have such an extraordinary nose, Dragon, then all may not yet be lost. We must assume Fazikil would have handled the serum recently, perhaps to hide it somewhere. Smell his hands. Get that scent into your nostrils. Then, go track it down.”

“Dragon the bloodhound,” the Princess teased lightly.

Tickling her beneath the chin with the lightest touch of his talon, he said, “May I remind you, I know exactly how you feel about King Azerim?”

“I think that was pretty flaming obvious,” she grumbled, but her tiny fingers touched his talon appreciatively. “I’m just afraid – afraid it’ll be some girlish fantasy that’ll evaporate like water beneath the suns upon meeting him again. It’s been years. We’ve both changed beyond recognition. He’s … he’s a King now. He needs some pretty, dutiful little thing who wears actual dresses to bear heirs and smile adoringly at him during endless formal dinners.”

Aria snickered, “Azerim? You just described his worst nightmares, Princess. Come on. Let’s put our Dragon to work, shall we?”

It took until dawn, but Dragon’s tired nostrils finally sniffed out an underground storage chamber located beneath the Warlord’s neighbour’s tent. Tarangis Lionbaiter’s partners in vengeance had come up with the probable location. Two feet of sand removed and a door opened, and they found a trove of poisons and serums, amongst which they identified five vials of ice-blue zisrazix serum which came complete with dosage instructions. So did every other poison and antidote. Fazikil must have supplied most of the poison in the seventeen kingdoms.

Busy man.

Tarangis twisted his lips as if he had swallowed a mouthful of army ants. “I’ve seen some nasty business in my time, but nothing on this scale. This is valuable merchandise, but nothing you could pay me to move. Ever.”

One of his associates said, “Bar the serums. Those, I would move for free.”

“Aye. Well said.” Turning to Aria, he held out two vials. “Free of charge. Few things have given me greater satisfaction in recent times than to be able to perform this service. Safe travels, Dragoness. Princess, if you ever need anything, Tarangis is here for you. Dragon, I look forward to swelling your hoard with the proceeds of our agreement.”

He nodded, before on an impulse, he held out his paw for a Human-like handshake. “Tarangis.”

“Dragon.”

What did it mean for a person to earn a Dragon’s regard – and the same in return? He wondered at his reaction as the trio slowly exited the large tent beneath which they had dug up the trove. Job done. Serum in paw. Time to travel on. Tarangis had given him two gold ingots as advance payment from his group. His first hoard. So proud!

Oh, alright. Minor celebration, especially since he had an expensive Princess’ upkeep to consider. Women did not come cheap. Excellent learning point, Dragon.

Aria said, He’ll destroy the poisons, Dragon?

I believe so.

The Princess put in, We need pouch make travel … “Darn it, just can’t get the Draconian out today. We need to get you a padded travel pouch for those vials, Aria.”

Good thinking.

“I know just the spot as well. I was eying up the ladies’ handbags in the –”

“I am not a lady!”

The Princess of T’nagru reached out to pat Aria’s flank. Dragon held his breath. Reprisal threatened, judging by the ruby-red flare of her emotions.

Swallowing audibly, Azania said, “What makes you think that the only kind of lady is born to the station, Dragoness, and has but two legs? Besides, this is not frivolous adornment. You’ve an arduous journey ahead. The last thing you need is to worry about two crystal vials knocking together and cracking.”

The cobalt beauty growled deep in her throat.

“I know. Incorrigible, unmanageable, a complete pain in the tiny rear end. Dragon has made my status clear. Technically, I am still his captive.”

“Technically?” he chuckled. Mwaa-haa-HARR!!

Azania primped her hair. “Thanks. Looks like you rearranged my curls perfectly. Come on, Aria. I’m taking a Dragoness shopping.”

Dragon rolled his eye fires. “Women.”

“Only one of those around here, Dragon, or I’ll dice you up for stew,” Aria warned. She always seemed happier when contemplating a swift slaying.

No chance those gold bars would last the season, was there?

* * * *

They flew only half a day before Aria grew tired and Dragon had to go through the mortally dangerous process of trying to get a female to listen to common sense. Once he had pointed out how many of her wounds were seeping blood, she agreed to put down, having threatened him a suitable number of times – pain, death, dismemberment, having his forelegs braided together with his tail, ripping his wings off. Excellent. The Princess tried very hard not to wet herself laughing.

The following day, they flew up to his jasmine-scented romantic boudoir beside the river, and the day after, to his sadly deserted cave. No slayers to play with. No naked knights sporting in the river. Boring, predictable, yawn.

That was, until Aria set about teaching him the basic exercises related to her martial arts. Then his day and his draconic dignity departed with unseemly haste. Azania began to laugh at him and was promptly co-opted to learn the hand motions and techniques for breaking an assailant’s grip, or for breaking their noses. She fancied that idea. Dragon struggled with the whole idea until Aria – visibly smoking at the jaws in frustration at his clumsiness – told him to shut his eyes and imagine painting the moves upon a canvas that surrounded him in a three-dimensional space.

Suddenly, he was – well, to call his efforts elegant would be an abuse of the word – but effective, at least. Right sequence, no paws tangled in wings, no tail dangling behind to unbalance him.

She still acted sad, and very snippy.

Aria continued to exhibit unusual reserve during the day and a half it took them to fly up to Juggernaut’s lair, where the Master greeted them with an enthusiastic and thunderous roar. He had four new male students who goggled at the Princess, giggled at the Dragon of ill repute, and put on arrogant airs whenever Aria glanced in their direction.

Attractive? Not. At. ALL!

He could gladly have ripped their smug little heads off their necks.

After settling into their assigned cavern, he flew Azania up to the rim of the sinkhole to where the Dragoness was imitating a large sapphire in the last rays of light sneaking between the westerly peaks. A partial eclipse of the suns gave rise to rich, red-golden rays that inundated both the snows and a whitish overcast above, setting both heavens and earth afire. He captured the best possible impression of the image in his mind for later painting. This would need a large canvas. Huge!

Aria cracked open an eye. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

“I know,” he said.

The Princess said, “We came to boot you out – ah! Thanks.”

Dragon steadied the slight Human with his paw. “Nice ice dancing.”

“As if.” Gingerly, she tottered over to Aria. “Here’s your pouch. I punched a couple of extra holes into the straps so that you can secure this to your scabbard. The inside is lined with goose down. I snugged the vials inside myself and treble-secured the stoppers. I copied the instructions and placed them in the pouch as well. I do hope that this is exactly what the King and Queen need to recover.”

“Thank you, Princess. For my part, I have drawn you a map with distances and times, and a tidal almanac,” she returned, passing over a scroll. “State secrets.”

“I shall guard it with my life – our lives.”

Dragon said, “Do the flying times take into account my speed?”

“No, this is all at Aria speed and stamina,” she said, with a wry smile that peeled her lips back from her fangs. “I worked out a probable route for your best speed, which would cut half a day off the journey. It’s still not the easiest. There’s an eight-hour unbroken flying stretch that cannot be avoided. I’ve written down the tidal and moon phase considerations you’d need to plan for.”

He nodded graciously, settling down beside her much smaller form. Being a male, he decided that he enjoyed overshadowing her, despite that she was by the extent of several kingdoms the more dangerous beast. He scented the saltiness upon her hide, and again, that sadness she thought she concealed so well.

How pensive her fires.

“Will you be back?” he advanced delicately.

“It’s complicated,” she sighed. “That’s such a stupid phrase. Dragon – I wish I knew your name! Firstly, I must oversee the recovery of the King and Queen. Azerim entrusted me with their welfare. While I am in the Vaylarn Archipelago, I must keep them safe from the enemies, the other Lords or whoever it was who wished them ill. The scroll said that full recovery might take months. When I left, a full-blown civil war was brewing.”

The Dragoness stared out over the caldera, the reds and oranges reflecting in her eyes. “Are you scent-sensing how I feel right now, Dragon?”

“I am. Your hearts are … complicated.”

“Did you ever wish your life’s flight could have taken a different course?”

He sucked in a sharp breath.

“Paw in jaw!” she groaned. “Bite me, please.”

He clacked his fangs against her shoulder, taking care not to actually nip her – but the action still made her jump. “Dragon – you! Will you promise not to hate me forever for what I’m about to say?”

His shoulders slumped; his hearts flattened as if ironed out to crisp all creases out of their fabric. Here it came. Whenever someone said that, bad news was sure to follow.

He spat, “Speak. I’m big enough to hear whatever it is you have to say.”

“I am promised to another Dragon.”

Big he may be, but he had never felt smaller. Hollowed out, trampled, despised and rejected. All this time …

Azania hung her head. A touch at her psyche showed how closely her feelings mirrored his.

Gutted.

“I am so, so sorry, Dragon. Before I set out on this mission, my family made certain I was promised to a suitable male – in our culture, you see, it is an arrangement made between Clans, by the Elders. I know that must sound strange and stupid and …” She spat fire away from them both, unable to control her emotions any longer. “This is how Isles Dragons set up mate matches. To go against the wishes of the Elders is anathema. This male, he is not a bad Dragon. He is fiery of hearts, from good stock, and well trained in all the approved domestic duties.”

Freaking spineless flying drip, she meant! Oh … he had no words, not even curses. Had she been toying with him? Or was it all more complicated than that?

Rage, o Dragon. Bellow! He had flouted his Clan’s laws, why could she not do the same? Yet life was never as simple as that, was it? If it came not from her heart, then the gesture would be meaningless, and all too soon, she would learn the law of bitter returns.

He could never do that to her.

“I had convinced myself that I would treat him well, terrible as that sounds. We Isles Dragons believe that love grows over time, that it most certainly does not strike like lightning, for then it would burn out just as quickly, lacking for durability and depth. I was angry with my Clan for moving to the match so quickly, but perhaps they, sensing my restless spirit, wanted to hear my promise spoken before I set out for foreign lands, or perished in the ocean.”

Averting her muzzle, she whispered, “I gave my word.”

Never had a silence been more terrible.

From everything she said and he sensed, he knew her heart had not been in it. Far from it.

At last, she said, “Then I met you, Dragon. And I … I would never toy with you. That which you accused me of, so very early on – how very perceptive you were! I’ve struggled ever since to find the right moment to tell you, for I feared to hurt one already so deeply hurt, but now I have come to realise that by withholding these … complications, I have only hurt you the more. And that is the last thing I would ever have wanted.”

Words! Platitudes! Aye, he could not pretend a lack of devastation, could he?

Nor that he had not expected something to arise, a complication or situation, which only served to confirm that he was a benighted creature, never destined for happiness. Life had returned to being predictable in the most unpredictable, excruciating way.

Hope. How treacherous, how slippery a slope.

In a sepulchral voice, she added, “Therefore, I now seal these feelings in my breast. I shall speak no more. Please don’t follow me tomorrow, Dragon. I could not bear it.”

Then why, why, why give the Princess information about how the ocean could be crossed?

Why tease him with that knowledge?

“If ever you need a force of mighty warriors at your back, Dragon, I will await you upon the Archipelago together with the Isles Dragonesses.”

Then, this?

Though it cost him such pain he feared his five hearts should cease to beat all at once, and that pain behind his breastbone quarry its way out through bone and marrow, flesh and hide, he held his silence. Scenarios flashed through his mind. He begged and pleaded. He blocked up a cavern and held her hostage. Allowing her to depart, he stood in lonely isolation upon a mountaintop and bellowed his grief until the very stars rained down from the heavens. He flew across the ocean to slay her intended mate. The waves closed over his head, burying his misery forever. He … spoke not a word.

It hurt even to breathe.

At length, she turned toward him and rasped, “Please …”

Please what? With all the studied courtesy he could muster, he said, “Ariamyrielle Seaspray, I was a Dragon called Blitz. That Dragon would wish you well. This Dragon, who I am today … this creature doesn’t know who he is. He would wish –”

What would he wish? For a different fate altogether?

After the longest time, he managed to say, “He would wish you to grasp deep in your Dragon soul who you are and what it is that you want. Knowing that, he also would wish for you an unreasonable portion of happiness, all the days you soar above the Isles – may they be many, and as wonderful as you are, Aria.”

Rising, he left them on the bluff and winged away to be alone.

Chapter 21: Neither Lair nor There

AFTER SIX WEEKS OF non-stop training punctuated by numerous bouts of self-pitying, depression-fuelled painting, Dragon and Princess made ready to sally forth into the world once more. An unusually long, wet springtime had at last yielded to a halcyon early summer. The increasing dryness promised that all those disappointed Dragon slayers would no longer need to feel disappointed, but could now go traipsing about the mountains without fear of being swept away by raging torrents. All they need concern themselves with now was raging Dragons.

He intended to make their dreams come true.

Well, up to a point.

Juggernaut’s invitation to depart was characteristically blunt. “Your new skills need time to soak in. Go away. Annoy a few knights, sack a few castles, fight battles – I promise if you use that brain as most brains are intended to be used, you’ll be fine. On the way, take a trip to the seaside. Figure out who you are, youngling. Come back when you have a few answers.”

He had a point, as usual.

Better than chewing off his own wings with all the fretting, and being mean to random rocks and trees in lieu of being mean to a Princess who deserved exactly the opposite. He knew exactly who the insufferable one had been over these past six weeks, and it was most certainly not the beautiful biped who had recently had her cast cut off. So gratifying to see her walking without a cane again, even if she still limped in a way that made him wince to watch her. The Princess now joined him each morning for all the stretching and strengthening exercises Juggernaut had prescribed for turning a lazy artistic Dragon into a more formidable beast.

He stretched massively, watching the deeper, more definite striations rippling in his massive shoulder and chest muscles. Aye, in body he had never felt better. The heart? The less mentioned on that score, the better.

He prodded the Princess in the ribs. “Adventure, beauty?”

“With a flop-pawed, crack-jawed, thumping great bag of moping misery-guts and woe? Oh please, count me in!” she retorted, not entirely in jest. “Can’t wait.”

Spare not the adjectives!

He considered her kneecaps. Truly, this Princess needed to be gnawed down to size. Surely a swift deduction was not beyond the bounds of friendship? Just a teasing nibble?

He said, “I’m sorry.”

By his wings, even a male Dragon could use the word ‘sorry’ and mean it. Proudly. He checked. No, the suns had not fallen out of the sky. Not yet.

“Sorry for what?”

Her tiny brown hands secured the buckles of her knapsack. She checked the rolls of his paintings carefully packed into a waterproofed canvas bag, and gestured that he should turn his paw over for her to assume her usual flying station.

He nudged her hips with his nose. “I must say, you look fabulous this morning.”

“You’re sorry I look fabulous?” She squeaked a touch as he plucked her up by the waist, and settled her upon the thickness of his neck. “What are you doing, Dragon?”

“Seating you more comfortably.”

“I, uh … won’t this imbalance you?”

“Doth my ear canals deceive me? I swear I heard a mosquito suggest that her scant eighty-seven pounds might imbalance a thumping great bag of moping misery-guts and woe like me? Pah! What you may need, Princess, is to use your cloak to pad that skinny rump, and to tie yourself on in case you nod off in the first five minutes of flight, as you usually do.”

She touched his head gingerly, clearly unsure how one was meant to pet a galumphing gloom-monster like him. “Dragon, are you alright?”

Her gentleness almost undid him.

“Aye, Princess. Just saying I’m sorry-sorry, hear me?”

She hugged the base of his skull as best she could, and whispered into his ear, “I hear you, Dragon.”

That morning, after a curt parting salute from Juggernaut the Grinder, they set out to check how many hours Dragon could spend on the wing in one unbroken stretch. Seven was tough and eight brutal, but a good mark by which to measure as they had to avoid a small, fast-moving mountain squall. After spending an enjoyable early afternoon exploring a cave system which must once have been home to Dragons, they flew on, ever so slightly heavier in pocket. Three gold coins! His hoard was truly taking shape. Glorious riches.

He’d purchase a private kingdom for the Princess tomorrow.

By late afternoon, they few flying down-valley to where the new lair lay. His nostrils tingled. Ooh, smoke!

To both of their amazement, the party of hunters and trappers they tracked down was comprised of seven women.

“You don’t see that every day in the mountains,” the Princess whispered to him, as they peered down at the unusual group from atop a ridge.

“This independence thing must be catching,” he agreed slyly. “All these women getting ideas – oh, heavens forbid, actual ideas of their own! Rebelling against the social mores of the day –”

“Dragon, I will swat you.”

“Something in the air this year, I swear. Women doing men’s jobs? Carrying weapons and surviving in the wilds on their own without an actual man’s help?”

“Boorish beast. They’ve seen us.”

“Lead on, perfect Princess.”

Dragon picked a lovely, flowery meadow beside the riverside camp for his landing. Only the best for the royal soles. Plus, it was close enough that he could observe the women’s reactions as they saw another female dismount from his neck. Worth it just for that. Generously allowing the Princess to lead the way, he swaggered over with a show of muscle and brawn … ah, forgetting that these were Human females and so, regrettably, none were half as blue as she whom he would have loved to impress.

Easy, Dragon. Let her go.

The Princess walked into their camp with her hands open to show she meant no ill intent. No self-respecting Dragon was about to do that. Instead, he hunkered down behind her as she greeted the women.

“You’ve a tame Dragon?” the smallest and youngest of the group squeaked.

Dragon bared a few fangs. “Tame is a very bad word, young lady. Is your mother about? Does she know how you talk to Dragons?”

The teenager trembled visibly.

“I’m her mother,” said a taller, dark-haired woman, drawing her daughter into a protective embrace. “I’m Sanna. This is Shariba, and she didn’t mean –”

“Don’t mind the Dragon, he’s a big tease,” the Princess advised dryly. “I’m Azania, and I’m afraid he just goes by ‘Dragon.’ Long story. We’d love to hear your news.”

“It’s her! The lost Princess!” Shariba squealed.

He was not sure if he despised or ought to be amused by squealing youngsters. Still, since that last knight of the extremely white buttocks had squealed ten times louder than her, he supposed he might dredge a hint of forgiveness out of the depths of his devious Dragon hearts.

The Princess sighed. “Please, just call me Azania. I’m not as lost as all that. I’ve been taking a break from the royal life here in the mountains with this Dragon. I’m supposed to marry for silly amounts of money in order to keep my father happy and fill the kingdom’s treasury, but my gallant Prince turned out to be a towering pile of steaming mush.” She shook her head soberly. “Men can be so unreliable.”

Dragon growled politely behind her shoulder. All the women stopped nodding at once.

He grinned. Thirty fangs. “I was agreeing with you.”

The Princess said, “Dragon, put a sock in it, would you? He enjoys being intimidating, ladies. Stokes up the male draconic ego, and all that.”

“Shariba, would you like to fly with me?” he offered.

“Mummy!”

“Ah … I was trying to be nice. Ma’am, I assure you, it is perfectly safe and has been tried many times before. Born with wings, see? I assure you, your daughter will see the world in a way she has never seen it before.”

“That’s precisely what I’m afraid of!” the woman spluttered.

Azania gave him the raised eyebrow, hand on hip, foot-tapping treatment. “Dragon. Sit down.”

“No,” he growled, and went and sat in the stream.

He experimented with drinking a great deal of water, but that only gave him a sore stomach. The mysterious magic to split up water did not materialise. Bathing his eyes was soothing, but yielded no immediate results. He was not moping. Nor in a huff. Just taking some time to rest his weary wings to the background chirruping of eight women getting to know one another. There was cooking, weapons sharpening, clothing repair and enthusiastic hair design going on. Azania taught them some fancy hair-braiding designs they excelled at in T’nagru. Hmm. Hair art? Intriguing.

Truly a peculiar creature, the female of the species – but in that effortless bonding, a Dragon realised he sensed something which had been missing in his life for so long. This was why he had absolutely no plans to ransom the Princess back to her father, or anyone else for that matter, anytime this side of the next century or so.

Loneliness could be so cruel.

Before the suns set, he did take Shariba for a gentle flight. No somersaults to wake her up. Just a gentle cruise.

The girl cried – for joy, she said, and returned squawking that he was the most awesome creature on four paws. He suggested that certain Princesses take notes regarding his overwhelming awesomeness.

Was that a flash of jealousy, Azania?

Later, as the fires of a glorious summer sunset burned down to their embers, he monopolised two thirds of the fire and the eight women the other third. He lazed in the heat. They chattered like a flock of parakeets. Observing them, he wondered if his charge might not be lonely as well, or, had she been? Was it easy or difficult for a royal to make friends? What about a woman regarded as the most beautiful in the kingdoms? Even these women were afraid to touch her.

Azania took out his paintings to show them off. To his gratified embarrassment, the women all agreed that he was a gifted painter.

The oldest woman was called Myriba, a white-haired matron missing the smallest finger on her left hand. She said, “I saw one just like this for sale in Vanrace three weeks ago – I’d gone up to the capital to try to get seed for my farm. Terribly expensive. Guess who bought it, though? None other than Prince Floric!”

“He’s so handsome,” sighed another woman.

“Not if you’re downwind, he isn’t,” said a third, wrinkling her nose. They all laughed.

The Princess winked at Dragon. So, they had gained from Vanrace’s treasury after all? If only the King knew that he was spending on art from the Dragon who had ransacked his castle! Azania informed them that Dragon had stolen her from Prince Floric. They all agreed she had dodged the cudgel of fate on that front. Feminine solidarity. There it was again. Had it started with her wearing tough, travel-ready clothing like them, but very quickly become something deeper?

Shariba said, “Can I touch your hair, Princess? It’s amazing!”

Azania said, “Of course, as long as I can touch yours?” The girl chuckled. “Believe it or not, I was always jealous of girls with long, silky blonde hair. I wanted mine to blow in the wind. But when you’ve straightened all the life out of your hair … it doesn’t blow anywhere. It hangs like limp washing.”

“Yours doesn’t do anything of the sort,” the teenager said shyly, “and I’ll bet it flies when you’re aloft with the Dragon.”

“Do you want to touch my scales, pretty girl?” he purred.

“Save that nonsense for the Dragonesses,” the Princess laughed, but then apologised with her eyes. She said, “Isn’t it so strange – well, Human, I mean, how we always want what someone else has? I wanted long, light hair. You probably want to be a Princess. Dragon wanted to be any colour but brown. I’ve often wished for more contentment in life, but that has yet to align with my stars.”

“Contentment is like rest,” Myriba said. She rubbed her eyes just like he did. “Some contentment is good, but then discontent may be what is needed to drive us on – to new experiences, new learning … I guess I’d say, discontent is why we’re here in the mountains. Ladies?”

They spoke for a long time. Struggle. Taxation. Oppression. Absent or deceased husbands, failing farms, bandits, hard times and no sympathy from the ruler of Vanrace. Much discontent about – if that was even the right word.

Maybe something more along the lines of pursuing one’s fate with true courage, would suit?

Meantime, the noble Dragonkind wandered about the realms pillaging for a spot of fun and proudly brooding upon gleaming hoards that could have kept these families for a thousand years. This put his distaste of raiding the poor into perspective, didn’t it? How lofty and noble he had thought himself, meantime knowing nothing of the real challenges facing those he secretly despised in his hearts. He saw the gleam of desperation in their pinched faces, in the gestures of work-hardened hands, in the longing their voices betrayed. No need for scent trace magic to sniff this out.

When prompted, the women told them that there were at least two parties of Dragon slayers nearby that they knew of. One group was camped right outside his lair, awaiting the Dragon’s return. The other, much larger group, featured the noble Sir Rumanic, but they had chosen the westerly trail to his old lair. Curious. Misinformation, or deliberate ploy?

His ire burned as the women described how they had been treated by Sir Rumanic and his men-at-arms. Nothing noble about that knight. Slug-ugly wrapped in a tin can.

He only realised he had spoken his thoughts aloud when the women broke into nervous laughter.

Dragon tried a quirky grin. Probably scared the poor women witless – oddly, this evening that notion did not strike him with the usual belly shivering pleasure. “To tell the truth, my nostrils still burn at the memory of Prince Floric. Has the Princess told you that story in all its malodorous detail?”

* * * *

Daybreak following, he and Azania peered down over the cliffs behind his new lair, taking in the arrangements. No less than five Dragon bows had been strung and primed in the narrow valley, pointing at or across the entrance. These Dragon slayers were smart. The heavy weaponry had not only been well hidden in the foliage, it was also located in such a way that the aim could be quickly adjusted. He smelled fresh soil. He narrowed his eyes, and willed his rumbling belly to be still.

“See a pit anywhere?”

“Spike pit?” she asked. “Can’t … the only obvious place would be lower down, around there.”

She pointed to where a copse of trees standing at the riverbank forced one to wind around them, between the cliff and the trees. It looked too rocky for such an endeavour, but these fellows would have enjoyed plenty of time to exercise their digging muscles while the lair lay empty. He would not like to wander inside their cave until he was clearer about what other traps they might have placed.

Did this mean Sir Rumanic had wandered off to stake out the other lair? He itched morosely at his left wingpit. Something was wrong with this picture. Could the two groups be working together? Why? Deal with this crew first. Hunkering down beside the Princess, they talked strategy. After all, Juggernaut had spent six weeks shouting at him that his brain was his biggest weapon. He heard the instructor’s bellowing in his nightmares now, which was absolutely the point.

Then, he went to go chop down a tree with his talons. Most satisfying.

He dropped the Princess off lower down in the valley and gave her ten minutes to get into position. With the aid of a helpful wind, they knew that the slayers had posted their rearguard about a hundred paces shy of the lair. She had strict orders to step nowhere but the stream. They definitely did not want her finding a Dragon pit.

Shortly, he heard a faint cry, “Dragon, watch out! Slayers at the lair!”

Seven men twitched beside their chosen weapons. Aha! They had missed one – a net trap strung high in the trees. Hefting the trunk, Dragon threw it down upon the nearest trio of weapons. The men scattered with pathetic yells. It was a mystery to him how people did not like to be crushed by a falling tree. One of the Dragon bows fell and triggered itself. A seven-foot quarrel feathered in a tree branch right beneath one of the other lurking men. His reflex triggered the weapon; another quarrel hurtled into the lair’s dark entrance.

Plucking up two boulders, Dragon threw them as best he could at the other bow emplacements but missed with both throws. Blergh! Useless. Another skill to master. Ducking back behind the ridge, he loped toward the Princess’ position, before changing direction abruptly to pour down the mountainside. Two swordsmen were almost upon her. Spying him coming, she whipped out of hiding with a wild yell. The talon blade sliced deeply into the foremost man’s thigh. Mid-swing, the second man found himself plucked into the air by a vengeful Dragon’s paw. He threw the hapless fellow high over the stream toward his fellows.

“Dragon!”

Spinning upon his heel, he curved his body over the Princess. Whirr! A bolt skimmed off his scales. A fraction more penetration, and that would have been his guts. Azania threw her sword overhand, causing the hidden crossbowman to duck. He slipped and fell. Dragon helpfully caught him before he struck the ground.

“So, what’s inside the lair?” he asked.

“Not telling you a thing,” spat the scarred, dark-haired man.

Dragon pinned him against the oak trunk with one paw, and spread the talons of the other. “Let’s just see about making you talk – Princess!”

In a flash, he scragged her neck awkwardly as she plummeted into what had been solid ground just a moment before. A pox on their well-hidden trap! So sharp were his talons, her shirt began to rip as she dangled from his paw. He lurched forward to her aid, and discovered the stupidity of throwing himself headfirst into a deadly pit. Paws out! Somehow, he caught a stake with his forepaw before his weight completely slid inside. Just, just saved his blushes. Placing the Princess beside a wonderfully sharpened example of an implement meant to aerate a Dragon’s windpipe, he used his other paw to control his precariously balanced weight. Actually – pluck, pluck, pluck, like he was shredding a duck!

Whirr! A quarrel skittered off his upturned behind.

Azania’s eyes widened as he pretended to slide down into the pit with a loud but extremely fake groan. She had to duck into a corner as he folded himself up neatly, shovelling several other spikes out of the way.

Glittering of eye, he hissed, “They could at least bother to construct a pit properly. How insulting.”

“Don’t give them time to reload,” she hissed right back, wiping her brow in clear relief. “Let’s go, Dragon. I counted. All of their weapons discharged, save the net.”

“Ooh, what a smart little Princess you are,” he cooed.

She flushed. “Dragon!”

Clutching her about the waist, he coiled his thighs and launched skyward.

Immediately, the Princess shouted, “Beside the cliff!”

“Got it. You were not supposed to –”

Flashing toward the Dragon bow concealed behind a towering oak there, he readied his tail and whipped it forward. Man and weapon rattled together like peas in a pod in the narrow space. The man came off worse.

“– leave the river!” he finished furiously. Hurling himself toward the copse of trees where the other Dragon bow operators still lurked, he realised belatedly that delicate Princesses did not crush small forests quite as well as fifty foot Dragons. He curled up, protecting her against his stomach as he attacked the next bowman with his backside. Squish.

Ahem.

The net triggered and soared uselessly toward the lair. Pleased by that result, he extracted himself from his inadvertent seat and charged around the trees with nothing like the poise he had just spent six weeks perfecting, spraying pebbles and water in a great wave as he fought and failed to regain his balance on the soft footing. In that time, the Princess sidestepped a hacking sword blow and left her dagger in a woman’s chest.

At least one of them knew what she was doing.

The last thug, the one he had abandoned in order to save the Princess, fled downriver as fast as his bandy legs could carry him.

Beast and woman shared a wicked glance.

With a brilliant smile, Azania stuck out her arm, and cried, “Dragon? Fetch!”

Chapter 22: Territorial Aggression

AFTER FILLING IN THE pit with the bodies and covering them over properly with a thick layer of soil and river stones, Dragon spoke a blessing of eternal rest over the Dragon slayers. He and the Princess retreated to their lair to count the spoils. One small sack of mostly low value coins, weapons, armour, four good Dragon bows, a net, and a fair amount of equipment for which they had no need. They remembered to backtrack the slayers’ mounts to where they had been tethered in a small side gully. He sniffed about the place appreciatively. Fourteen varieties of climbing rose, including a spectacular plant with burnt-orange clusters of flowers with brilliant yellow hearts and a rich, sweet scent.

Meantime, Azania gave the equines instructions on how to find the women farther up-valley and set them on their way. Travelling quickly, they should not have too many issues during the daytime. The women would appreciate the four-hoofed bounty.

Dragon stowed his latest canvases and the valuable plunder up above. Other random items, they stacked at the back of the cavern. If someone wanted it, so much the better.

Then, following Juggernaut’s explicit instructions, they reviewed the course of the battle as best they could to understand all their mistakes, a list of depressing abundance. Good thing they had no major wounds to show for their incompetence, the one with the fangs groused.

Azania patted her talon blade. “Better planning and execution the next time. Did you find me that scroll, Dragon? We need to continue to record your exploits.”

“Our exploits.”

Apparently, this sort of talk was popular with the ladies. As an additional side bonus, it happened to be entirely true. Naturally, his treacherous thoughts immediately served up an image of butterfly wing patterns and flashing cobalt scales. Taking the scroll with them, they tracked back through the battle, discussing what they would have done differently, and how.

“Like, sitting on a man’s head,” Dragon growled, eyeing a patch of crimson.

“Elegant, no. I’d argue that effectiveness rules in this case, however,” she noted, chewing the end of her quill. “With a powerful thrust of his hindquarters, Dragon crushed his enemy?”

“Rousing prose! Then, there was the vain but spectacular attempt to run fast on soft sand.”

“Dragon danced lightly across the uncertain footing?”

Murr-hrrr-harrggh! “If only.”

“Next time, more lightly on the paws and counterbalance with the tail?”

“That might help.”

He practised the appropriate move twenty times, while she limbered up with her blade and worked through a series of training exercises. Jolly misbehaving tail. One day, he would learn to make it act as if it was attached to the rest of his body. Azania still struggled with a lack of strength in her newly healed leg. It would come, he assured her.

In the afternoon, they bathed under the waterfall and rested awhile in the congenial heat before he began to grow restless. No particular idea why. Something niggled at the back of his mind like an invisible talon failing to satisfactorily scratch an itch. Nothing to do with Ariamyrielle Seaspray. He tried to distract his conscious mind while watching the Princess repair her favourite top, slit by a lifesaving talon. Fetching a cloth, he wet it in the stream and carefully cleaned her left shoulder.

“Cut?” she asked.

“Narrow but deep, I’m afraid. I can’t sew something like that.”

“Then we’ll stick it with cloth soaked in sarubiz sap – there’s a patch of bushes half a mile downriver, as I recall. Fancy an evening stroll, Dragon?”

“Indeed I do, Princess. How very congenial and civilised we are.”

Were her emotions reflecting Human love? Zesty blues mingled with fiery reds. Perhaps she thought upon a King, while he tried very hard not to remember the beauty of cobalt, and failed miserably. He did like to beat himself over the head with past blunders and regrets, and he would not be surprised if she was doing the same.

Halfway back, his brain finally turned up what he had been worrying over. “Aha! By my wings, there’s a reference to Dragon powers back in my roost!” he burst out.

“Oh. Where did that come from?”

“My brain.”

“Your alleged brain?”

He nudged her shoulder. “Are you feeling as restless as I am, Princess?”

“I am.” She sounded surprised. “Plus, rebellious, fractious, adventurous, dangerous, and any other ‘ous’ you care to mention.”

“Ah, adjectives, the bane of every good writer.”

“Adjectives are the spice of prose, Dragon.”

“Ruinous.”

“Would you care to take over as scribe? Perhaps your turn earlier was a masterpiece of balletic grace?”

“Not so much,” he chortled.

She smelled testy, vexed and amused all at once – all colours of the hot end of the spectrum. Desert Princess. Full of hot air.

The Princess paused to scent the breeze like a Dragoness. “If we’re heading west, what say you –”

“We don’t stop until we reach the ocean?”

“My, what a clever little Dragon you are,” she teased, and attempted to sprint away into the lair before he could swat her. A sort of hobbling, hopping run ensued. “Hurry up and pack!”

“That’s what I employ you for, lackey.”

He ambled after, debating how one cooked snarky Princesses upon a spit and what spices would best enhance her flavour. Hurgh-harr-harr.

She called over her shoulder, “Say, how do you tell how much a Dragon weighs?”

“Er …”

“Put them on scales!”

Worth a chortle? Just about.

He said, “Tell me, what did the Princess get for her birthday?”

“Oh, I know that one. Lots of peasants!”

Her Royal Mischief of the southern wastelands packed two Dragon bows onto his back, along with a quiver of arrows appropriated from those who no longer cared about thievery, nor anything else in the present life for that matter. Appropriation was royal. Theft, not so much. The pert Princess told him she did not care a jot for semantics. She was developing an idea.

A woman with ideas – shiver his wings! Prince Floric should have started running several months ago, and kept right on going. Fool.

An hour after midnight, the pair arrived at Dragon’s old lair. No sign of Sir Rumanic and his merry band of fifty-plus men-at-arms – the kingdom’s finest thugs, of course. That was odd. Less odd was that despite the absence of any Dragons resembling his wonderful family in the vicinity, someone with four paws had definitely been through his place. Hoard plundering. By his sire’s egg, his brothers needed a thrashing. They had left his vegetable garden in a dreadful state. No need for this kind of behaviour. The affront!

Dragon found the reference he sought after half an hour’s perusing his library. It shed no more light on the matter than before. Sea Dragons were said to breathe fire underwater. No handy, concise explanation of mechanism or process. He took the Dragon-sized tome over to show the Princess. She was almost nodding off on the round couch in the corner.

“Did you see this, Princess?”

“Sleep …”

With a fussy paw, he tucked her blanket beneath her chin. “It says that the yearly migration of Sea Dragons kept the Sea Serpents out of the seas between the Vaylarn Archipelago and the mainland.”

“Zzzz.”

“Are you being the royal snore-dom?”

“And you, a royal bore-Dragon.”

“Your jokes really do drag-on,” he snorted. She did look weary, to his considerable annoyance. Curling up beside her, he adjusted the lamp to a much dimmer setting. “Time for your beauty sleep, Princess.”

“You need it so much more than me, minion.”

“What were you thinking regarding the Dragon bows? Do tell.”

“Ranged weaponry … it would change –” she yawned hugely “– every Dragon battle. Fire … limited …” Well, there she went, halfway through a garbled thought.

Using ranged weaponry was not a Dragon skill. It was barely regarded as honourable; always used against Dragons by the filthy peons, not the other way round. A Dragon’s job was to stand and take the hit, which was brave, or to perform a wily dodge, which was cunning. Then he should charge in to finish the job, fire raging and claws flashing. Unfortunately, according to his research and Juggernaut’s far blunter assessment, the glorious frontal charge ended up with a great many Dragons being stabbed fatally in the chest or flanks, especially when teams of men-at-arms or knights worked together against them.

Death being rather less than glorious.

Was this what the Princess meant? She meant for a Dragon to become a flying archer using a bow?

The Dragon bow was a simple weapon. A flexible but powerful eight-foot wooden bow was affixed to a metal pole at the centre, where the hand usually gripped a weapon, in order to support a winch mechanism. No Human was strong enough to draw one unaided – which was their chief downfall. Slow to load. Still, they packed an enormous punch. Used properly, such a bow could spear a quarrel right through a Dragon’s torso. Having air holes pierced through one’s body was rarely any kind of boon to continued health. Picking up one of the weapons and plucking a quarrel from the quiver, he wandered upstairs to give it a test. Careful draw to its limit. Position the quarrel in the slot. Aim at a tree, release!

Whirrr! He missed by four feet, but the quarrel shot away over the edge of his valley and into the night. Serious power. Decent weapon, if he could learn to use it.

Only, what did the Princess expect him to be firing at? Other Dragons? Nothing else was big enough.

Sleep time.

No, before resting, he must read the rest of that reference. Wandering downstairs, he learned about the greatest migration in the world. No-one knew quite where Sea Dragons went. Another continent? Right around the world? What wonders they must see on the way!

Sea Dragon colouration was generally pale shades upon the cooler end of the spectrum, eggshell blues, peony mauves or pinks, delicate greens and of course, pure white. Nothing at all like a muddy brown. Strike one for the ‘thou might have a mysterious, unsuspected heritage’ crowd – but could he ignore the webbing, body size and shape, and unusual magical powers? Sigh.

All of the scholarly lore pointed to an annual migration which was carried out with incredible exactitude. One could set the times and seasons by the arrival of Sea Dragons on the shores of the continent of Solixambria, an ancient term with scant modern usage – until it stopped, as best any scholar or scientist knew, overnight. Not long after he cracked the eggshell, mind.

That was …

* * * *

“Dragon! Dragon! Wake up!” A small boot introduced itself to his snout with considerable force. “Wake up. We’ve been so stupid – Dragon! Come on!”

He leaped up with a thunderous roar, paws ready to rend, strike, disembowel.

Nothing. Blergh! “Princess –”

“They were headed west, Dragon. Sir whatshisname and his men. West!”

“West … west …”

GNARRR-FREAKING-DEATH!!

She clapped her hands over her ears. “Dragon! Please – that’s right. Your Great-Aunt Ignita – we have to get over there, now!”

He had never departed a lair so fast in his life. Leaving the open book where it had served as a pillow for his chin, he and Azania grabbed everything they needed. It was not much. They had been too tired to unpack the previous evening, intending to leave soon anyways. Not quite this soon.

She had to shout at him to pause for half a minute so that she could string the Dragon bows over his back again, using a simple rope harness. Her deft hands tied on the quiver and her small pack of personal effects. They took all of their gold coin – nine coins, commonly called ‘heavy clinkers.’ Smaller brass coins, a hundredth of the value of a gold coin, were ‘clunkers.’ That should cover the cost of a consultation with an optician they intended to find in the Kingdom of Alaxarmis, on the ocean shore. All this ran through his mind in the time it took her to secure their belongings. Then, the Princess hopped from his upraised paw onto his neck.

“Fly, Dragon!”

He flew as never before, powering into the dawn as the first rays of sunshine tickled the peaks of the easterly mountain ranges. First, he swept down to the main trail that lay below his lair, finding exactly as he had feared, the unmistakable signs of many men upon horseback passing by. They had not even paused below his lair, despite that they must know its general location.

Fools! How had they not considered that Sir Rumanic might prefer the odds against a much older, weaker Dragoness? He was not renowned for having an actual spine. More like a blob of jelly wobbling about inside his suit of plate armour.

A few miles on, as they blurred over the lower coniferous forests toward her eerie swamp lair, the Princess leaned forward to speak into his ear canals. “Dragon, I know how you care for honour –”

“I don’t care a rotten fig for honour! That’s my Ignita!”

“I understand.”

“No, you don’t. We brought this down on her. I did! It’s all my fault, don’t you see? This stupid business of building a reputation, of stealing a Princess –”

“Who hung about and refused to go back to Daddy like a good girl?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means the fault lies with both of us. These mountains are crawling with slayers and knights and every other specimen of bipedal idiocy –”

ALRIGHT!! “Sorry. I get it. What’s the plan?”

“Identify Sir Rumanic and hit him with one of these Dragon bow bolts. Try to drop me near your great-aunt, wherever they have her, and I’ll do what I can to help. You go smack the rest of the men-at-arms. Hopefully, the shock effect will be enough.”

“I tried the bow. Missed a tree at forty feet by about four.”

She clucked her tongue grimly. “Then, I’ll just limber up the other one and aim it over your head or something.”

“Off my back. Top-centre of my shoulders is my most stable point when flying.”

“Good. Let me tie up this blasted hair.”

“By my wings, you’re serious.”

“Oh, this Princess is infuriated, Dragon. You’re going to see me fight today.”

A wispy early mist hung about the roots of the mountains, turning trees into dark, looming silhouettes. The peaks swam in an ocean of grey. Dragon increased his altitude. No accidents needed here. Twenty-five miles was not a long flight, even taken at the speed of panic, with a Dragon’s weak eyes constantly scanning the terrain. He could cut a corner or three. Forty minutes? Half an hour, even? He was being ridiculous. The quickest way was right over the mountains. First labour for altitude, then rest during the fast swoop down into her swamp. Changing direction, he beat his wings, revelling in the power of Dragon flight as he soared into the cool morning skies. Meantime, he instructed the Princess in the landmarks to look out for. She must be his eyes.

Half an hour’s flying later, she pointed out over his right nostril, “There’s the hooked peak. I see a few silhouettes under the mist, but it’s hard to tell from this height.”

“Load me a weapon. You, too. Please be careful back there.”

“You’d only catch me,” she said lightly, depositing a kiss upon the back of his head. He quelled a shudder. Moisture, like mist. Nothing to it. Think rather upon what she meant by the gesture.

Keeping his flight as steady as he could, he let the Princess scramble back up his neck and onto his shoulders. He felt the rope twitch. Good. Tying herself on was a smart idea. Shortly, she bade him reach up for a fully tensioned bow, and a quarrel. He readied them in his paws, while changing the angle of attack to mute his wings. Slowing. For this strategy to work, the first shot would be crucial.

His ear canals tingled.

“I hear a clash of metal,” he whispered. “See anything?”

She swore indelicately. “Can’t get this blasted – fixed! There. Braced against your spine spike, Dragon. This could work quite well – fly a touch more to your left wing. Good. There’s the baobab, right?”

“I see it.”

The characteristic stubby trunk of the baobab loomed in the mist, so much thicker here. Thickets of blossoms held aloft by skeletal arms, the branches. A Dragon’s aggrieved roaring shook them, sounding strangely muted to his ear. Approaching from the north, there was no visual sign of battle, but they both heard plenty now – the rough cries of many men-at-arms, the thrashing and bellowing of a Dragon, shrill whinnies of horses. The acrid scent of char hung damp and thick in the air. She must have used her breath weapon; perhaps not for long. Elderly Dragoness. How much fire had she left?

Enough, for he spied the orange flare of Dragon flame dead ahead.

A lumpen form lay in the mud seventy Dragon paces ahead, surrounded by men goading her with lances and javelins. Amongst them was a magnificent silver figure seated upon a large white destrier. Sword in hand, he directed the struggle to subdue the net-entangled Dragoness. Several men forced her muzzle into some sort of clamping device so that the valiant knight could make the fatal blow undisturbed by a minor matter such as Dragon fire, or a Dragoness still able to fight. Men-at-arms sweated over staking cables over her back. Her thrashing tail smashed three of them into a heap. Another fell with a shrill scream, his leg severed at the knee by a cunning talon. Ignita was not about to give them any pleasure, was she? Her muted thundering shook the swamp.

“Take her down!” Sir Rumanic screamed.

“Let’s take him down, Princess!” Dragon ordered, raising his bow.

Her bowstring creaked. Slight movement tickled his back as she adjusted her posture. “Ready.”

Two quarrels leaped forth. Whurr! Whurr!

As if by magic, an invisible paw plucked the knight off his mount and hurled him away into the mud. Two men of the supporting group, behind the knight’s left shoulder, staggered and fell, pinned together as a Human kebab. Battle rage swelled his Dragon hearts. Malignant destruction!

I – AM – DRAGON!!

The swamps shook at the outpouring of his wrath. Deep and powerful, the thunder of an enraged male Dragon spooked horses and paralysed veteran men-at-arms in their quaking boots. In that frozen second, he perceived Ignita’s eyes widen in shock. Silver blood trickled from many wounds. She had fought hard.

Time to honour his kin.

Swooping right over his great-aunt’s back, Dragon smashed left and right at the massed Human heads with his outspread wings, shovelling many into the knee-deep water. At the same time, a pair of boots sprang off his shoulder. With a scream, the Princess threw her Dragon bow into the faces of several men-at-arms, and kicked out on the fly. Her boot snapped a head back so sharply, he distinctly heard the crack of bone. She rode her victim deftly as he toppled backward, the talon blade springing into her hand as if born there. Approving growl for those sweet moves!

Turning so sharply that his left wingtip sprayed dank water across the swamp, Dragon changed direction and brought himself to a landing. Blinking to clear his hazy vision, he oriented upon the fight. The silvery reinforced net. His great-aunt, struggling to rise. The Princess stabbing downward to finish another enemy, before whispering aside to dodge a sweeping sword stroke.

His chest swelled. BRROOAARRGGHH!!

The visibly shaking men-at-arms tried to form a shield wall against the threat of Dragon fire. His bellow rumbled over them, visibly disturbing the swamp’s surface and sending their cavalry into a neighing panic. About half of the force had mounts, despite the swampy ground – he could not fathom the tactic. Nor had he time. Four men were trying to find Ignita’s lungs with a lance. The Princess faced three assailants at once.

Digging his talons deep, he charged.

Grey swamp water fountained around him as he thundered down upon the stupefied knots of men-at-arms. The Princess darted around behind Ignita, fleeing the trajectory of his charge. She knew what was coming. The shields locked. Lances jutted out of the small, brave shield wall. Exemplary technique. Only, they had probably never met a Dragon called Juggernaut.

Leaping into the air with a twisting motion, Dragon tucked his wings out of the way. He spun around the axis of the length of his body like a great, fifty-three foot roller and smashed down upon the hapless men with terrible force. Metal crunched and squealed as the brutal impact hammered them beneath a shattered mess of their own shields, armour and broken lances. He had practised this manoeuvre five hundred times and more. The point of the rotation was to guard against being spitted upon the lances, ensuring that those which dug in splintered under the torque generated by his tonnage. He was a big bruiser and moving fast.

What he had not expected was to land with such a splatter in the swamp, that a wall of water surged up and blinded both him and every man-at-arms beyond that first group.

Scrape the mud off! A dark, lithe shadow darted forward to spit a man who had been aiming a sword at his left eye.

“Princess!” he roared. “Help Ignita!”

He galumphed and she sloughed through the thick mud. Paws to the stakes, he worked at freeing the cables tying her down. The Princess knelt beside Ignita’s head, careless of the filth up to her waist, her deft hands loosening the thick buckles of the harness that muzzled her jaw.

Great-Aunt Ignita waved a paw behind the Princess’ back, warding off a couple of intrepid attackers. Dragon leaned over her torso and thwacked them on their way. “Be off with you!”

Flies. Fleas!

Springing to her feet with a cry, the Princess engaged two men trying to ambush Ignita from the front. They shouted and swung at her, clearly discomfited by facing such a diminutive opponent. One blade whizzed a foot over her head. The other, she deflected with a deft flick of her wrist. Swiftly drawing a dagger from her left boot, she slammed it into the man’s thigh, finding the joint of his armour. He fell back shrieking like a demented pig. Raising his fist, Dragon pounded the other man into the mud like a stake.

“Ooh, mighty Dragon,” the Princess grinned.

“Mighty Princess,” said he, flipping her a salute before stiffening. A scent sense? A reverberation in the air neared, approaching from the south. “Dragons incoming!”

Gripping the net in his paws, he began to work Ignita’s body free.

DEVASTATOR!!

Three male Dragons swept in, igniting the damp air with massive, rolling blasts of orange fire that cleared the area around Ignita’s prone body. Swamp water and scum boiled with a horrible stench. The Princess was back at the Dragoness’ head, sawing at the harness with her blade as the buckles or wet leather appeared to have become stuck. Through the crack in her jaw, he heard Ignita asking why they had dared to help.

“You’re family,” Azania said.

The Dragoness made a mewling sound he had never heard before.

Thumping through the mud, Blaze the Devastator glared about at the scene, flame licking from his nostrils. After stabbing a man who twitched in the mud near his paws, he growled, Brand. Brawl. Clear out the enemy. As his brothers turned toward their larger, older brother, he snarled, The real enemy! This swamp reeks of Human cowardice!

Dragon tugged at the net, freeing hooks with care. Soon, his great-aunt was more than half free.

Blaze said, Dragon, we are indebted for your aid.

Majestic. Sad. Still smoking from the aftereffects of his battle rage.

He replied, I regret the territorial aggression, noble Devastator. We tracked these fools from the east, thinking that Sir Rumanic sought another, stronger target. Instead, he chose Ignita the Devastator. We chose the path of honour. The knight paid with his life.

Both of their eyes turned aside to regard the silver-clad knight. He lay slightly propped up in the mud about five Dragon paces away, with six feet of wood protruding from his lower chest. Not dead yet, Dragon realised from the agonised gasping of his throat, but the final darkness would not tarry long before claiming him. Blaze would not shorten his misery, on account of his Aunt’s honour. This suffering was seen as just.

Ignita bent to whisper in the Princess’ ear.

Thick-voiced with emotion, Blaze said, The flame of honour burns bright in your hearts, as always, Dragon. Pick up your weapons, and leave Devastator territory at once.

As you command, noble Dragon.

He added with a courteous dip of his muzzle, Princess, once again, your deeds honour my kin.

She bowed her head. The honour … mine is, great Blaze.

First weapon? The Princess. Then the pair of Dragon bows. After that, Dragon flew out of the swamp, ignoring the belligerent growls of his foolish brothers.

His hearts smarted.

Chapter 23: Lumis Ocean

SOUTH OF DEVASTATOR TERRITORY, Dragon and Princess put down beside a small stream to wash up and check their injuries. Azania had a wrenched elbow from a kick; Dragon had collected a lance point between the ribs that needed cutting out. His other wounds were superficial.

Macho swagger. Successful battle!

Chuckling to himself, he lay down in the small stream to create an impromptu dam for the Princess. “Your bath shall shortly be ready, Highness.”

“Blasted freezing mountain water,” she said, through chattering teeth. Fascinating. Dragons did not have such a reaction. Imagine clacking fangs and bobbles of flesh appearing beneath one’s scales? One could only shudder at the thought.

“I do wish I could warm it for you,” he replied.

“Next week,” she apologised, wringing out her clothing. “Trousers will have to wait. I don’t have spare, and this morning is not the warmest.”

“At least pour the swamp water out of your boots.”

“Good idea. That was one heck of a Juggernaut roll, Dragon. Brutal. Ah look, there’s a bit of armour lodged between your spine spikes here. Couple of rents in your wings. I can’t believe they went after poor Ignita like that!” She smashed her fist into her palm. “At least my shot ended Sir Cowardly Pants and his –”

“My shot.”

“Yours got the two men behind him.”

“Trivialities.” He bared his fangs lazily. “Princess, what did Ignita say to you just as we left?”

The girl picked a dead frog out of her hair and examined it thoughtfully. “Ah, that’s what I felt. Well, Ignita said thanks for her life, and ‘electrolysis via lightning.’ As in, the power of Sea Dragons is called electrolysis. It is the splitting of water via lightning, which leads to –”

“Dragons don’t have lightning.”

Despite her shivering, she gave a gurgle of laughter at his expression. “Well, don’t ask me. No wings, see?”

“Fire, aye. Lightning, no,” he insisted.

“If you say so, mighty Dragon. I’m just the minion around here. What do I know?”

“Only a minion when it suits.”

“Oh, my wicked scheme is wholly undone.”

Her smile curved into absolute radiance. Having seen more Human faces these days, Dragon felt he had a certain licence to conclude that she was indeed remarkable among her species. It was not just the physical movement or placement of muscles and skin. It was the way her black eyes shone with an unmistakable inner beauty of spirit. Aria Seaspray had that quality about her, when she wasn’t in her ‘seriously, I’m going to slay everything in sight’ mode.

Fearsome female fatale!

A hand touched the scales beside his left ear canal. “Are you thinking of someone, Dragon? I think you might have an ear infection.”

“It happens – a by-product of being fireless, Ignita thought,” he said. Hesitation, rumination, decision. “Ah … I was, aye – thinking about her. How did you know?”

“You looked sad. Anything I can do to help?”

“Fetch her back? Find my fires? Help me wrestle fate into submission beneath my paw?”

The girl sucked at her lower lip. “Well, one thing I like about you, Dragon, is the fact that you’re not just sitting around waiting for lightning to strike – excuse the pun. Close to the bone, I know. Don’t you go all growly on me now. Bad, grouchy Dragon. If you won’t listen to me, at least listen to your Great-Aunt Ignita. You have to keep an open mind.”

Blergh! “How?”

Stamping her foot, she burst out, “That Aria! She should be lucky to have a Dragon like you! Fancy turning around and stabbing you in the back like that? I know she likes you. Women – females, even – can sense these things about one another. Besides, you’re hopelessly over the moons about her, so why not … ah, it’s difficult, I know. You don’t want to cause dishonour. I get it. I mean, what if I turned up in the Archipelago begging Azerim to notice me? Doesn’t that just smack of … desperation?”

“I don’t know,” he said slowly. An outline of a plan slowly seeped into his hearts. A purpose which filled him as much with dread as with hope. “Maybe, crossing the oceans for one’s beloved is heroic, dramatic, romantic –”

“And other words ending in ‘ic’ – like, completely lunatic!”

“Are you ready to do that?”

They both flinched and looked away. No. Not yet. Who could face the prospect of flying all that way, through storm and danger, over mountain and ocean, to have one’s hearts shattered and ground into the dust? Not this Dragon, nor his Princess. Not today.

Stretching out his neck, he nuzzled her shoulder, and then put a paw around her waist. “Get over here, you. Need a hug?”

His very best impression of Human-friendly cultural understanding.

Awkward.

After a moment, however, the girl melted against him. A sob escaped her lips, muffled against his scales. For once, he did not mind the moisture. He knew what it meant; his hearts understood these emotions all too well. Pain linked them. Pain, and an incongruous destiny he could not for the life of him smell out as yet. Something was happening out there. Or, in his hearts. Approaching. Shifting. Coalescing.

Whatever could it be?

Rising into the air, Dragon and Princess turned their noses to the west. Toward the salty ocean.

* * * *

For two days, they flew westward over the low wooded foothills, called the Gemwoods, of the northern region of Garome Kingdom. The redheaded Prince had come from here. Azania declared herself unimpressed. She was most certainly not marrying any man who fled in terror at the sight of her Dragon, even if he did have shapely buttocks.

Cough, cough.

Leaving Garome behind as they crossed Lake Mycegeon, they winged across the mighty Chazb River, which leaped joyously down from the mountains and carved through a spectacular gorge to feed the sprawling coastal swamps of the Kingdom of Ayren. South of the swamps lay the realm of Lymarn, noted for its silks and trading prowess. In fact, ‘liar of Lymarn’ was a common saying.

Cutting course on a more northerly heading, he spread his wings over towering hardwood forests, little inhabited, that eventually gave way to a sea of sand dunes, and beyond that, the sparkling Lumis Ocean. His nostrils breathed deep of the briny tang in the air. Consulting a map the Princess must have filched from his library, they agreed that they must be approaching the shores of Bathila Bay. Dragon suggested they put down, but after taking a long look at the size and number of the saltwater crocodiles basking along the dazzling white beach sands, they decided to fly on across the bay to a place where her edible properties might be less appealing to the local wildlife.

As they set out across the rippling expanse of ocean, he teased, “It’s difficult being so very appetising, isn’t it, Princess?”

She said, “At least you know a crocodile’s intentions.”

Too true.

Leaving the snappish crocodiles behind, Dragon winged steadily toward the far shore, visible as a variation of colour to him. The Princess said she saw coastal mountains and white sands. Aluxon, the capital of the Kingdom of Alaxarmis, lay beyond those mountains and across another bay, according to their map. Still a good day’s journey for one with wings, or five days on horseback, his companion noted, given the detour one must make around the great curve of the bay.

Gorgeous turquoise waters. Blazing white sunshine. Fresh air with a salty zing! His spirits lifted. Flying lower, Dragon dipped his wingtips into the Lumis Ocean with each long, lazy wingbeat. This was the life. Why had he never grasped how spectacular the ocean was?

He jinked upward in fright as movement in the water caught him napping. Dolphins! Suddenly, a hundred or more sleek, silvery-blue bodies raced along beneath them – overtaking him, even. Azania’s delighted laughter gave him a second start. The rate of his wingbeat picked up automatically. Not that he was competitive. Oh no. Just trying to match these speedy mammals for pace. They undulated through the swell with incredible fluidity. Underwater flying. Every so often, they leaped free of the surface in graceful arcs, and he heard the rasp of their breath through a double blowhole and felt the spray cool his body.

After a short sprint, the dolphins began to pull ahead, but this was only prelude to playtime. The first inkling he had was when one zipped up right beside of his wing. It caught his eye before falling away. Then, a trio broke the waters in a synchronised display of somersaults. Barely had Azania pointed and cried out when another duo did the same just beyond his left wingtip. There was a game of tag-chase going on ahead, more energetic leaping and twirling, and then suddenly, a tail walker. Dragon’s jaw dropped. Tales and lore had dolphins being smart. This? Wow! After waving its flippers toward the pair, the dolphin submerged, only for his place to be taken by a smaller pair that clapped their tails upon the water, then submerged and flipped up to tail walked backwards right beneath his nose!

“Didn’t know I’d ordered in-flight entertainment,” Azania called.

Dragon clapped his wings on the water. At once, half of the pod surged into the air, flying along with him! He wished he knew how to thank dolphins properly. Open-mouthed, this pod appeared to be chortling right along with him.

Would he one day swim with dolphins? Understand them? Too much to ask.

When the bottom turned shallow at the far side of the bay, the dolphins nipped away and headed for deeper, bluer waters. He alighted on the sands, which were a creamier white than the side of the bay they had left, and they looked about. No crocodiles. Only a coal-black female panther lazing up near the treeline with her three cubs. They gave each other a long stare of predatory understanding. The feline ignored him; he ignored her. That was the arrangement.

Azania said, “I saw a stream a little ways south. I’d like to wash my clothes there.”

“Not in the ocean?”

“I’ve heard that the salt makes clothing itchy and crusty. Fresh water is best.”

“Not an issue I am familiar with – however, best give that hair a wash, too. Could be more frogs’ legs up there.”

“Where – oh, stop it, you tease.”

The Princess did indeed find a few swampy things best left unmentioned remaining in her hair. She brushed it through with a great deal of grimacing, annoyance and colourful commentary that left him in no doubt as to the effort required to keep a woman’s hair beautiful. Especially the super-curly sort. Her bouncy hair had curls and helices around curls. However, it transpired that she had purchased a few special clips in the camp, with which Azania shortly developed an eye-catching asymmetrical style that she modelled for him.

“Ooh, a veritable king slayer!” he purred.

Azania gave him a mock wrathful glare. “Slaying the man is entirely beside the point, Dragon.”

“To avoid delivering such a terrible fate, Princess, I believe you might want to try combining this style with a little something by way of actual clothing.”

Her rich laughter mingled with the susurration of the surf.

Dragon was not much of a swimmer. Mountain streams were not generally large enough to encourage the skill, and while Dragons bathed and fished in lakes, it was not usually in water out of their depth. Instinct kicked in powerfully, he discovered. He growled at and gave the Princess a hard time for suggesting the term, ‘animal instinct.’ Animal and Dragon did not belong in the same sentence, little Human!

He found the currents none too challenging, even though there was a deeper channel a hundred and fifty Dragon paces offshore where he first practised paddling, and then ducking his head beneath the water to swim with his wings. The webbed paws proved excellent for propelling him through the water. The saltiness was a balm upon his eyes. When a large, finned grey shadow came to investigate, he growled low in his throat and it flicked away at once.

Huh. Who was large and in charge, then?

Surfacing just his nostrils and eyes from the water to practise breathing while swimming, he spied the brown form of the Princess dashing through the shallow surf toward him. Beating a hasty retreat. Ah, that would be because five spear-waving yokels were on her tail, executing what they evidently assumed was a very clever ambush on a naked girl. Well, semi-naked. She had her underthings on. According to his knowledge of the male of the species, this was tantamount to nakedness. Indeed, he understood that a reduction in clothing correlated exactly to a lessening in intelligence, which meant that just now, they were probably battling with the average slug for intellectual primacy.

Naked brown belly. Instant lobotomy.

He intended to hasten that process just a touch. Just for fun.

Finding the bottom with his paws, Dragon paddle-waded swiftly toward the shore, convinced at this point that the black Princess – black-hearted, that was – had spied his devious approach and knew exactly what he was doing.

With the panting morons just a dozen paces or so behind, she flopped over in water that was waist-deep to her, and swam strongly toward him with an overarm stroke. Disobedient desert Princesses learned to swim in the underground water cisterns beneath their city, he had learned. Dragon waited, submerged in the surf like a huge brown log, or a patch of seaweed. Whatever worked to string those fools along just a little longer. Here she came underwater, pulling toward him with a series of froglike kicks.

Reaching out a paw, he drew her up onto the back of his neck, with a wink in passing. Azania’s tight-lipped expression suggested annoyance.

Wait … wait … straightening his legs, Dragon cleft the waters like a surging mountain, towering over the young men with his wings outspread.

Five faces blanched in absolute, pure terror. He almost felt sorry for them. Almost.

Cracking open his jaw in the evillest smile he could concoct, he said pleasantly, “Gentlemen. Why were you chasing my Princess?”

Gibbering was so disagreeable in the Human male.

So was voiding one’s bowels. The rightmost man’s reaction was one of the foulest things he had ever seen. Brown stain in clear blue waters? Blergh!

BOO!!

The reverberation knocked them flat. Then, they were up and running with miraculous speed. Practically skimming the water like dragonflies as they sped off.

“Azania, place your hands over your ears, please.”

She did not ask why.

I – AM – DRRRAAAGGOOONNN!!

By his sire’s egg, that one actually echoed off the peaks behind the bay!

“Cleared a few things out of a few places there, Dragon?” she asked brightly. “I daresay, that was your best effort yet. You’re developing some real thunder! I’ll need ear plugs soon. Oh, but that’s squeezed some pus out of your ear, uh, canal. I’m sorry.”

“Seawater softened it up,” he grumbled, wading toward the shore.

“We’ll need a spoon. Maybe a soup ladle.”

Digging about a bit, she scooped out what she could and flicked it away before washing her hands in the seawater. She was right. His ear hurt.

“Why don’t we go track those dimwits back to their village?” he rumbled. “I’m sure the elders will be very happy to help once we explain the situation.”

He received a Princess glare for that. “I thought we were too high and noble a creature to consider sacking poor villages, Dragon?”

“Who said anything about sacking? I thought I’d just go knock on their gates and ask nicely.”

“You being a nice, polite, reformed sort of Dragon?”

“Quite. Or, you could just go ask them as you are. I’m sure they’ll give you the sun, the moon and all the stars in payment.”

She smacked him. Usefully, that did jolt more pus loose.

* * * *

Having enjoyed a very tender deer supplied by the grateful villagers – grateful to be left alive, that was – and a lovely locally sourced meal for the Princess, they travelled on the following morning in good spirits. Dragon had to confess to a touch of disappointment at the Lumis Ocean not living up to its reputation of being luminous at night, but his research had thrown up the fact that the fabled phenomenon had to do with the seasonal bloom of plankton, which could be either animal or plant in nature.

Confusing, but there it was. This must not be the right season.

“Schooling a village is like not needing to spank a child,” the Princess informed him, continuing an earlier conversation. “Discipline is perfectly possible without the physical violence.”

“You could just threaten your offspring with an angry Dragon.”

“Never thought of that.”

So droll. Unashamedly sarcastic.

“So, how many children are you planning to have with King Azerim?”

Ah, the gentle sounds of steam rising from a Human’s earholes. Well, that part was imagined, but her tongue-tied embarrassment was not.

Dragon said, “I do hope he’s planning to pay a worthy ransom for you. Otherwise, I’ll just move into his treasury and make myself right at home. I’m sure even a king could shortly thereafter be persuaded to see reason.”

“He might just stick fifty Arias on you.”

“Ouch,” he winced. One mental image he could have done without. “Moving swiftly on, how do you propose we find this brilliant optometrist? I can’t exactly walk into a major Human city proclaiming my nonviolent intentions to all and sundry.”

“Not even wearing floral garlands about your neck and dancing –”

“No. Human children grow up on a strict literary diet of wicked, vengeful Dragons, you know. How are we supposed to change the mores of an entire society on a whim?”

“I missed the part where educating a village is different to educating a whole town.”

“My dear Princess, towns are full of nasty militias armed with better weapons than pitchforks, hoes and sickles, plus they tend to have excitable populations inclined to stampede even at the sight of a highly intelligent, sensitive creature like myself.”

“I see.”

“On the other paw, the arrival of a striking, dark-skinned T’nagrun Princess with a considerable price on her head is unlikely to attract any untoward attention whatsoever.”

“Oh, ho ho. Lily-white populace, right?”

“Right.”

They looked at each other, and decided they had a bit of a problem. Neither of them would stick out like anything less than a very sore thumb, or talon. One being the size of a younger teenager in these parts, the other rivalling the size of a decent house, give or take.

Dragon brought them to a landing on the opposite side of the bay across from Aluxon. The city faced the dawn sun, protected by soaring cliffs to its back. The winter ocean weather was not kind. Located on the far side of that isthmus, the houses would have been battered by hundred mile-an-hour winds and forty-foot waves during the height of the short storm season. The suns dipped behind the cliffs as they landed, burnishing a towering weather front over the Tamarine mountain range behind them. Must be fun up there today. What looked warm and orange-golden from down here would be pitiless thunderstorms battering the realm of Dragons.

He said, “I reckon it’s still an hour’s flight over to the city. This evening?”

“Sneak in after dark? Crafty lizard.”

“You’d be amazed what you can hide in a place that large. Even whole Dragons.”

Chapter 24: An Appointment

AT EIGHTY-FIVE THOUSAND souls, Aluxon was one of the largest and most prosperous cities in the seventeen realms. Azania’s home town numbered a mere thirty thousand, but there were numerous desert cities, each an ancient citadel.

As the city’s lantern lights glittered across the still bay in the early evening, Dragon took off from the far shore and winged silently over the dark waters. The Princess had already noted a number of ships anchored offshore, so they steered northward first, intending to approach along the cliffs just above the tops of the thick, immensely tall hardwood forests. This approach made the best use of Dragon’s dark colouration. Furthermore, he deployed the camouflage magic Juggernaut had made him practise for two hours a day. That old Grinder was nothing if not a shrewd operator. Any minute advantage that could be gained over an opponent, he had taught them, was to be seized. To refuse was foolish.

Only the living wrote history.

Not the most debatable point, one had to admit. Unless one’s worldview included the glorious pushing up of daisies from down under. Dragon begged to differ.

All they knew was that the optometrist lived near the old town wall, the fortification now mostly a relic of days when the town was much smaller, and threatened by maritime raiders. The wealthy still huddled behind its thirty-foot battlements.

Shame he was not here to teach them the fear of Dragons.

Dragon winged silently through the deepening purples of evening, hugging the treetops so closely that he occasionally flicked off a few leaves or a small branch. He came in around the back of town, searching for a dark place to put down. Plenty of gloom. The two-storey wood-frame houses had one or two latticework lanterns out front, throwing pools of sallow yellow light into the main thoroughfares, but around the back and in the alleyways, darkness reigned supreme. He did not fancy his Princess wandering around such places. Too many robbers, ne’er-do-wells and scoundrels for his liking. He smelled out their emotions as they passed overhead like a fleeting shadow of dark cloud.

At last, he selected his space and whispered, “Fast landing. Hold on.”

Given the narrow wing space, the thud of his landing was unavoidable, shaking the nearest houses down to their foundations. A hound barked twice before smelling out a terror beyond its wildest imagination. It whined and fell silent. Dragon grinned in the semi-darkness. He loved that effect. Apex predator on the loose. Only tonight, he wondered if it was not Humans who were becoming the apex predator of Solixambria. Their numbers were staggering, crammed together in this rabbit warren of streets and houses all leaning upon one another. He closed his nostrils to the scents, yet the sounds of the city remained with him as if one huge, alien organism stirred all around him.

Claustrophobia prowled about the edges of his mind.

“Stay close. If you need me, sing out loud and clear. I will rip this town apart to find you, and woe betide the louse who dares to lay a paw upon my Princess!”

“Thank you, Dragon. I’m going to try just out here. I won’t be far.”

“Careful of the Watch. We heard them a few streets over.”

“You heard them?”

“I did.”

Putting up her hood, the Princess walked lithely up the alleyway toward the light. The streets were still busy at this early evening hour, which should work in their favour.

Dragon stalked after her, blending in with the deepest shadows. His senses extended in all directions, smelling out the night’s dangers. Back here against the old wall, the houses were more dilapidated and there was a network of alleyways they might be able to work their way through without being easily seen, except by mischance. She slipped out into the main thoroughfare, trying to move as if she belonged. Purposeful. Not acting overly guarded or furtive – Juggernaut’s instructions once more.

He heard her voice lilting in a question. No. Move on, and on again. He waited impatiently for her light footstep to return.

Soon she came to him, breathing hard. “It’s at least ten streets over that way, south.”

“I think I have an idea,” he said, pointing a talon at the nearest, yawning black entrance of an alleyway. “Back ways?”

“Great. Stay close in case I have to deal with trouble.”

He grinned and breathed heavily down her neck. “The trouble’s right behind you, pretty girl.”

“Ooh – Dragon! You made me shiver.”

“I know.”

A few detours, two drunkards terrified witless and a thief punched unconscious later, Dragon and Princess found their way to approximately the right area. She repeated what she called her shopping trip, but came dashing back almost immediately.

“Watch. Get back. Be silent.”

Dragon shrank back into the shadows of what he took for a derelict building. Avoid the porch. Sidle backward into a hole in the side. Silent!

The black-robed Watch poured into the alleyway, sweeping the area with care. They came by so close Dragon smelled the scent of fresh dough on one man’s fingers, and knew him for a baker during the day. Azania pressed against his side, holding her breath. Her dark clothing and dark colouration were a great asset here. The Watch stumbled upon the thief they had left farther back. The brief commotion and exclamations informed them that he was a wanted man, apparently.

Soon, they moved on.

The Princess stepped out again, and was accosted at once by a tall, richly robed man. “Ullo, me pretty,” he sneered, gripping her shoulder. “Out on our ownsome, are we? Want to tell Chugna what a dark girl’s doing in these parts? T’nagrun, eh?”

“Looking for coin from the likes of ye,” she breathed, laying a hand upon his arm. Quick thinking. “My place is just back there. Fancy –”

The man did not relinquish his grip. “And have yer men knock me about the ’ead and steal me boots? I don’t think so, ye little strumpet. I fancy yer coming with me all nice-like.”

Twisting away from his grip, the Princess pretended to stumble and fall. Toward him. Toward the alleyway she had just emerged from. Dragon slunk closer as the man hesitated, and took the bait. One step. Two – his paw whipped out, grabbing the man by the head in order to muffle his outcry. In a flash, he had this Chugna fellow back in the darkness, pressed against a wall.

Dragon cracked open his jaw. “Tell me again how you like to assault females, my good fellow?”

He slumped.

“Dragon, you didn’t … oh.”

“I was about to end this filth, Princess,” he growled, “but I believe his heart did the job for me. Was it my smile, do you think?”

“Absolutely. You do have the most devastating smile in all of Solixambria, Dragon.” She hunkered down to check the man’s pulse, and shook her head. “Give me a minute, and we’ll try that again. Minus the heart attack, hopefully.”

Ten minutes later, they identified the optometrist’s modest dwelling. There was even a sign outside. Doctor Charbi, Optical Specialist. Very good. He was just ushering the last client out as the Princess and Dragon peered diagonally across the main road at his place.

“Think you can get behind his property?” she asked.

“Aye. I’ll do it.”

“Good. Listen for my signal.”

Before he could complain, she darted across the road and rapped at the door. A short, earnest conversation later, and she disappeared inside.

Well. That was unexpected. Oh to be a fly on the wall of that house when she took her hood down. Dragon looked up and down the road. There was an alleyway almost directly opposite, narrower than this one. The road was no longer busy – not at the moment, anyways. His roving eye lit upon a barrel. Aha. Hefting it in his paw, he hurled it up into the air, a couple of houses over. Crash! In a flash he crossed over, pressing carefully between old barrels, crates and piles of filth. Not so great back here. Now, someone’s back fence stood in his way. Hmm.

Picking the entirety of the fence up by its posts, he crossed beneath and placed it carefully back in the holes again. Perfect. He glared at the house cat, caught in the act of doing its business in the vegetable patch at the back. The feline streaked away with an ear-splitting yowl, probably never to be seen again. Someone would find an extremely large paw print in his back garden tomorrow. Focussing his senses, he tracked the Princess’ sweet tones toward the back room of the next house over.

How did a fifty-foot Dragon burgle a Human dwelling? Another fence stood in his way. The stench back here, common to Human dwellings, could definitely be classed as exceptional. He supposed they had sewers of some sort to wash away waste, but something had gone wrong in this area.

Wrinkling his nose in a vain attempt to hold the local fragrances at bay, he peered over the wood-slat fence to next door. The Princess of T’nagru was just behind that lamp-lit curtain, which covered a double window made of small, square panes of glass set in metal frames. Tasteful. Furthermore, the doctor had fashioned a pretty layout of flowers and ornate bushes in his back garden. The artist in him heartily approved. Low jump? Another Juggernaut exercise aimed at helping a large Dragon handle his bulk better. Picking up his tail, Dragon hopped over the fence as carefully as he could. Sort of cracked three slats and left six-inch-deep paw prints in the good doctor’s lawn, but there it was. Couldn’t be helped.

How incredibly virtuous of him to save the flowerbeds. Coiling his tail carefully behind him, Dragon snuck closer to eavesdrop on the conversation.

A brown hand pushed one of the windows open, thwacking him in the nose. “Here he is, Doctor Charbi.”

Dragon blinked in the light. “Princess?”

The doctor was made of stern stuff. Pushing his wire-rimmed spectacles up his nose, he murmured, “Why, so it is a Dragon. Don’t find one of those in the back yard every evening, I must say.”

“Good evening, Doctor,” he rumbled politely.

The man knocked back a glass of amber liquid and set it aside with a trembling hand. Thus fortified, he said, “Right. Good evening, sir Dragon. Please, step this – uh, do place your muzzle upon the windowpane, there’s a good fellow, and let me get a good look at those eyes. The … uh, Princess of T’nagru … told me you suffer from a spot of conjunctivitis and short-sightedness? We’ll have you checked over in a jiffy, never you mind.”

Doctor Charbi’s method of dealing with a colossal reptile filling his window appeared to be to pretend he was consulting with any one of his usual patients. Certainly, a far sight better than dealing with the usual predictable reactions of piercing shrieks, disappearing over the horizon with all haste, or the latest permutation, the inconvenient episode of keeling over in his paw, dead.

Decent of him.

* * * *

After departing Aluxon with an enormous vertical leap and a rush away over the rooftops before anyone could notice there was a monster skulking about town, Dragon took his Princess on a holiday to the seaside. They spent a delightful week exploring the western coastline of Alaxarmis, and Trondis, even briefly crossing the mighty Chorben River into Thobé before returning in time for their rendezvous with Doctor Charbi, who had agreed to meet them outside of town rather than risk his prized flowerbeds a second time.

Besides, the neighbour had called in to inquire about the enormous paw prints in his garden.

They told the doctor they had enjoyed a wonderful break from all the stress and hassle of dealing with pesky knights, squads of men-at-arms and hopeful Dragon slayers. They had swum in the ocean and flown out to play with and be awed by the Sanbris Whales, creatures easily double the length of Dragon himself. He admitted to feeling rather firmly put back in his place by the experience of seeing those oceangoing behemoths. In the evenings, they had been treated to the sight of the entire Lumis Ocean being lit by a phosphorescent turquoise glow. Spectacular.

Doctor Charbi admitted he had brought his wife and two young daughters along in order to pretend that they were having a picnic in the woods. Mostly, they wanted to stare at the Dragon – oh, and to have the chance to meet a real Princess, of course. Could he promise the scaly giant was still not planning to eat anyone?

Dragon cleared his throat meaningfully.

Azania said, “Dragons do not eat people, Doctor Charbi. This Dragon has even sworn off pillaging villages for sport. Now, he has been known to sack the castles of evil kings, but that is another matter entirely, isn’t it? Dragons will be Dragons, after all. Your children are perfectly safe with him.”

She gave him a look as pointed as the most self-respecting dagger.

“Absolutely,” Dragon agreed promptly. “I so swear upon my sire’s egg. Now, please do call them over from hiding behind that tree over there.”

“You knew where they were, all along?”

“I scented your wife’s perfume, doctor. You also looked over in that direction twice when we were talking, and I detected your divided concern.”

The Princess gave him a second look. This one came complete with claws and fangs. Aria herself would not have been displeased with such an expression. “Why don’t I go meet your family, doctor, whilst you fit the Dragon for his spectacles? Dragon? Behave.”

“I shall be exemplary,” he promised.

The moment she had stepped away, however, the doctor said, “Dragon, she does know that her kingdom is under attack, doesn’t she?”

He started, and then grew very still. “Attack? The Skartun? When … how did you –”

“Day before yesterday. I’m sorry, I heard the news in town. Everyone’s talking about it – digging out the histories and all. It’s been years.”

“How much attack?” His eyes flicked to the dark fuzziness of the Princess as she disappeared into the trees. “I mean – you know what I mean. How long ago did it start?”

“The news is at least three weeks old. We only heard because the Kingdom of Vanrace is bracing for war, calling in mercenaries and knights from all over. They’re next in line to be conquered, of course.”

“Aye, so I understand.”

Pulling out a contraption, he said, “Now, Dragon, I’m going to fit these. This isn’t any kind of permanent solution, alright? These are closer to monocles, since I could not work out a clever way of pinning these to your head without anchoring them with hooks in your ear canals, and you said those were too sensitive. However, I ground an accurate lens for each eye according to your prescription, and I’ve linked them with this wire so that you can balance them on top of your muzzle. Hooks for the scales should hold them in place, I hope. The right eye is significantly worse than the left.”

“They brought Dragons against T’nagru?”

“Aye. It is said there are over thirty tame Dragons in their army, and they crossed the desert during an unexpected cooler snap – or by dark magic,” said the doctor, clearly unaware of how his words struck a Dragon’s soul like hammer blows. “Please bend your neck farther. I can’t reach.”

Dragon was staring at the small group emerging from the trees, when suddenly, the world leaped into focus.

“By my wings!” He plopped back onto his haunches in shock.

Exquisite. The Princess … she was something else. A treasure on legs. So tiny and small-boned, even the doctor’s wife towered over her, yet there was in her lean stride a poise he had only ever seen in the walk of a certain Ariamyrielle Seaspray. She wore her apparel and blade, her femininity and rare beauty, like scales fit the Dragoness.

When should he tell her that her kingdom might already have been wiped out?

Charbi said, “How’s that, Dragon? How’s the eyesight?”

“A revelation.”

Whispering. The song of lament rose from his five Dragon hearts, yet he gave it no voice. He knew he must be strong for his Princess’ sake. He could not process the twin shocks of detail and doom. Every leaf had an edge. Wonder brightened the children’s faces. Every coil of her ravishing hair stood flawless and distinct. He looked to the sky and saw an eagle far, far above. He could count the long pinions, the flight feathers of its great wings, yet his hearts were stones. Grief gripped so sorely, he could scarcely breathe.

The ancient enemy had come. Far earlier than ever expected.

They had been running down beaches and soaring over sparkling turquoise waters, never knowing that somewhere, people were dying and enslaved Dragons served as machines of war. T’nagru might already have fallen.

As she approached, the Princess took in his expression, and a different kind of darkness entered her eyes. In Draconian, she said, Dragon, what’s wrong?

I …

Your eyes are blue. Blue as the sky. What has happened?

He must tell her, though his hearts quailed to know the tenor of her grief.

Chapter 25: Wings Aloft

IN TWO DAYS OF strong flying, Dragon crossed the long breadth of the Kingdom of Alaxarmis, heading from the lush coastal plains and tall hardwood forests into the foothills of the Tamarine Range. They headed directly east, making for Crusher territory. He had no expectations of gaining immediate help for their mission; rather, the plan was to warn the Dragonkind and let the Clans argue while he and Azania flew on to the southern deserts. Culturally and historically, Dragons would not act until some creature – far less a Clan-less outcast – gave a first-paw account of the goings-on.

The Dragon Clans did not raise armies. They preferred to fight and die alone against an overwhelming enemy. That was honourable. Times had changed, but Dragons – not so much as a scale’s difference. Blergh. Bunch of hidebound paw-paralysed fainthearted lair-loving fire-dribbling dolts!

Decent round on the compound adjectives, there. He was sorely in need of a few snappier insults.

Given the courage of an Aria or an Azania, what mountains could he not move? The Isles Dragoness had suggested that a small Dragon army might be his for the asking. Did a Dragoness as young as she truly command so much power – an all-female army made up of warriors like her? As much as the notion caused his ego minor palpitations, he knew that tremors would rend the hearts of any enemy unfortunate enough to face such a force.

Wearing his spectacles in flight led to visceral quivering of a completely different sort of joy – although, the wire hooks meant to stabilise the device on his head were a pain to manage. He kept pointing out details to Azania. Peaks, valleys, lone trees dominating ridgelines, the searing white outlines of snowy summits etched against a crimson evening sky, a panther wandering below … by the simple miracle of corrected sight, his world was made new.

He had a ferocious headache, but the wonder was more than worth it.

“When you wriggle in the air like that, does it mean draconic happiness?” Azania asked.

“Aye. Sorry. I’m just –”

“Dragon, shh.” Her hand touched his head, below his eye where she had learned the scales were especially sensitive. “You have every right. Tell me about it. Tell me everything that you see, even the tiniest detail. What do you love most about our realm of Solixambria?”

“May I pontificate at length?”

“Permission granted. Ever so gladly.”

“Well, then …”

A Dragon ought to satisfy his Princess’ wishes. Starting with the highest noctilucent clouds, also called night shining clouds, he talked for six hours straight, barely pausing to draw breath. The gladness just poured out of him, seeming to distract her from the depression she had sunk into after the revelation of the Skartunese arrival at the gates of her kingdom. N’ginta, the main citadel of T’nagru, was located in the far south of the realm, almost at the habitable limit of the desert’s fringe. Beyond lay the mighty Obsidian Desert. The fine black sand retained heat with brutal efficiency, creating arguably the harshest climatic conditions in the known world. Out in the central desert, Dragon scientists had measured a daytime temperature of a whopping 151.2 degrees on the Fangheat scale, which Humans incorrectly called Fahrenheit.

Boil an egg? As the joke went, those temperatures were enough to cremate any egg foolish enough to wander that deep into the desert.

Dragon’s neck creaked. “Ah, there we go.” He squinted through the lenses. Green insect splatter. Marvellous. “Keeping the glass clean is going to be a pain. See over there, about two paws below that peak? That’s Gangbuster the Crusher’s lair. He’s a Dragon of infamous jollity – laughs when smashing houses, chortles while stealing sheep, you get the picture. Hammaria, my relative, is his mate of many years.”

“Gangbuster?” Surely, he heard her eyebrows twitch.

“Aye. The Crushers are a clannish Clan, mwaa-haa-harr! They like names that relate to gangs, mobs and generally, what Humans might call activity of a criminal persuasion.”

“Oh. Very tasteful. The Dragon version of Chakkix Camp?”

“Quite.”

Off they went to consult with the two orange Dragons in their cosy, sandy cave lair. Hammaria was brooding over three eggs in a private chamber in the back, so hearty congratulations were in order. He made sure to speak loud enough that she might hear. Dragon had to put up with Gangbuster laughing at everything he said, giving him an especially hard time about their intentions to warn the Dragon Clans about the Skartun invasion.

Believe it when their lairs are burning down around their ears, youngling! Murr-hurr-harrr! Still, you and your picayune Princess have the rights of this madcap enterprise, harr-harr, after all that wrong-pawed nonsense your sire pulled a few months back. Turns a Dragon’s fires in his stomach, it does, and certainly had a few Dragons thinking differently. Ha-harr! Go find the truth, Dragon. Find the truth … if you dare.

What did he mean? Dragon measured the colours of his gaze and the tenor of his hearts.

Then, scales prickling with premonition, he whispered, Mighty Gangbuster, is it possible you might know something about how a Dragon can become as … unusual, as to lack the very fires of Dragon life?

Silence. Yawning, yearning silence.

Azania dropped the talon dagger she was holding with a loud clatter, and apologised. A quick glance caught her hands shaking – on his behalf!

From the back chamber, Hammaria called, Dragon? Come to me, please.

His eyes directed an unspoken query at Gangbuster. As far as he knew, disturbing a brooding Dragoness was never done – at the very least, it was an unspoken courtesy. The older Dragon made an assenting gesture with his paw.

In a moment, he stepped through and greeted his Clan relative respectfully.

Curved protectively about her precious clutch, she smiled and tickled the tips of the orange, veined eggs with a touch of fire from her mouth. Lowering her voice, she said softly, Dragon, what I am about to say could be taken as the worst kind of hearsay. Will you swear never to repeat the source of this information?

I so swear by my own sire’s egg. Your eggs are beautiful, by the way.

Thank you. The pastel yellows and oranges of her eyes softened. A little history. At the time of your egg’s inception, there was a struggle for leadership in the Devastator Clan. Blaze was already mated with Indigofire, but there was no progeny, and some among the Devastators claimed that she was a poor influence and a drain upon him. As a further wickedness, they tied her egg sac barrenness to the … grievous political atmosphere, one might say.

Ordinarily, I would hold my tongue on such a delicate matter, but I believe in a balance of honour – that is, your Clan’s conduct requires answer in order that honour might be rebalanced and restored. This which I shall share with you is rumour, but a well-founded rumour, I would argue. I have heard it whispered in more than one lair, that your egg arrived with great suddenness – politically expedient suddenness – and without any prior sign that Indigofire was actually with egg.

His breath snagged inside his throat. Hammaria –

She said, Listen well, Dragon. Usually when a Dragoness is with egg, she waddles both on paw and in the air. There are distinctive behavioural and physical changes, which the astute may observe with great certitude. Even the eye fires mellow, taking on softer shades and pastels in the inner part, and what is called ‘pregnancy patterning’ around their edges. However, Indigofire displayed none of these signs before it was abruptly announced that she was with egg, and that Blaze was its sire.

Despite his reservations at a potential intrusion, Dragon sent forth his magic. Truth. As best she knew it, Hammaria was communicating the truth, and her assurance expressed in the white purity of her inner fires, staggered his every heart.

He croaked, Are you saying … my sire …

What I am saying, is that a Dragon only has to glance at you standing beside your sire to know that you two are related. As for your dam? The Dragoness inclined her muzzle slowly. I have never liked Indigofire, and I would never desire to speak any ill against her. When Blaze, the newly elected leader, found out about the rumours regarding his egg, he forbade any Devastator Clan Dragon to speak of the matter again. The whole affair, the way it was handled and then hushed up … it dampened my fires. In part, that is why I mated outside of the Clan. Besides, it was easy to love Gangbuster. I knew we were right for one another. As for his word upon this incident, I have never been able to erase it from my memory.

When he was able to speak, Dragon did not even recognise the voice as his own. What did he say?

He said, ‘Hammaria, there is a sacred bond between the egg and the sac of its birth. An egg never forgets. One day, if indeed a crime has been committed, the truth will surface.’

An egg never forgets?

Old, old lore.

Reaching out, the Dragoness touched him upon the forehead. Never forget, Dragon. May the mighty fires of the Dragonkind be roused; o fates, hear my cry: JUSTICE!

The most curious sensation rippled all over his body, and vanished.

After sharing fresh kill with Gangbuster in the draconic way, they departed and flew directly south, skirting Devastator territory as narrowly as the vagaries of draconic territorial mapping allowed.

It took him two hours to work past the obstruction in his throat to say, “So, as it turns out, Princess, my sire may have been unfaithful, and afterward, he probably stole my egg from my real dam.”

“Dragon!”

“Aye, and then he covered up the whole sordid affair.” He shook his head slowly. “Want to hear the gossip – the twenty year-old gossip?”

“Please share. I’ll be your shoulder … uh, your metaphorical shoulder. No squashed Princesses around here, please.”

She was his shoulder in more ways than she knew.

* * * *

Long hours they spent on the wing, once more crossing the mighty emerald sea of the Gemwoods, the hardwood forests of this region. Azania complained of a sore backside, but when they stopped she was the first up onto his back to massage his aching wing joints with her hands and to apply a common herbal poultice used by Dragons, a combination of firewort herb and common saribas oil which she traded for in a village en route. Panting over the sweating, pasty-faced merchant had the wondrous effect of adjusting his prices to a level the Princess agreed was fair.

Even she could produce a wicked chuckle upon occasion.

Angling ten degrees south of east, they headed for the dryer southern reaches of Garome and then Vanrace, where the yellowing plains grasses slowly yielded to the encroaching of black desert sands. When the wind blew from the south, it was an oven’s eager blast, and with his spectacles on, he could gaze out over the everlasting black dunes and patches of naked obsidian stone, and see how the heat shimmered in the illusion of water.

Azania consulted her map, and pointed ahead at a most unexpected wink of blue between lush sprays of palm fronds. “I think that must be Tezmin Oasis. Last stop before the desert. Let’s tank you up.”

“I am not a water receptacle.”

“Your stomach gurgled at the very mention. Or, is that your brains sloshing about inside your cranium?”

“My, what a wit we possess this afternoon.”

“I’m hot and tired and very badly in need of cool water and a bath – thank heavens for the constant airflow of flight, eh, Dragon?”

“I selflessly refrain from commenting on the subject of your body odour.”

“Dragon slap incoming.”

“Proper Princesses are always faultlessly fresh and fragrance-free.”

Smack. “As for improper ones,” she chuckled, “never mind. Oh look, merchants down there with those dromedaries. We could gather intelligence from them.”

“Gather intelligence? From Humans? Surely you jest.”

She kicked his neck. “Put down, you quarrelsome quadruped. We’ll walk in peaceably in the desert way. Aha – besides which, I spy a hot spring over that side of the oasis. That’s steam, right? You’ll enjoy a good long soak, I’m sure.”

“How does one even sit atop a dromedary? Lumpy has nothing on that creature. I’m sure they taste as foul as they look.”

“Uncomfortably. My esteemed mount is far more accommodating.”

“Esteemed mount?” He mimed tossing a Princess into the air and swatting her with his other paw. “I’m prickly, cranky and highly dangerous, I’ll have you know. Esteemed mount my left hind talon.”

“Very well, my noble multifunctional aerial weapons platform.”

He peeked curiously over his shoulder. “You’ve been thinking about siege armies, right?”

There came her smile. It had been misfiring for a few days now, but this one was almost back to normal brilliance. “Not only esteemed, but also the sharpest talon in the paw. Stop it, Dragon, or every Princess in the realms will be fighting me for you.”

“Those pampered brats? Wouldn’t stand a chance against my Princess.” She wriggled with pleasure. “Nothing but the best for this Dragon.”

“We need to thrash out strategy later, you sweet monster.”

Oh, thought she could get away with that, did she? Never short on spirit, this one, as he had known from the very beginning. Her disdainful laughter at calling the Prince Floric the Flatulent, echoed in his memory until this day.

Landing seventy Dragon paces shy of the oasis, he joined Azania in performing a desert n’gandura-laa, a semi-formal greeting used between strangers who wished to signal peaceful intent, usually as a prelude to trade. Peaceful was not the same as not immediately attempting to cheat or swindle one another. Trading in the south, he was reliably informed, was on an entirely different level of bargaining – an art, a drama production, and oftentimes, a life and death struggle. She drew a light blue cloth veil over her nose and mouth, beneath the hood of her dark robe.

Dragon hulked beside his favourite Princess as they walked into the oasis. He noticed immediately how her stride assumed a new fluidity, shifting easily with the movement of the fine sand beneath her boots. The white-robed men who wore blue turbans appreciated her grace with every glance. The sultry women of their group, less so, even though they were all as dark as her. Traders from T’nagru, he concluded.

No-one acted taken aback at the sight of a Dragon, which piqued him. Why? Furthermore, these traders had come heavily laden. Were refugees already fleeing the Kingdom?

Azania continued to walk right up to the group. Pausing to size them up, she pulled back her hood and lowered the face veil. Gasps.

One of the older men’s white-shot facial bush moved to gasp, “Princess Azania!”

Ah, that was a hidden smile. Interesting.

The group performed an unfamiliar, graceful genuflection that Dragon assumed was meant for royalty.

“Harbonu, you old scoundrel! How’s thievery these days?”

His dark eyes flickered with amusement. In a broad southern accent, he said, “Oh, I hear the theft of Princesses is all the rage in these modern times. I take it this is your captor?”

“Aye, this is the noble beast who rescued me from the clutches of Prince Floric of Vanrace.”

There was a collective intake of breath. Two of the women actually spat on the sand, which Dragon understood was a grave insult in desert culture – to waste one’s own body’s water was the ultimate taboo. Allies, or sympathisers at the very least. Very much the path of wisdom, as far as he was concerned!

Harbonu shifted to bow to him, saying, Noble Dragon, that was, for many reasons, a deed of paw worthy of the name. So, do you now intend to collect upon our Princess’ ransom?

Actually, ifragi Harbonu, he growled, we heard there might be some local trouble?

The grizzled fellow smiled at the southern honorific, but only with his mouth. What of it?

The Princess said, “We request information, if we may share a meal with you? Our hope is that there is still a side to join against the Skartun, and that we might usefully weigh in – even if an army stands against, a Dragon and a Princess could make a difference.”

“Come eat with us,” said he.

After sharing a meal of dates, flatbread and honey, and passing around a waterskin from which Azania politely indicated even Dragon should drink, Harbonu scratched his voluminous beard, cleared his throat, and said:

“It is four weeks ago since the Skartunese came upon us out of a smistoon – a cooler wind that occasionally blows from the east, Dragon, bringing hazy weather and moisture to our water traps. How they made the crossing in this season, is a mystery to us. The King’s scouts expected nothing of the sort. First, they laid siege to the citadels of Tha’gunli and Z’bora, using their Dragon armies to ravage those within the space of ten days.”

“Ah,” Azania mourned softly.

All the desert-born made a sign which he assumed had something to do with honouring the dead.

“After that, the Skartun army fell upon N’ginta Citadel in the fullness of their might. Their leader is called Jabiz Urdoo – Jabiz is a title similar to ‘commander,’ or absolute leader. A more ruthless man I could not imagine. Two observations. One, this is a smaller advance army of a far greater horde. Urdoo is but one commander of a reported ‘high thirty’ who are preeminent among the Skartun. Two, his group or clan seeks the honour they call ‘first mover honour.’ They will fight to the death – this type of honour quest is a religious matter, seen as a path to a warrior’s eternal paradise. No mercy, no prisoners, only plunder.”

A small army, and they had already broken down two citadels? Dragon shifted his belly, and drank from the waterskin as it returned for a second round.

Leaning forward, the man drew a circle in the sand at his feet. “N’ginta is an ancient citadel, with thick walls and mighty gates. The opposing army is approximately four thousand warriors strong, drawn up mainly against the southern aspect, although enemy patrols have now effectively cut off the city from all help. The flanks attack the walls with siege towers, ladders and catapults. Here in the centre, is a wedge of Dragon thralls, heavily armoured and protected from direct attack by strong cohorts of Skartunese warriors. We estimate the Dragons are about thirty in number. They rotate day and night, directing their flame against the gates. No material in all the realms can withstand such an assault for long.”

“Why do you call them thralls?” he inquired.

“They act not only as slaves, but almost as mindless creatures – with respect, Dragon,” the man replied carefully. “The Skartun handlers must possess a secret to their control, some arcane magic or other means to make Dragons do exactly as they wish. Furthermore, our scouts later reported that over twenty Dragons perished in the desert, bringing the army over. No sane creature would do that without protest. That is why we call them thralls.”

“They don’t fly?” he pressed.

“No, their wings are bound in harness, as are their heads.”

He shuddered. Gnarr …

Laying her hand upon his paw, Azania asked, “How is the city now, do you think, Harbonu?”

“Princess, we left the city five days ago and crossed the tongue of desert, travelling day and night. When we left, all was as well as could be expected given the siege conditions. We hope to trade for weapons. I would see my family to safety, and then return to help my kingdom.”

“Will the gates have held this long?” she worried.

“King N’gala N’gala had ordered the gates to be kept constantly wet. That will drain the cisterns down. Maybe not today, but certainly within one more week, it will come down to a question of dying of thirst, or letting the gates burn.”

Her emotions scorched his senses like acid. Dragon did not see her expression, but the man appeared to answer a question by adding:

“If you had seen what the Skartun do to captives, Princess, you would far rather die of thirst.”

Chapter 26: Sandstorm

HAVING DRUNK HIS FILL of water, eaten plenty of dates for energy and rested through the early evening, Dragon and Princess set off an hour after sunset. He took a moment to appreciate the tapestry of stars overhead. Pinprick clarity. He had never, except in a bookish fit of imagination, pictured the stars as more than a sort of misty swirl. Not beads, bracelets, necklaces or intricately detailed laceworks, certainly not this mindfulness of neck-creaking majesty.

“Dragon. Jaw.”

He clicked his fangs shut. “Princess. Gnarr.”

“Could not agree more. Ready?”

“Strap yourself in, Princess. I don’t want to have to pick you up off the sand later when you inevitably enjoy your in-flight snooze.”

“Oh, but your light-hearted chatter always keeps me awake, Draaa … zzz …”

He produced a thunderous chortle. “Wake up!”

His mind tracked over the route ahead. One long night-time flight over an area of the Obsidian Desert called ‘the tongue’ by locals, essentially because it was a long spit of burning sands that separated Vanrace from T’nagru, about seventy miles wide. Few people crossed it since few generally had reason to. It was a fiery foretaste of the desert proper, hence the night crossing. His throat already felt like sandpaper just thinking about it. After that came G’nandu Citadel. They intended to rest there – also known as terrifying the local populace – before flying on to N’ginta. With a following wind, they might cover that second stretch by the following nightfall, but it was a marathon of over one hundred and thirty miles.

Rising into the air, he oriented himself according to Azania’s instructions in celestial navigation. This was a skill he had never been able to master due to his poor eyesight. Southeast was the bearing. The deserts beckoned.

For two hours, he flew over increasingly sparse grasses and light brush, until the vegetation ceased completely. Sand. Black sand, rolling like the ocean waves. Sculpted forms of dunes and ripples stood stark in the light of two full moons. The patterns on the sand were so sharply delineated by the monochrome lighting, he could see the languid sweeps of what must be a snake’s trail heading straight up a dune ahead. Barrenness could be more fascinating than ever he had imagined.

Endless, the night.

The monotony tugged at his senses. When would the sameness end?

“Dragon, are you asleep?”

“No.”

“Resting your eyes, perchance? Anyhow, welcome to T’nagru.”

He shivered from his nose all the way down to the tip of his tail. Being a large Dragon, the physiological reaction took a noticeable time to travel from his brain down his body. Pleasurable. Flicking his wingtips as a final touch, he looked around, and saw – well, more dunes, more black sand, a random spiky ball cactus about ten feet across … that was different.

“T’nagru?” he snorted. “What time is it?”

“Two hours before dawn.”

“Already?”

“Time flies when you’re –” she paused a beat, leaving him in absolutely no doubt as to what she meant “– flying in a straight line between here and nowhere. I should have warned you. They call this the desert nod. Drivers have been known to fall off their dromedaries through sheer boredom. Nomads walk all night along paths known only to their feet and not to their conscious minds. Dragons –”

“Know when their tails are being tugged?”

“Nod off if you agree,” she chortled, not skipping a beat.

Twittering rascal! When had tolerance for this tiny bundle of vexation turned to the best of companionship? Flaring his wings, he landed atop a tall dune, tugging her leg about the salient differences between sand, sand and sand.

“My dear Dragon, I should expect an artist to identify the variances immediately,” she opined, stretching her limbs into a star shape no Dragon could hope to emulate. “The desert is subtle, unlike your mountains. Variations of shading. Texture. The lay, height and orientation of the dunes. Did you notice that we passed over a dry watercourse a few minutes ago? That will flood in a flash if rains come. Which, by the way, is why you see a few cacti down there. They hardly need water, but when it comes, they are ready and their tissues swell to receive a year’s supply in just a few hours. There is water trapped in great aquifers beneath the sand. You just need to know how to find it.”

“My scales itch.”

“Ants in your pants?”

The Princess wore a desert robe gifted to her by Harbonu’s clan; no payment accepted. The worn, dark grey fabric swirled around her slim person as she moved, and blended surprisingly well with the sand. Camouflage likely being the point. She stood on the crown of the hundred-foot dune, the hood resting upon her shoulders, and scented the air … more than that. She melded with her surrounds in a way that reminded him of his mood magic.

Abruptly, she turned, saying, “The weather’s likely to change later today or tomorrow, Dragon. We should fly on, if you are able.”

He eyed the still night distrustfully. “What sort of change, Your Haughtiness?”

“Sandstorm, Your Scaliness.”

“I’d say, ‘I see’ but I really do not. I shall simply have to trust your inferior instincts.”

Her grin flashed white in the darkness of her face. “Despite the unholy hour, Dragon, I refuse to be riled by your feeble insults. Come on. Were you sleeping or flying?”

“Both. Actually, I feel alright.” He stretched his wings and checked them over. Unpredictable ought to be his new favourite word. “Not that I was actually sleeping, but I’ve never heard of Dragons resting quite so deeply on the wing. Might have flown headlong into a … ah …”

“Jumping sand dune?” she chirped. Baleful glare! How dare anyone be so cheerful at this hour of the night? “Carnivorous cactus? Giant flying scorpion?”

Gnarr-grr-nrr, he muttered.

The Princess bounced up and down on her toes. “Flying swiftly on?”

“Best do that before your snark and my gullet have an accidental meeting.”

* * * *

There was nothing like waking to find a large brown Dragon sunning himself atop the Vazuga’s palace to generate mass mayhem and panic. Ah, the sweet strains of chaos. He stretched lazily. Exercise was beneficial for the peasants. Running around screaming, wailing, tearing at one’s hair and clothing while begging the gods for mercy, so much the better. Although, judging by the frequency of the Princess’ hand-waving in the walled garden below him, a few ill-tempered words were likely to be zinging in his ear canals any moment. He picked at his sore ear and flicked a nasty glob of yellow-brown wax into the next street. Ah, the distraught shrieks … just a little longer …

The Vazuga of G’nandu was a straight-backed, small gentleman of impeccable presentation – who might look slightly less impeccable than usual this morning, in a Dragon’s jaded estimation. His air of serenity was taking a severe beating.

Oh, very well.

Rising to his paws, he stretched from muzzle to toe. Time to brush up on his morning roar.

I – AM – DRAGON!!

Thunder rolled over the citadel, reverberating back from the twenty-foot outer walls to make his every scale shiver. Oh, what wonderful acoustics! He would do that all over again just for the pleasure of hearing the reverberation over the thick-walled, whitewashed buildings with their flat roofs, which packed the oval citadel right to its edges. In the deep, cooler spaces between, he noticed how vegetables and fruits had been planted to maximise use of the temperature differentials. Shade must be so important in the desert. What a far cry from the city of Aluxon! The bracing scent of oranges, grapefruit and lemons filled the already heated air, and it was only a couple of hours after dawn.

He slithered down to ground level with care for the plants, paintwork and the space he so easily filled.

Azania said, “Nice roar.”

“Really added to the sense of calm this morning,” he agreed. “Vazuga –”

“Zanu,” he whispered.

“Vazuga Zanu, I understand our arrival is most unprecedented. The Princess and I intend to fly on as soon as possible. Please understand that we are only here to help T’nagru –”

He paused, frustrated that despite bearing a genuine Princess upon his back, this fellow’s face and emotions still openly doubted him. Nor did he accord the Princess more than the slightest regard. His mind had virtually blanked her out of existence.

Azania said, See a woman’s place in the hierarchy?

I do. Eyes narrowed. If only this simmering fury would erupt as Dragon fire. Still, they were not about to change the desert at the snap of his talons. In a deliberately low, modulated hiss, he said, “Vazuga, I have a simple list of demands. Meet these, and we will leave you in peace. Fail to meet my expectations, and I will personally break your city gates that the Skartun may the more easily make merry with your populace. Do we understand one another?”

“I gladly await your every command, my lord Dragon!”

Instant improvement. “Azania, brief him.”

Shortly, several hundred blue-robed soldiers rushed into the citadel’s streets, charged with calming everyone down. Might take a while, Dragon smirked. Partly, it helped that he and Azania walked down through the narrow streets to the artisans’ quarter, for people along the way, these dark, robed desert people fleeing indoors only to peek out of the deep windows and from sheltered balconies, began to whisper her name. “The Princess.” “It’s the Princess!” “Princess Azania, over here!”

Then, a child ran out to offer her a spray of delicate pink cherry blossoms.

The fearless Princess melted. Well, that was his impression of her tangled emotions. Her eyes developed that glistening look at the corners, and she knelt to receive the gift with a smile somehow similar to Hammaria’s as she brooded over her eggs. Odd. Must be a female attribute.

First, they spoke to the leatherworker. His eyes glazed over in disbelief that a Dragon might tolerate a royal rump, and a female one at that, to be seated upon his august scales. Indeed, and what was wrong with his Princess’ rear end, he demanded to know? Azania hushed him and had him inform the leatherworker he had four hours to create two basic saddles, one with neck straps and the other with a girth strap. The artisan and his four apprentices fell to with gratifying zeal.

Saddle? Saddle? Dragon almost mislaid his good mood on the spot. The only reason he did not, was that the gold coin figuratively dropped in the hoard of his mind at this point. Why did he have to tell the leatherworkers what to do?

Next door, it was the metalworkers’ turn to be treated to the Dragon treatment. One almost suspected they might want to see the back of the beast as quickly as possible.

“How may I serve you, Dragon?” he quavered.

“The Princess will brief you.”

“But –”

Azania showed the man a Dragon bow. “I want a rotating, flexible mount for this which will be affixed to Dragon’s topmost spike. I will help you to take measurements.”

“Haaa … how?” the poor man wheezed, querying his scaly visitor with his eyes.

Dragon pointed a very unequivocal talon at Azania. The metalworker would not even look at her?

She sighed, “I’ll demonstrate. Dragon, kneel.”

“Princess, I do not answer to that tone of voice.” In his most helpful tone, of course.

She smiled sweetly, “Please, o mighty Dragon, would you consider lowering thy towering self that a tiny Princess might clamber upon the mountain ridge that is thy stalwart back?”

“For your radiant self, o Princess, I shall wing to the very stars.”

The metalworker was still wheezing. Perhaps the man had a lung condition? Anyhow, he suffered a ladder to be laid against his flank that measurements might be taken for his mobile weapon platform, alias, one foot-tall spine spike. Meantime, he chewed over the problem of how his Princess was being treated by her own people, which tallied with Harbonu’s warnings. This society treated their women as nonentities; constantly, they waited for him to speak, to act and to decide, snubbing Azania at every turn. They did not even deign to notice they were doing it. The Princess in turn behaved as if she either was unaware, or refused to care. Was he wrong to be infuriated on her behalf?

If it was this bad here, how would King N’gala treat his daughter? Dragon society had patriarchal leanings. This desert society leaned so far, he was surprised it had not fallen over long ago.

Eyes and ears open, and nostrils to the ground, Dragon. Crystallise a plan in his mind. His Princess deserved better, even if she did not realise it – yet. Could he imagine Aria Seaspray putting up with this behaviour? Her fangs and talons would have been bloodied already.

On the five-hour mark, with the weather closing in, they chose to fly on ahead of the storm.

A frantic final packing session saw Princess and Dragon on their way with two new, basic saddles for the royal behind, a nifty Dragon bow mount – which put a new spin on the classic use of the Dragon bow – and holsters for a store of shiny metal quarrels which would not spill their contents during flight. They planned to use one saddle on his neck for normal flight and the other upon his back during combat. Azania said his neck seat was more comfortable and sheltered from the breeze generated by his flying speed. Besides which, she liked to whisper sweet nothings into his ear canals. All day long.

Practising for someone, he suggested?

Maybe he should take detailed notes, came the snide retort.

He gritted his fangs. A Dragon of courage would be planning to raid the Vaylarn Archipelago, if at the very least to bring the Princess to her beloved, rather than fretting over whatever dark magic these Skartun must possess. The mind boggled at the thought of Dragons being held as slaves, and mindless thralls moreover. How was that even possible? A smart creature would do what they planned, which was to attack from the air using their new weaponry. Arrows, quarrels, burning oil, boulders. Anything that would do damage to this Jabiz Urdoo and his army.

He clenched his paws into fists. Then, if he harboured the slightest intention of trying to free his kin, he would have to get close and face the peril, and the ultimate horror to a free creature of the air.

Enslavement? He would rather die.

A dark haziness rising from the south-western horizon gave their flight impetus. At first it drifted along slowly, but the companions soon realised they were victims of an optical illusion. That sandstorm was rushing along faster than they had imagined. The wind first picked up in fitful gusts, then in a much stronger breeze that hurtled him across the miles. The Princess tucked in her nose and mouth covering. He could do with the same. The haziness rose in eerie silence, soon resolving with the help of his spectacles into a rolling, billowing wall of blackness up to a thousand Dragon paces tall, and above that, storm-dark clouds riven by lightning.

He had never seen a weather phenomenon to compare.

The Princess said, “I can’t help but think you might need to go up there and be struck by lightning, Dragon.”

“Huh?” he spluttered. “I was thinking about trying to overfly the storm, but that’s probably too risky, wouldn’t you say?”

“It could blow for two days,” she agreed.

“Aye. Landing in that might be a trick. So, lightning? You want to see me smoke at the ears?”

“I was hoping for a less drastic way to trigger your powers,” she admitted. “I can’t imagine what this electrolysis power must be like, only that you would somehow be able to generate and store lightning inside your body. That’s … some scary magic, even for a Dragon.”

How perfectly she articulated his fears.

“I’ll admit, I hadn’t considered frazzling myself to a cinder might start everything off,” he said quietly, picking up his wingbeat. Could he even outfly that sandstorm, as he had thought? “I wonder how Sea Dragons learn to breathe fire?”

The Princess did not say so, but the tickling against his senses assured him that she was more than aware of his growing acceptance that his heritage might indeed be mixed – mixed in a way he had never heard of. A Dragon of the air mating with one of the ocean? His sire … how would it even have come about? Not that the deed was unthinkable. Isles Dragons were related to the Tamarine Mountains, but there were distinct differences in body shape and size. They were cousins, so to speak. It must be the same with Sea Dragons. They would have marine-friendly features like gills or – actually, he did not know that for a fact, despite all his research. Given his webby paws and odd powers, compatibility between Dragon types was clearly a given.

Mutual attraction was more than a given … ah, Aria! How could he fly northwest and ruin her reputation forever?

Hearts crammed with furious, futile feelings, Dragon raced ahead of the blast for four helter-skelter hours before it became clear that only the tempest would win this race. He had covered many miles more than they expected, but time, distance and his own physical limitations worked against.

“Put down behind that dune there,” Azania said. “With any luck – good, see? Bushes and boulders.”

He made a querying purr.

“Enough of a storm can bury a city quite nicely, never mind a person.”

“Oh.”

“Dragon, will you just trust me on this one?”

“I trust you implicitly.” Raising his paw, he touched her knee gently. “Could it be that the real issue lies within the heart attached to this knee?”

She made a strangled sound in her throat. “Sorry. I’m just … you know, travelling home on a Dragon’s back, with a few matters hanging over my head – an unpaid ransom, father the betrayer, a fanatical army burning down the front gate, and now a mother of a sandstorm to deal with. Bad day, alright?”

“I know a few things about bad days.”

“Dragon, there are times it’s wise to shut the fangs and let a woman vent. Otherwise, you might as well stand in the way of a volcano.”

“Vent away.”

Raising her fists to the sky, she let out a primordial scream. This Dragon nearly leaped out of his hide. By his wings, that was how a heart voiced its rawness? It spoke deeply to him.

Putting down in the lee of a towering sand dune, he shuttered his eye membranes against the stinging blasts of sand and followed the Princess toward the stand of boulders. Not enough to completely shelter him even when lying down, but they would work for a windbreak. The ground trembled beneath his paws. Now that he had stopped flying, he became aware of an eerie moaning quality to the wind. It sounded ravenous, which to a Dragon, was novel. Not too many things dared to consider eating one of his kind.

Laying his palm flat across his shoulders, he leaned close and said, “Tell me how best I can shelter my friend.”

She smiled tremulously. “By being who you are … friend.”

Chapter 27: T’nagru Besieged

SHELTERED BENEATH THE FOLDS of his doubled-over wings, they rode out the storm blast. The wind whistled overhead without ceasing, dumping a layer of fine obsidian sand over them that steadily crept into every gap, earhole and eyeball. His wing membranes fluttered as the wind blustered and bullied its way around the boulders and over his back. A small dune built up against the rocks protecting them, and against the exposed parts of his back and lower body. Periodically, he flicked the sand off and they settled down to wait again.

Inside the gloomy sanctuary the Princess dozed, treated his eyes with water from her own gourd, and coughed unhappily. High dust content in the air. Of course, it was clear that a sandstorm was a boon for T’nagru, as no army could possibly fight in such weather. The defenders could relax inside the citadel walls, while the siege army tried to keep from being buried without. Why the Skartun army did not simply unleash their Dragons, fly them over the walls and ravage the citadel from within, he had no idea – but that mystery would shortly become clear. Could they have mutilated their slaves? Could these Dragons genuinely not fly like Sea Serpents, or those tree-dwelling emerald Serpent Dragons they had seen deep in the Tamarine Mountains?

After a day and a half, the sandstorm blew itself out. With a final, asthmatic puff, it rumbled off over the dunes in search of fresh conquests. Dragon and Princess dug themselves free of the sand, brushed bucket loads of sand out of every mentionable and unmentionable place, and headed for N’ginta citadel.

Having expected a late afternoon robbed of its heat by the storm, Dragon found himself contrariwise flying through a living furnace. Taramis blazed as an unrelenting, dazzling speck high in the sky, so brilliant that it almost completely outshone Ignis. The red giant was visible only as a halo of crimson around the white. Heat rolled in stultifying waves over the dunes, which ran north to south in ranks as regular as any well-drilled army. Climbing to an altitude of a mile brought a measure of relief, and the sight of black smoke drifting slightly southward on the horizon.

“N’ginta?” he grunted.

“Without a doubt,” the Princess agreed.

Silent-winged, he glided past a burned-out oasis. Only the stumps of date palms remained around a muddy waterhole. The clouds of flies around it were thick enough to be seen from a height; they agreed pensively that there was no need to investigate. Dragon tried to adjust his spectacles, but the city on the horizon stubbornly remained out of focus – oh. Of course.

“Could you please clean the lenses, Azania?”

She passed them back shortly. “You’re not going to like what you see.”

He pursed his lips. “I see a white sandcastle perched upon an endless black beach, besieged by an army larger than they reported. That’s a – a huge number of Humans.”

His skills in estimating a flea infestation of that size being sorely lacking.

As they winged on, the disposition and size of the Skartun army became depressingly apparent. Since there was no way in this inhospitable land to hide so much as a mouse, let alone a Dragon, they made no effort at disguise. Even a night arrival would not have gone unremarked – the city was surrounded by the enemy.

Seven siege towers stood parked toward the rear of the host, while two had been hauled up toward the walls to make life miserable for the defenders. Mangonels, catapults and ballistae, which must have been dragged right across the desert, pounded the walls steadily. Thin threads of ladders stood propped against the forty-foot outer battlements. N’ginta boasted two mighty curtain walls, the second standing a majestic sixty feet tall, a quarter-mile back from the first. Azania had drawn him a neat sketch. The inner city was small but could serve as a final bolt-hole should the outer gates fall.

Flames licked two hundred feet tall up the outer gates. The attacking Dragons were not discernible from this angle due to the height of the hugely fortified gatehouses, but their effect was more than apparent. The gates had been clad in metal. He wondered if any remained, or if it had long since melted away. Dragon fire was a short-range weapon, useful up to about twenty feet. He had no doubt that close up, it could be as hot as a forge fire.

He noticed aloud, “They’re not attacking in full force, are they?”

“No. Very peculiar – why?” The Princess scratched her curls vigorously. “Either they’re expecting the Dragons to do their dirty work for them, or …”

“Or, they’re waiting for something.”

“Do we dare to guess what?”

He shook his head, as unhappy as her tone revealed. Something was clearly amiss. Aside from the assault on the gates, there were two main points of contact on the flanks. There, streams of warriors clad in silver plate and black-feathered helms fought to scale the outer battlements using grappling hooks, ladders and the siege towers. The defenders tried to set the towers alight, to hack at the ladders with axes or to push them away using long poles, and occasionally resorted to burning oil. Imagine that? His nostrils flared. The stench would soon hit.

Compared to the number of tents pitched in mathematically perfect rows there in the sand, he and Azania agreed that perhaps only a fifth of the enemy was committed to this present assault.

This was war. Real war! What place, this, for an artistic, atypical Dragon of no fires? Even Juggernaut’s training paled before what he beheld – if he were honest, he must admit to being daunted of hearts. Hubris paled before the reality of a besieging army going about the business of death with the steady, unchanging rhythm of forge bellows. Men were dying down there. Falling in the sand, never to rise. Arrows flicked through the sky like swarms of darting dragonflies. Rank upon rank of soldiers rushed toward the walls with manic zeal he scent sensed even from this distance. Here was a love of death and destruction to rival even the most rapacious of Dragons.

At the base of the nearest tower, he sighted the first thrall, a green Dragon of unremarkable size, heavily armoured with banded metal armour. His job appeared to be to trundle the siege tower along upon command. A handler sat upon his back, holding silver reins in either hand. The reins connected to a frightful metal cage the Dragon wore clamped – or even welded, if he was not mistaken – about his entire skull. Absolutely no doubt that abomination was a permanent fixture. What was it?

Raking the stubby green Dragon with an aching gaze, his hearts almost stopped. Only scarred stubs were left of his wings. Dragon looked again and again, trying to see what was not there. Black spots danced in front of his eyes. His fangs ground painfully together as he groaned loudly and long.

“What’s the matter?”

Blergh! They’ve … ah, Princess! Vile torturers, they’ve maimed that Dragon – he has no wings!

She said a word undoubtedly learned in a Vanracian dungeon. Pointing, she said, “The Dragon behind the tower has wings, however, just … they are clamped down, I think.”

Aye … aye, I’m sorry, I just …

I know, friend Dragon.

No, you don’t! Ah … forgive me. My tongue burns. I … and I thought being fireless to be the very worst fate.

Spreading her arms, she held him and whispered, “I know this means little, Dragon, but I have had a sense of your hearts over these months. You are far more than you think. Together, we will change the course of this war.”

Shudder!

After a long, deep breath, he said, “Thank you, Princess. I shall dredge up courage from somewhere. We will find a way. Even if we have to pick those fleas off the sand one by one.”

She did not say so, but he knew the answer – the only answer – before he had even finished speaking. There was no time for that. If her kingdom were to be saved, they would need to swing the balance very soon. Time to go consult with the King. Dragon hardened his hearts. He thought of the fire of an Aria, and the bravery of a Princess. Shut the eye membranes for a moment.

“What are you doing, Dragon?”

“Painting a new future in my mind’s eye, Azania.”

To his absolute, wing stuttering shock, she threw back her head and laughed! Rich and scornful, brutal and ebullient, her laughter rolled over his head toward the city, just a mile ahead now as he tipped into the descent. She laughed like a Dragoness. This girl was something fierce!

Pointing ahead, she said, “We have one chance at a big surprise. I say we go tip over that siege tower. You have the leverage and the weight, don’t you?”

“As an estimate, aye.”

“Good. Then, a fast pass along the wall. Scrape the battlements clear of ladders.”

“With the right pass, we could break that flank,” he agreed, narrowing his eyes. “Only one chance, however. Next time, they’ll be expecting us.”

“Aye. So we’ll show them something of what to expect, but not all.”

“No Dragon bows as yet?”

Her dark eyes glittered. “Later. I have a few ideas regarding their equipment. In addition, just look at all those nice tents pitched so very closely together. Windy day, fire arrows …”

His dark mood eased. Laughter fizzed in his veins and buzzed like tiny, jabbing bolts of electricity in his hearts. “You are a wicked, wicked Princess, do you know that?”

“Obedient.”

“Obedient to the nefarious voices inside your head, you mean.”

“I know, and one of them sounds very much like this Dragon I know. How peculiar.”

As she spoke, the Princess limbered up her bow and checked the position of her quiver, slung beside her right knee where it tucked against his neck. Dragon plucked the spectacles off his skull and passed them back to her. Into the packs they went.

No saddlebags for him. Travel packs, maybe.

Time for a change of pace. He flexed his wings and rotated his shoulders to loosen them up after a long flight.

“Dragon roar?”

“Dragon big roar!” She hooted at her own joke. “Princess block ears?”

“Let’s do it afterward,” he decided. “I’d like your father to be quaking when we go meet him – unless he’s not the quaking sort?”

“Not so much. Casual approach, Dragon. Let’s go for the tower without looking like we’re going for it.”

Fly casual? Whistle a merry tune as he approached the target with a coy sidelong glance?

Dragon ran the needed manoeuvers through his mind, grateful to sense the Princess checking her seat and straps. A series of deep breaths steadied him. He scented the desert, the city and the sheeting fires which smelled like a blacksmith’s furnace. More metal than wood burning as yet? The main gate faced the southeast quarter, granting shelter from the main seasonal winds and storms, he understood. The Skartun army camped in a semicircle around the southern side. How much time and manpower had it taken them to dig out from beneath the sandstorm? Had they re-pitched their entire tent encampment in the course of several hours? It would not surprise him.

Juggernaut would have remarked upon their discipline. Always a key sign in an army.

They approached from a direct westerly bearing. He watched tiny, blurred figures rushing along atop the battlements, forming wedges or shield walls to counter the dark-plumed attackers who had gained footholds on the top in several places.

“Ready, Princess? It’s going to be quite a jolt.”

Drawing the blue cloth up over her nose and mouth, she said, “Dragon, I’ve never been more ready to defend my home.”

This girl – this warrior Princess!

Whirling upon a wingtip, Dragon surged toward the first tower. It looked to have been transported in several pieces and reassembled to reach a height of fifty-five feet, allowing the attackers to shoot down at defenders atop the outer curtain wall. The base was longer than it was wide, set upon eight great wooden wheels. Fine-tuning his speed to use his tonnage to its best advantage, he brought his hind paws into position for the initial kick.

Kaboom! His paws smashed home five feet from the top. Gripping with every talon, he allowed his upper body to lurch forward over the top, absorbing the second impact with bent forepaws. Azania cried out briefly, but immediately told him she was fine. Flaring his wings to their fullest extent, Dragon lurched onward, his full strength and weight combining to haul the heavy base of the tower up off the ground. The wood creaked and groaned as it teetered.

Leverage! He growled, Come on, Dragon! As he flapped his wings furiously, even his tiny rider flung her weight forward to help. Over it went!

“Release!” she shouted.

Fireless fool, he had almost forgotten!

A bowstring twanged beside his ear canal. Her shaft spat over the gap toward the wall, striking a Skartunese warrior square in the back. He fell with a faint cry.

The dark defenders, clad in distinctive chainmail hauberks and wearing the symbol of a flaming desert sun on their left shoulder, shield and helms, appeared to be too shocked to even cheer as the tower crashed to the ground. Narked, Dragon surged for the wall.

Lines of silver, heavily plate-armoured men swarmed up the ladders, six or seven men tall before they reached the top. They were noticeably bigger and burlier than the T’nagrun soldiers, but just as dark of skin. Desert warriors. He scythed in beneath the first ladder, ripping it away from its footing as he flapped mightily to keep his balance. A flick of his paws cleared it of a load of Skartun rats. Then, twirling the wood in his grip, he used it as a battering-ram to front his sideways run along the wall. Azania’s bow twanged again. A black shaft feathered in the visor of a warrior’s helm – a Skartun leader, he realised belatedly, riding a mass of ladders and warriors down to the soft desert sand piled against the wall.

Stupid sandstorm! They were not meant to have a soft landing.

Picking up his paws, Dragon did a stomping dance even as the first arrows and spears whipped toward his back. Wood, bodies and armour shattered beneath his tonnage.

The soldiers waiting upon the sand began to react, forming their lines, dropping their shields into position. Spinning upon his heels, he lashed out with his heavy tail as Juggernaut had drilled him over and over again. Kerump! Their line imploded. Now to put the ladder to good use. Raising it overhead, he beat at their heads in the same way that the Princess liked to fan a fire. Bling! Blang! Crack!

That was too much even for trained soldiers. They broke their lines and fled in a mass panic, the Princess firing shafts at will into their backs. So thick were their numbers, she could barely miss.

Dragon eyed the remaining three ladders against the wall. The brown-faced Skartunese warriors stuck partway up did not look best pleased, but neither did they display open fear. Why not? He would teach them to tremble at a Dagon’s vengeance!

Ablaze with rage, Dragon leaped up to grasp the top of the battlements with his forepaws. He lashed his heavy tail across their backs with a whup-crack sound, smashing the unfortunates against the wall and cracking their ladders at the same time. They fell away, screaming – those who were still alive. Again, he trampled them heavily, finishing the job before leaping again, this time for the top of the battlement. Black plumes waved before him! With a sweep of his paws, he shovelled a troop of Skartun into a fatal fall in the street behind the curtain wall.

“Get out of my way!”

Waving her hands, Azania shouted from his back, “Get out of his way!”

The T’nagrun soldiers belatedly tried to press aside on the relatively narrow battlement. Springing onto the crenelated top of the wall, Dragon ran along to the next knot of black feathers, using his wings to aid his balance. This time, he collected several sword blows before he shovelled them off. Brave men, but in cramped quarters with a forty-foot fall at their backs, there was only going to be one winner in a pushing contest. Azania loosed one final shaft, dropping a Skartunese warrior five paces further along the battlement.

A hand touched his skull. “How’s about that roar, then?”

Turning slowly past a mass of shocked T’nagrun faces, Dragon gripped the stone wall that stood waist-high to these men. The stance he assumed was massive, square-on to the enemy, proud.

Thunder belled out over the desert, I – AM – DRAGON!!

As the echoes faded over the city, Azania turned to the soldiers nearest them and said, “Men, fire that siege tower, would you? And do clean up below. It’s good to keep the streets tidy.”

He said, “That other tower’s still vulnerable.”

Her dark eyes glittered in the corner of his vision. “Just the tower?”

“Aye. Let’s take it by stealth.” The Dragon poured off the battlement into the streets below. “I’d like a look at the main gate, too, in passing.”

* * * *

The soldiers of T’nagru were no fools, Dragon had to concede. Before he and Azania rushed over to topple the other tower, they were already rappelling over the walls to deal with the mess at the base – on the outside.

Shocked, he spluttered, “They’re desecrating the bodies?”

“Never. That’s against our beliefs. Only weapons, equipment and water,” the Princess explained. “The real reason is to ensure the ladders aren’t re-used against the city. Wood’s that valuable in the desert.”

“Wood? I see.”

Having dealt with the second tower in a similar fashion at a cost of three arrows through his wings and one plugged in his neck, Dragon and Princess flew up over the inner wall. Destination? The Royal Palace. Azania trembled against his neck.

It was already early evening. Ignis descended huge, crimson and bloody into the western deserts. Taramis hid somewhere behind that great bulk, invisible. Dust and smoke hung thick in the air, creating one of the fieriest sunsets he had ever seen. Hope the Skartun did not take it for a portent, the white city being painted crimson.

Reaching up a paw, he squeezed her knee with the utmost gentleness. “Princess, I apologise.”

“For what?”

“I regret to inform you that I am about to turn into a rabid, possessive, unshakable, galumphing tyrant.”

Her laughter snuffled against his scales.

Leaving terror in his wake, he flew up to a huge, blocky building surrounded by wide, ornately decorated white archways that led into cooler, shielded interior spaces. Desert architecture harnessed the natural flows of air, he understood, air itself being an excellent insulator. His paws touched down upon green-veined white marble floors in which he could see his own reflection. How many servants made this possible? The pedestal and capital of each column was ornately stone-carved and finished with exquisite artistry.

Within, delicate-looking geometric screens separated the living spaces from the outside. The fantastical patterning delighted the eye. He could spend years painting such artistry. The ceilings were great friezes depicting scenes of desert, and statues decorated the rich colonnaded hallways. Palace indeed. It compared to the finest, richest Dragon lairs, especially the museum lair he had once seen, belonging to the self-styled King of the Dragons, Sledge the Dominator.

The guards naturally did not welcome an unannounced visitor, but wisely, gave him plenty of room.

He curled his lips into a toothy leer. “I have come to pay my respects to King N’gala N’gala. Where may I find him?”

In the throne room, Azania breathed.

Play the game, Princess, he admonished.

Heart’s not playing much.

He might have differed. It played a new dance, one of apprehension – a dance he remembered from that first day he destroyed the tower room around her. Complex colours seethed against his senses. Even farther back, he realised, she was not anymore the girl who had been kidnapped from these cool halls months ago, these veiled, scented rooms filled with the whisper of soft desert robes and a faraway tinkling of harp music. That person locked in a stinking Vanracian dungeon was no more – yet she was not free, was she? Nor was he. Different chains, for different reasons. They had to help one another.

The guards looked him over, and the veiled girl seated upon his neck, with the utmost suspicion, but did not appear to recognise the Princess.

Dragon padded toward the men, bunching his shoulders to remind them just who – and how much –they were dealing with. In his throatiest purr, he clarified, “Without delay.”

“We’ll announce you – ah …”

“Call me Dragon.”

“Dragon. Wait here.”

“There’s a war on, in case you hadn’t noticed,” he growled.

Even up in the sumptuous Royal Palace, the roar of those Dragon flames against the main gates was distant, but noticeable. The metal hinges, supports and lock-and-bar mechanisms had been far too hot to touch. Soldiers clad in heavy protective gear constantly wet the surfaces and, every handful of minutes, shoved an armoured spout over the top to try to wet the outer surface. Huge clouds of steam and damp smoke roared up without ceasing, filling the city with a layer of grey ash – except here in the pristine Palace, he observed. Must be nice to enjoy one’s creature comforts whilst the populace suffered.

Perhaps he misjudged the man.

He would scent him out in just a moment. Following the Princess’ prompting, he extended his legs to follow the guard perhaps more quickly than the man had expected, for he glanced back and then signalled up to the end of the corridor. Great, ornate doors faced him there, wide and tall enough to accommodate even a Dragon. Four guards awaited in stiff array. He wondered how much they liked their jobs, as a toothy beast paced down the corridor toward them. One slipped out of sight, no doubt to deliver a warning.

“That’s the throne room,” Azania whispered. “He’ll be inside.”

“Shall we go in?” he asked.

“Do Dragons knock?”

He could hear her smiling, he was sure. “Depends on what their Princesses want. I’m feeling ornery.”

“Good.”

Chapter 28: Ornery Plus

THOUGH HE MUST HAVE had time to return to his throne, King N’gala N’gala did not choose to meet his visitors as Dragon might have expected. He stood beside a table perhaps ten feet square, which held a model of the city and the Skartun army arrayed about it. The strategic situation had clearly been under discussion until the interruption.

The model needed updating, courtesy of a certain Dragon and rebel Princess beating up a few Skartunese troops just minutes before.

His fiery gaze roamed the hall briefly. Rectangular in shape, the centre was raised in a great, ornate cupola decorated in gold-leaf friezes of desert horses and battle scenes. At the far end, a great archway separated out the throne area, which was not in use today. Great treasure chests and important relics of the realm framed that space, along with rich silk-woven wall hangings depicting people he assumed must be previous Kings and Queens of the realm. They wore long desert robes; the older pictures all showed the women wearing face veils.

Four great golden braziers shaped as Dragons’ upraised paws lit the space. Almost definitely manufactured by Dragon artisans, he decided, but where would they hail from? Certainly not from the Tamarine Mountains. The style was too exotic.

Despite the dark gathering outside, the throne room was light and airy, filled with spangling light golden enough to gladden any Dragon’s heart.

Glad? Absolutely not! Inclining his muzzle, he fixed his most malevolent gaze upon the King.

Impossible not to hate this man.

Ignoring the guards trying to keep him a respectable distance from the table, and the seven crimson-robed men who stood around it, Dragon stepped up to join them. Four wore golden crowns. The King’s crown was easily the most ornate, a tall design of the flaming desert sun picked out in rubies that appeared to make red-golden beams rise above and behind his head. Unmistakable, besides that his curly black hair was drizzled with white. The three Princes wore simpler golden torcs upon their brows, with an emblem at the centre of the forehead, the desert sun, while the other men must be military advisors, judging by their bearing.

“King N’gala,” he purred.

“Dragon,” said he, unmoved and unmoving.

Neither bowed.

After a moment, Dragon chose to incline his muzzle slightly, a gesture of acknowledgement. He scented the man, and found … nothing. That threw him. Nothing at all? He must be resistant to Dragon magic, somehow. What an unexpected complication!

The King said, “I assume you are the fireless Dragon, Blitz the Devastator, who stole my daughter, come to demand ransom? Your timing could hardly be worse. Where is the Princess Azania?”

Azania pushed back her hood and lowered her hood. “Father.”

The man’s dark eyes flickered. The other six gasped, but King N’gala again displayed extraordinary control of his emotions. “Daughter. I am glad to see you well, if improperly attired.”

When she did not speak, Dragon replied, “Are you glad?”

“I am. Descend from the beast’s back and greet your father properly, child.”

He stared down at the King. Obsidian. All he sensed of this man, was obsidian as impenetrable as the desert of his birth. “King N’gala, we have come to join the war effort. We are no friends of the Skartun, as your generals will report.”

Princess Azania slipped down from his neck, as light-footed as any feline. Before she could make a move, his paw clasped her waist, talons extended upward as if to threaten her neck. He rasped, “No.”

“I should greet my father.”

“Be silent.”

N’gala raised an eyebrow in query. “What are your demands, Dragon?”

His dark, harshly lined face was full of years, full of desert winds and faraway places. Effortlessly, he made his visitor feel very much the gauche youngster. How was he so out of his depth? He needed to retreat, sense the scents of this place, regroup – yet right now, he must be as sharp as an Aria’s talons, and as cunning as a desert Princess.

On the spot, he decided to spring his ambush. “What price did you agree with King Tyloric for your daughter’s person?”

“Everyone here knows her price –”

“But you don’t know mine.”

Softness. That instinctive whisper caused the King’s knuckles to whiten upon the model Skartun soldier he held in his left hand. The first genuine response. So, the man could be reached. Azania’s position here was more tenuous than they had figured – and, her father’s motives must be far more complex than they had discussed. Not a simple ransom. No. Until he worked out what was going on, he needed to be unpredictable.

Flicking out a sharpened talon, Dragon reached over the tabletop. “I have two reasons for coming to N’ginta Citadel, o King.” As he spoke, he knocked over the model siege tower. “Just fixing the picture, here. One, the Skartun represent an existential threat to my kind. I intend to observe and report upon all that I see, especially regarding the enslavement of Dragons. Two, Princess Azania begged me to come and save her kingdom.” Clearing the western rampart of enemy soldiers, he said, “A determined Dragon could make a great difference to a siege. Much more so, a Dragon and his Dragon Rider.”

“Dragon … Rider?” the oldest Prince echoed.

“Aye. Meet my honoured Dragon Rider, Azania – trained in warfare by the greatest Dragon fighter of all time, Juggernaut the Grinder. Although you might know her from before, there are aspects of your sister’s capabilities, Prince N’chala, of which you have not the faintest notion.”

Her oldest brother had the ill grace to form his features into a sceptical frown. Indeed, all the brothers exchanged disbelieving glances.

King N’gala’s face took on a thunderous aspect. “I heard report from Vanrace, Dragon –”

“That Prince Floric is very, very lucky to be alive?” he inserted smoothly. “On account of my Rider’s honour which you value so highly, o King, I did attempt to separate his head from his shoulders. I sacked his castle twice, and burned it down in large part – but any principled creature would find it crass to speak of ransom when a Dragon army is busy burning down the city gates nearby. Let’s discuss what we can do to rid T’nagru of this Skartun rabble. Our aid is yours for the asking.”

“Whether we want it or not?” N’chala interjected drily.

“We are here to serve, brother,” Azania said.

N’gala grated, “You are my daughter and I will have you back.”

An inflection in his tone almost dropped the Princess to her knees, but his paw halted the movement. Azania shook her head slightly, as if she had an insect lodged in her ear.

Aha!

Scenting the air urgently, Dragon realised that these others did not enjoy the same protections as the King. So many nuances teased his nostrils, he could not resolve them all at once, but it was the Princess’ scent traces that concerned him most. Her detectable emotions were – well, smudged was the best word he could think of by way of description. Usually she was sparky, clear, changeable. Now a cloud had drawn over the suns. He must get her away from here as quickly as possible.

Sheathing his talons, he placed a paw upon her shoulder as if to make a point regarding his possession of the prize to the King. Meantime, he attempted a measure he had never tried before, extending his magic of subterfuge as a shield around her person.

“Well, Dragon?”

He smiled at the seven red-robed, richly attired desert leaders. “Shall we discuss how you’re going to help us tear that army apart? I’m feeling ornery, with extra-fiery peppers on the side.”

* * * *

“Ornery with peppers on the side?” Azania snorted. “Is ornery your new favourite word?”

“It describes people I can’t read at all.”

“I sensed you wrapping me about with your magic,” she said, folding her arms. “I don’t like it when you … play with my mind.”

“That impossible thornbush, do you mean?”

Spreading his wings above the city, Dragon pressed northward. The feint. He considered what to tell her. How much to reveal. Before he had quite settled upon blunt honesty, she said:

“Dragon, we agreed not to hide issues from one another. I know you well enough, I hope, to understand you do few things without, well, overthinking them something awful. So, are you a mouse or are you a Dragon? Squeak up.”

He groaned at the old pun. “So funny.” As he told her what he had sensed of her father, however, the Princess became quieter and quieter, until it was he who flew with a mouse tickling his neck. At last, he shook his muzzle slowly. “Something is wrong in your kingdom. Very wrong. Look, I’m not well-versed in the whole dark magic … business. The Terror Clan Dragons – you remember, up in the far northeast of Solixambria? They’re infamous for it. I cannot help but scent sense that something has a grip upon your father and it is plainly not for the better.”

“You had better not be defending him!”

Her hurt blazed, no need of magic to sense that.

“No, Princess, I am not. Not in that sense. We will defend the city and your people. His actions regarding you – well, let me make a small species-style confession. Dragons are very poor at dropping grudges. It’s a blind spot, a failing, the reason behind every vindictive, vengeful blood feud, an affliction of epic proportions –”

“I get it,” she laughed, but the sound struck him as mournful. She patted the back of his head. “Thanks, Dragon. You’re the best.”

“Hardly, but I shall swagger from here to the Vaylarn Archipelago merely to hear you say something like that from time to time, Princess – my Princess. Mine. MINE!”

“Shh, you silly beast. We’re meant to be sneaking.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Tilting his wings to glide, he drew in a deep breath.

She said, “I guess I needed someone to look after me. My true Prince came wearing scales and breathing f – oh, Dragon! I’m sorry. You’ve done so much for me, and what have I done for you, but insult you, bother you, pinch your food and –”

“Give me belief?”

Her hollow chuckle infuriated him. Were males not supposed to reveal thoughts and emotions, without ridicule?

A quiet apology stilled his thoughts, however. The Princess said, “Perhaps we both need to work on the belief.”

“Aye.” Much as he wished otherwise, it was not so.

For half an hour, they winged up into the night sky, pleased that a thick band of clouds drifted over the stars. Could not have asked for better weather. Flexing his wingtips, he swept out onto a new direction for the return journey. No-one wanted the Skartun to anticipate this attack.

They discussed priorities for a few minutes. If they could break the Skartun ability to stage their siege effectively, there might be an opportunity to approach those captive Dragons and see what could be done for them. They needed to stay away from King N’gala until they worked out what his powers might be. Later, if they survived, there might be talk of ransom, but even an avaricious Dragon who was meant to building up a hoard had to admit he had zero plans in that vein. Not unless those plans involved the King of a very, very faraway Archipelago.

Instead, he claimed, certain cheeky Dragon Riding Princesses could better spend their days scrubbing a mighty Dragon’s scales.

“Oh, really?” Azania laughed. “So, I’m your Dragon Rider now? When did that become a thing?”

“It became a ‘thing,’ ” he snorted, framing the quote with upraised talons, “when we invented it, so there. How do you Humans say it? Shove that up your stovepipe and smoke it?”

“Dragon! Rude connotations.”

“I was unaware.”

“Well, I am not. Especially considering how my father and brothers regarded me. My wicked trousers and wanton hairstyle sent their collective blood pressure through the palace roof! I’m doomed.”

“Hardly. Since you are not planning to marry any walking slugs of the ilk of Prince Flatulent anytime soon, Princess, I suggest you focus upon how the cut of your wings, the sheen of your scales, and the, uh – just work with the inapplicable metaphor here, would you? Messy, messy language. Something about you not needing a dress, nor for that matter, any clothing at all, to look beautiful.”

“Dragon!”

“Oh.” He mimed clouting himself across the earhole. “Slip of the old forked tongue there.”

“As if! I know when my leg’s being pulled – with Dragon-sized subtlety, might I add?”

“Guiltless.”

“Total rot. Right. Let’s see if this clever fire pot idea will work, shall we?”

Test number one for their unconventional ideas. Sure, eyebrows had wagged at a few of their suggestions, but the King and his advisors had not been slow on the uptake. A winged ally represented a substantial advantage in relatively static desert siege warfare.

Unfortunately, the King’s primary request was for them to destroy the beasts flaming their gate. Immediately. At best, they had five days of water left.

Destroying the Dragons he had come to save was not the point.

Nor was the argument he had with the Princess over the issue. She insisted he had to be prepared for the possibility that they might need to choose between the Dragons and the city. He wanted nothing of the sort. They would find a way. A good compromise. Life was not so easy, she said – rightly, of course, which did not make him any less growly and defensive. Even trying to convince his stubborn inner voice that perhaps they could contrive to injure the Dragons enough that they could no longer walk up to the gate anymore, caused him to break out in a nasty scale rash.

No less than fourteen ballistae covered the Dragons, however. To get close enough to fire accurately and do real damage meant running a dangerous, likely fatal gauntlet.

After finishing their first consultation with the King, Prince N’chala had taken them down to the stores to have their clay oil vessels prepared, fire arrows sourced, and to discuss the all-important fire pot with a team of engineers and scientists. Since a particular four-pawed wonder could not produce so much as a minor spark in his own right, they needed to carry fire with them – fire that would not be snuffed out by flying or high-speed manoeuvers, nor spill all over the Princess while she was fighting Dragonback.

That would be awkward.

Princess Azania had thought ahead far enough to consider having fire-resistant armour made for herself. Unfortunately, that armour was up at Chakkix Camp and nowhere near where it needed to be, such as adorning her person. Lack of preparedness. N’chala had the armourer track down a number of lightweight pieces for her – nothing else they possessed would fit a person of her diminutive stature.

Four feet and eight inches tall! What a … titan, he had teased, earning himself a friendly clout across the snout. Girls did not fight, in her culture.

N’chala had said, “Sister, this light leather-backed plate will not stop a direct arrow strike, so please, be careful out there, alright?”

“Now you care?” she teased.

He gave her a strange look. “Of course I do. So does our father, even though I know you don’t believe it. It would help if you behaved in less of a brazen manner, Azania. You’ve gone so … wild. It’s unnatural, that’s what it is.”

“Necessity,” she gritted between her teeth.

Azania must appreciate the support of her brothers as much as he always had.

Dragon quickly changed the subject to the matter of how they planned to carry heaps of breakable clay pots into battle without cracking them all. The exchange bothered him. Was there something in the air? The water? Could some foul magic be sending all these desert people completely roaring-at-the-moons crazy?

Who would just sit behind their walls and wait for the enemy to burn the gates down?

Where was Jabiz Urdoo?

Too many questions. Far too few answers.

Even a Dragon must put one paw in front of another. Tonight’s nefarious work would target the siege towers, still neatly lined up at the back of the enemy camp. If those went up like torches, as they hoped, their next stop must be the ballistae. Those were the primary weapons which could stop a Dragon mid-flight – mid anything, to be perfectly clear.

“A touch more to your left wing.”

How, out in the back-end of nowhere upon an overcast desert night, four hours after the suns had finished their day’s work traversing the heavens, did she do that? Razor sharp instincts.

“Like this?”

“Perfect.”

Although they were still at least ten miles from the citadel by his reckoning, he slanted his wings to begin a rapid, powerful descent. One vertical mile in five horizontal miles. An ocean of comber-like dunes spread out before him. The lower he flew, the better the perspective helped him, because he could measure his altitude over several summits ahead and decide upon subtle adjustments. Nonetheless, his enthusiasm caused his left wing to clip the height of a dune; thanks to the steep slope beyond, he avoided burying his muzzle in the sand at high speed, and that only by a whisker he most certainly did not possess.

Humans compared draconic movement to feline litheness. Dragons compared Humans to scurrying vermin, and worse. Hmm.

“Azania, when I called you Humans grubs – early on, when you were first getting to know how incredibly savvy I am regarding your kind, what did you think … were you insulted?”

“Not particularly. I’m dark-skinned, after all.”

“What colour are the Humans from the Vaylarn Archipelago?

“Lighter than me, but still pleasingly brown,” she said. “You will note many differences, however. They are more rugged of build, taller and broader in the shoulder than my people, and their faces are broader – noble of brow, I’d say. The hair is handsomely curly and worn to the shoulders, and oh! The men! Oh Dragon, Archipelago men are so chiselled, they make a Princess shiver –”

“Stop tugging my wings.”

“It’s all true.”

Dragon squinted as he spied a dark rectangular silhouette looming against a dark sky. “The towers!”

The Princess snapped a naughty word. “How did we – so fast –”

“Too much drooling over your Prince. Fire?”

Stones clicked together on his back. “Trying! Darned wind …” Click, click. “Can’t get it.”

“Turn around.”

She wriggled about upon her seat. Click, clack … click … “Keep going in.” Clack. “I’ll tell you when.”

With his weak eyes and far stronger sense of smell, Dragon hunted for enemies. The inrushing speed worked against him, here – but his hearts clenched as his instincts worked faster than knowledge. Azania’s suggestion had been to scent out their emotions. Excellent! Wind-proof magic. Why had he not thought of this approach?

He said, “One guard per tower.”

“Got it. Oil jars?”

Hefting the sack in his left paw, the Dragon plucked the first jar out with his talons and rolled it carefully into position. “Ready when you are.”

She had better be quick. The movements against his neck were deft. Snick of a belt buckle. Slight twang of fingers testing her bowstring, not for the first time this evening. The curling breeze brought a fragrant scent of lilies to his nostrils, from an aromatic oil they had been assured would burn beautifully. It was used as a base for many perfumes. Next came a tang of smoke from the fire pot, which was filled with a slow-burning resin.

His wings flared short of the first tower. “Princess!”

“Ready.”

Stalling in the air with a powerful back-beating action, Dragon lined them up with the open entrance to the lowest level. He pitched the clay pot inside. Shards tinkled. Almost immediately, her bowstring twanged a musical note. A blazing arrow zipped into the yawning black space like an unexpectedly large, swift firefly.

WHOMP!!

Dragon bared his fangs in approval. Spinning about in the air, he tail-slammed the fleeing guard back into the raging flames. “Next?”

Chapter 29: Sowing Mayhem

THE SECOND TOWER WENT up with a satisfying roar of flames, but on the next the clay pot of oil failed to shatter. Azania clucked unhappily as her fire arrow then declined to light from the pot. The guard inside hurled a dagger at her, missing her head by inches. She returned the favour with an unlit arrow square in the chest.

Smash, crack, gurgle, reload, whomp! Up went the third siege tower.

Good stuff, this oil. The flames even smelled aromatic. Scenting the air with approval, Dragon pounced upon the next man, who had time for a shrill cry of disbelief before he ended up decorating the underside of someone’s mighty right forepaw.

Allegedly mighty.

Abandoning one’s post must get one killed, he assumed. This tower went up in smoke just as well as the others. The ferocious desert suns must have sucked all moisture out of the timbers, because they took like the driest kindling. No stopping this once it caught. Flames already spurted out of the third level of the first tower, probably travelling up through the ladder holes, he guessed.

“Freaking worm!” shrieked the next victim, attacking him with a sword.

Bad idea. A snap and a spit of disgust, and his dark head rolled off down the slope. “Pah. These Skartunese taste as horrible as they smell,” he growled, hurling the next oil bomb into the tower’s base level.

“We should have fitted fuses to these pots,” the Princess hissed, struggling with the next arrow. “Ah, got it.”

Whoosh!

“What did you whoosh for this year?” he asked politely.

“Terrible joke – watch out!”

Ducking, Dragon punched away a flying blade. A slash opened across his knuckle as if by magic. “Ouch! You’ll pay for that.”

The sixth guard did run, but only as far as the seventh, who slid a curved desert sword between his compatriot’s ribs. “Die, coward! Run from a slave worm, will you?”

Worm? Bile spurted into his throat. No worse insult could be offered a Dragon.

“Fool! Call me Dragon!” he roared.

“You’re a worm!” sneered the last man, spreading his arms. “What’s the matter, you slinking, belly-crawling, fawning, witless worm – kill me, I dare –”

The Skartunese soldier jerked and made a strange, strangled sound as an arrow sprouted out of his mouth. Dragon blinked.

“Eat my arrow, I dare you,” Azania taunted.

“Nice shot,” Dragon purred, recovering himself with a shiver of his wings. “Slid that one right over his tongue and through the back of his throat.”

“Juggernaut would have spread your guts for that hesitation!” the Princess snapped, making his five hearts slam together inside his chest. “Shut your ears to their insults and don’t leave me to deal with the enemy. We are not a gentle Dragon meek and mannerly, alright? Besides that, next time you do your dominance roar, let them know who you really are. Understood?”

Wow. Much more of this, and he would be flaming out of his ear canals.

Reaching around his neck, he patted her knee. “See, being a Dragon Rider is most definitely a thing.”

“You can torture me most foully, o Dragon, but nary a murmur of confession shall pass my lips. Now, how’s about we commit a smidgen more arson before those Skartunese troops form up properly and come attack us?”

“Excellent idea.”

Leaving seven siege towers blazing so furiously that the flames lit the battlements of N’ginta in a baleful orange light, Dragon and Princess melted away into the night.

Time to take a run at those ballistae.

Rising into the air, he squinted over the suddenly busy camp.

Azania said, “They’re loading up.”

“They’re not all that manoeuvrable. Nor can they shoot directly upward – but they are positioned to cover one another,” he thought aloud. “Low attack again, try to dump and damage a couple, and set them afire? As you said, fuses would have been a lot better.”

“Let’s go spread the love,” Azania urged. “Be careful, Dragon.”

Flexing his great wings, he accelerated back toward the camp, readying two pots in his talons. “Arrows?”

“Ready. Nine left.”

On the way, Dragon realised that with a huge blaze at the back of their camp, the Skartun soldiers had the advantage of flickering firelight to silhouette his form. Dipping, he let his tucked-up paws skim the sands before he hurtled in amongst the tents, executing another creative Juggernaut surprise – the almost-run, he called it. With the use of wings and Dragon power, he could skim across an uneven battlefield in a bounding, jinking mode of movement that was hard for archers or ballistae to track. Wings gave an additional mobility advantage no charging Dragon enjoyed – the ability to change direction rapidly.

Arrows flitted past his muzzle and skittered off his flanks as he swerved, ripping up two tents in his paws and tossing them atop the nearest watch fire. Jinking again, he chest-charged a Skartunese troop, smashing them backward on the sand. His outspread wings clobbered several more.

Then they were free of the tent line, racing toward the ballistae near the camp’s centre-front, where they had been placed to cover the armoured Dragons still flaming the gate.

Focus on the weapons, not on the four Dragons walking deeper into the camp, each with a handler seated atop his neck – just like Azania.

By her hiss, he realised she had noticed the same thing.

BROTHER DRAGONS, ARISE!! he roared.

They did not react – had they even heard him? Shocked, he ripped his eyes back to the fore, where a team of engineers tried to bring a ballista to bear upon them. An eight-foot metal quarrel jutted toward his chest; Dragon veered more sharply than before, even digging his wingtip into the sand to help him turn. The engineers’ faces were a study in profane fury as he slipped out of their sights. Rising, he hurled a pot against the ballista’s frame.

Each weapon stood upon a flat wooden platform. A pair of strong joists held the swing arms, which were tensioned by a winch. The quarrel went into a channel which extended back toward the operating team. The whole heavy contraption could swing about upon a swivel mount and be raised and lowered by a ratchet wheel system, but on the whole, it was not a weapon designed to accommodate rapid changes of direction. Having noticed that this model had a shield to protect the engineers from arrows shot from the front, that was where he chose to hurl the oil pot. Largest target.

As the dark, viscous oil splashed over the wood, Azania’s follow-up shot plugged beneath it. Yellow, smoky flames licked upward.

One of the engineers dashed forward to try to throw sand upon the flame. It caught right in his face. Fff-whoosh! Again, the wood ignited beautifully. Why did they not treat these weapons with some kind of fire retardant, he wondered?

Quarrel! “Hold on!”

Throwing himself sideways, Dragon roared as a quarrel rattled against his flank, scoring a long, thin wound as it ricocheted away. Spinning with the momentum, he tumbled head-over-paws, twisting his body and curving his neck to ensure that the tiny Princess would not be squashed as he came down heavily on the sand and skidded backward, ending up with his tail wedged beneath the second ballista they had been aiming for.

Not the cleverest twist, but – heave! Up went the tonnage, just in time to shield them from two further quarrels. One sprouted right through the base of the weapon, coming within inches of decorating his left haunch.

“Crumbs,” said Azania.

What did crumbs have to do with anything? Apart from describing what he was about to do to these weapons crews. Raising his paw, he punched the weapon, ripping the tensioning mechanism off its moorings and spreading oil at the same time.

“Fire it,” he growled.

Her instinctive shot ignited the flame so close to them, he was certain her hair almost caught alight. His right forepaw definitely did. Staring at the flaming paw, he realised that the oil burned hot – not hot enough to bother a Dragon, who could happily sit in lava for half an hour at a time, but certainly enough to bother a Dragon’s handler.

“Let’s go try something.”

“What?”

“Set those handlers alight. See if we can free one Dragon, at least.”

“Soldiers everywhere; that direction’s as good as any,” she decided and agreed in one breath. “Go!”

He galloped away as a rain of arrows pattered onto the sand around them. Several passed through his wing membranes, generating pinpricks of intense pain. Another heavy quarrel hissed past, too close for comfort. It smashed a Skartunese soldier in the shoulder.

One way to reduce the odds.

The quartet of Dragons plodded over the hot sand looking as if they carried the weight of the world upon their shoulders. All were adult males, measuring about thirty-five to forty feet in length; easily powerful enough to carry five men upon their backs, let alone one. Two were a dusky orange in colouration, one a dull green – he did not look healthy at all – and one a brown, like him. In fact, as he barrelled along, his artistic eye absorbed the details of how unwell they looked. Captivity? Inactivity? Not one had good muscle tone or muscle mass; their flanks were lean and their scales dull, where he could see them beneath the banded Dragon armour they wore across their shoulders, backs and upper flanks.

What infuriated him most were the strange cages fixed around their heads. Even their eyes were shielded by metal lids, meaning they could only look to the fore.

As they approached, the dull-looking creatures responded to commands issued by no means he could see; their muzzles turned, tracking him and Azania.

“Dragon fire!” he bellowed.

Kicking off the sand, he shot upward as a wave of flame and blistering heat rolled toward them – a tired wave it was, or the Princess might have been roasted there and then. His huge wings beat the air, pushing the flame back toward the handlers. One cried out as an inferno enveloped the head of his Dragon. The others stopped the assault; Azania loosed a shaft, but missed narrowly. He hurled his clay pots as they soared overhead, missing with one but striking dead-centre with the second, possibly crushing the man’s skull, he thought.

Whatever worked.

He skidded to a landing just beyond, showering sand over a cohort of Skartunese soldiers rushing in from that direction. Three javelins sprouted in his flank as if by magic. He whirled into the tail strike, while his Rider readied another fire arrow.

“Steadying,” he coughed. Ouch. One of those javelins had lodged painfully between his ribs.

The bowstring sang. Cleanly shot, the arrow ignited the oil-soaked handler. The orange Dragon did not move. He stood stolidly, staring to the fore as a Human torch burned against his neck.

He threw two more oil pots, soaking the Dragons; the Skartun handlers responded by doing something with the short silver bars they held in each hand. Those connected via thin silver wires to the head harness. The Dragons responded as if stung by invisible wasps, rearing up to face him and throw off Azania’s aim. Fire licked toward them again, but he jumped aside and the Princess took her chance. A second Dragon ignited.

With me, brothers! Escape with me!

“These worms respond to nothing but the command of pain,” sneered a handler. His silver armour was soaked in oil; he wrenched off his helmet to show he felt no fear. “Soon, you will be as one of these, worm. Jabiz Urdoo will make you sing the song of agony and enslavement –”

Sharp ear canals caught the twang of another ballista. Dragon sprang aloft; the quarrel whistled between his legs and buried itself deep in the enslaved Dragon’s chest. At last he responded, bellowing in mortal pain. The mouth gaped, showing blackened fangs and a mottled tongue, but it was the other Dragon’s eyes that arrested his hearts. Almost black with pain. Barely a spark left within.

The Princess lit up that handler like a torch.

With me! DRAGONS, ARISE!

Nothing.

Were they animals of no speech? No response? Not even a flicker of recognition in those eyes. Despair clenched his Dragon hearts as with talons of pure ice. What use trying to rescue such as these? There was nothing left – nothing of the draconic spirit within.

DRAGONS!!

Blindly, he rushed toward the fourth and final Dragon. The handler flicked those silver handles, but his mount was nowhere near the size or power he would have needed to be to stop the assault. The powerful brown struck his adversary amidships, audibly breaking several ribs as he rolled him right over, adding a brutal strike with the knee to ensure that his handler was struck free, crushed beneath his rolling tonnage. The Skartun fell heavily onto the soft sand; the Dragon collapsed with a terrible groan.

“Dragon! Dragon! Stop, you’re killing him.”

The Princess leaped off his neck; he paused with his paw upheld, ready to disembowel the Skartun handler. The man lay prone upon the sand, face up, bleeding from his mouth.

Azania booted him in the ribs. “What did you do to those Dragons? What? Tell me!”

The man coughed out a laugh.

“Speak!”

“Never … tell you …”

“Why do they obey you? Tell me!” The man laughed and made a crude gesture. Azania snapped, “Dragon –”

He stepped upon the Skartun’s legs – not with anything like his full weight, roaring, “Tell me!” He ground downward. “Speak! What is this dark magic?”

The Princess dropped onto her knees in the sand, spitting with rage.

So infuriated was he, it was several long seconds before he realised he was grinding the legs of a dead man. He had slipped his own dagger into his heart.

Azania whispered, “It’s done. He said … ‘ear.’ Something about the ears –”

She began to move toward the fallen Dragon, but now it was as if the clamour of battle, having taken an interminable breath during their assault, closed all around them with shocking suddenness. Commands roared in the night. Here came the tread of many men, rank upon rank, rushing up in tight, disciplined groups to engage the raiders; his quick ears caught the creak of the tensioning ratchets on those ballistae, and he realised they were in mortal danger.

Snatching the Princess up into his paw, Dragon coiled his thighs and shot into the night sky. He cupped both forepaws about her as he flapped to gain altitude, protecting her tiny person from a hail of arrows numbering in the hundreds.

The ears?

As the arrows began to arch and fall beneath them, he flicked his wings to spin in the air and change direction. Quarrels hurtled past. Ballistae had a maximum range of over two hundred Dragon paces, but to penetrate, they needed to shoot from much closer. Still, one pierced his right hind knee; he was sure it chipped the bone before tearing free. He swore a bloody oath.

“Alright, Dragon?”

“Aye. Alright. Can you climb into your saddle?”

“I’ll manage.”

“Got any more fire arrows left?”

“One.” The Princess’ diminutive weight settled upon his neck. “Planning to light up something more?” He grunted noncommittally. She smacked his head. “You aren’t thinking …”

“Ah, but I am.”

* * * *

Nine jars of oil rained down among the sixteen Dragons gathered in a shallow semicircle to flame the city gate. Three missed, but most struck the backs or heads of his kin. Then, the Princess’ final arrow arched down adjacent to a swirling maelstrom of fire.

He did not understand the tactics. Fly those same Dragons over the wall, and the city would have been razed within hours. What did these Skartun stand to gain by engaging in such slow, grinding forms of warfare? Honour? Time? Extra grey hairs and in the afterlife, a seat in some sort of warriors’ paradise? Maybe flying their thralls into battle was somehow forbidden? Either way, the heat that rolled up from their fiery assault was fearful, causing the Princess to gasp and pull back. The entire metal face of the gates glowed red hot.

Having dared this raid, they must escape intact.

Yellower flames flared and then raced across the oil as it ignited, climbing paws and flanks, running across the hard-packed sand to climb the next Dragon. Screams resounded below. Using the distraction, he churned the air powerfully with his wings, changing direction and then, without warning, dropping fifty feet lower before switching the angle of attack and haring off to the east as fast as his wings could carry him. Volleys of arrows and quarrels hissed above and past his departing tail, save one.

Dropping lower as his muscles involuntarily seized at the jolt of pain from his tail, he swung his tail in a brain-deficient moment of wrath. Quarrel removal by tail-slapping a cohort of Skartunese soldiers? Brilliant. He left with at least five more holes in his hide that he could feel, and a splintered piece of wood still jutting from the last two feet of his tail.

Not a great result.

Still, alive and a Princess lightly toasted but otherwise unhurt? He’d take that.

Ten minutes later, he had to fight off a temper tantrum. The Palace healers would not treat him. “Not experienced with Dragons?” he spat wrathfully, snapping at the innocent display of purple climbing roses beside his left paw. “What am I, a woman’s work?”

“Maybe that’s for the better.”

He clacked his fangs together several feet short of her head, which was not difficult.

Here they were stuck in the Palace’s ornamental gardens to spend the night, and the healers had just given up and left the Princess to it. Marvellous. What valued allies they were. He was truly feeling their status in the Kingdom of T’nagru – grass for a bed, plus admittedly picturesque flowerbeds for company. Ah, but then there was a matchless Princess, which ought to make him feel as if a star had casually stepped free of the firmament to light his paw.

Too ornery for that, Dragon? Then, he stooped lower. “You’re bleeding?”

“Minor scratch.”

“That’s my line. Show me.”

“An arrow grazed my arm, alright? I said I’m fine!” As a low grumbling started in the back of his throat, she said, “Look, I’m not mad at you. We did well. It’s … something else.”

“What else?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. Dragon, leave me be.”

“Princess Azania of T’nagru –”

“Apparently not! My old chambers have been given over to someone else and … and – oh, Dragon, this is – why am I worried about my old room when my city’s burning? What kind of a freak am I?” Clearing his throat, he began to speak, only for her to interrupt – meantime, yanking another arrow out of his tail, “Don’t say it. I know they’ve stopped flaming the gates. You can be such a pedantic old fossil sometimes!”

Jaw open. Jaw shut. Jaw open … no. Still no words.

Jerking out the final arrow, the Princess leaned forward until her forehead touched his scales. “Sorry.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to rip a few scales off her hide. Maybe he should swat a few inches of height off her after that, but this Dragon had learned a thing or two over the years about dealing with verbal darts. Even had it been meant, she was venting, hurting and feeling very, very alone just now. Leave the emotional magic out of it, he could read the slump of her shoulders. His shoulders might be a gazillion times bigger, but that precise slump had greeted him in a mirror more times than he cared to count.

“I’m sorry, too.” Curling up his hurting body, he laid a paw over her upper back. Swamped her, more like. “Mmm, gorgeous Princess?”

“Dragon, just … stop it. Not tonight, alright?”

“Being the creaky old fossil that I am, could I ask you to kindly point out which balcony belonged to you?”

“That one, over – Dragon. Dragon! What are you doing?”

“Nice squeak, little mouse.” Raising her fifteen feet in his paw, he said, “We’re about to burgle your chambers. I will not be kind to this wicked reprobate who dares to replace my Princess in her own kingdom!”

Chapter 30: Intruder in Brief

THE WICKED REPROBATE LAY abed, not asleep, despite the hour. Reading a scroll by lamplight. All they could see of her was the tip of a petite nose peeking at the scroll, held by a slim, dark brown hand.

A girl? Azania mouthed, incredulous.

As the Princess crept through the gauzy hangings screening her chamber, Dragon poured up onto the balcony behind her. He balanced his weight upon a stiff tail, lest the balcony decide his tonnage was not worth hanging around for. Thankfully, desert construction techniques majored on thickness of stone, the better to cool and insulate the interiors of buildings from the burning days.

They also preferred wide, breezy archways even a sizeable Dragon could sneak through, at a pinch.

Foul imposter, she did not even notice as he snuck into her chambers. Must be a very good scroll, Dragon thought irately, finding himself considering the merits of disembowelment via a horizontal talon stroke as opposed to a vertical one. Spite his Princess, would she? Filth! Traitor! Slime!

This fraud was about to get the fright of her life.

Some Princess bed, however. This exquisitely carved, four-poster bed with its rich, golden silk hangings was a breathtaking piece of artistry. Note to self. He should refrain from destroying this masterpiece, unlike the last one. Sneaking a paw beneath the light hangings, he drew them up soundlessly. Now, the cold, steely talon, or the gleaming set of fangs? Which would scare best?

Ah, his most despicable thought yet. Aye. The genial greeting – that idea tingled his very wingtips.

Leaning over the bed, he purred beside her ear, “Good scroll?”

The jolt that wracked her body was worth every ounce of premeditation. The girl – a young girl, he realised – nearly leaped out of the bed in fright, and perhaps would have, save that he immediately muffled her screams beneath a large pillow. Pillows had their uses, he concluded with a wicked snicker. Her frail limbs beat her coverings, helpless to –

“Dragon. Dragon, stop!”

Her fright seared his senses. Still, he snapped, “Why? I’m having so much fun.”

“She’s …”

Azania’s dark eyes were huge. Shocked, he realised belatedly. What was wrong?

“Oh, come on. I am not letting her go. Not before her wits flee screaming into the night,” he explained. The Princess folded her arms across her chest. “Just a little snick-snap-snip with the talons. Please?”

“No.”

“Not even a touch of leg-pulling?”

“No! You’d probably pull them right off, knowing you.”

“Cats play with mice …”

“Dragon, she’s a child.” He lifted the pillow with a huff of annoyance. “And, she’s …” Her tiny hands flew to her mouth.

They stared at one another.

The young girl’s eyes flickered between the Princess and the hulking Dragon several times, as her thoughts probably tried to convince her that aye, a miracle had transpired in that she was still alive, and aye, there was a fifty-foot monster of a Dragon in her bedchamber, and for the third time aye, there was someone who could have been her twin, getting all wet around the eyes. Both of their hearts were whizzing around the moons in reaction; an explosion of shocked, ecstatic colours burst upon his scent senses.

By his wings!

He sniffed forlornly. “Sisters? Ridiculous. Not predictable in the slightest.”

“I don’t have a … sister,” Azania breathed.

Right. These two were practically hatched from the same egg. No need of an artistic bent to observe what was perfectly obvious to the beholder.

“Azania? Princess Azania? It’s really you?” The girl shrank against her pillow, yet the thrill betrayed by her tone made his scales prickle most pleasurably. “I’m Inzashu-N’shula – or Inzashu for short, if the name’s – uh, is he planning to … to kill me?”

“No,” said the Princess.

“Undecided,” he corrected. “I’m debating whether I start at your toes or fingers –”

“He’s joking.”

Dragon scowled, “Not entirely. Who are you, little girl? How many years have you? Where are you from and why does my Azania not know who you are? And what exactly makes you think you can steal her bed?”

“Shh, Dragon. You’ve had your fun.”

Pushing beneath him, Azania seated herself atop the silk covers, beside the girl. After a moment, she reached out and took the other girl’s hand. Even their hands were alike.

“I’m far from done, toy Princess.” He prodded her in the ribs.

“Get off, you rude reptile.”

Scent sense magic sifted through the many impressions reaching his awareness. If they were not related, then those Skartunese were right and he was a worm, not Dragonkind. Seething, murky memories shadowed his mind – both of his own siblings, and the remembrance of the sheer agony those Dragons had been experiencing. What foul magic could cause a Dragon such pain? From slim handles and slimmer wires, agony that drove a Dragon out of his right mind … for how many years?

Meantime, the girl spluttered, “I’m eleven. Uh … does the Dragon always breathe like that, or only when he’s … slavering over peoples’ toes?”

“Don’t be afraid,” Azania said. “He’s just being overprotective of me.”

“Oh. He’s awfully large.”

“Dragon takes the job of hulking, lurking and intimidating very seriously indeed.”

True, that.

Quietly, settling the frightened girl with the rhythm of her voice, she retold the story of her kidnapping from this very bedchamber, and then the second, far more stirring kidnapping, as she put it. Princess-napping, he noted. Death, destruction and theft of the greatest treasure in Solixambria, bar none. As she blushed and demurred, Dragon explained that he had an excellent record in not eating Princesses, and indeed, she was now his chief paw washer and earhole cleaner. Azania’s indignation at this sally had the girl giggling.

For her part, Inzashu disclosed shyly, she was certain they shared a father, but her mother was another story. How so, Azania pressed?

“She’s from … the south. Where I grew up.”

“South-south? As in, she’s Skartunese?” The Princess reeled as if she had been swatted by a Dragon’s paw.

“Do you hate me now?”

“Hate? No, of course not.” Still, Azania had to take a deep, deep breath. “So, we’re half-sisters? Alright. I can … handle that.” Suddenly, fiercely, she threw her arms about the girl. “Hate you? No, no, no! Don’t you ever think that! I love you – I mean, this takes a little getting used to, of course. Secret, mysterious sister and all that … amazing! I’m over the moons and the suns … and I will love you. Sorry, I know I’m not making much sense …”

Ugh. Now there was double leaking going on. Girls.

Dragon cleared his throat.

Hold on. Hold every paw. What was this other scent emanating from this young girl? He had never smelled such an intriguing uniqueness, such a magical bouquet. This one was not all she seemed. Child she might be, but she was dangerous. Did she know it? Or was this some precious magic rising in the Human youngster? Beside the bed, Dragon’s talons extended. He must be ready for anything – but here, this shifting of intricate sense colours, did this mean she knew he was aware, too?

Inzashu-N’shula said, “I’m sorry, too, that you had to find out this way. But you will hate me, I know. It’s … complicated.”

“Complicated how?” Azania asked.

“Your Dragon knows. You see – I know, and I can sense, his magic. When he was reading me earlier, I felt that, and I can do something similar.” He stiffened, but tried to remain amiable. “This magic comes from my mother. It’s called Psyromantic Magic – but the name’s … wrong. Well, it depends how it’s used. My sense is a healing sense, a kind of physical, emotional and mental empathy.”

“That sounds good, sister.”

“Not if you can … change things.” The girl hid her face in her hands.

Princess and Dragon shared an incredulous glance. He nodded slightly, trying to confirm and warn at the same time.

“Do you?” Azania asked.

“I have often wished I could tear this magic out of me,” she whispered. “You have no idea how many times I have wished it gone. It’s … too much. Too dangerous.”

He said, “You’re correct, I sensed your magic, Inzashu, and I sense something of your heart. There is no evil –”

“No evil?” she burst out.

Dragon eyeballed the girl, stuffing his ire back where it belonged. He must treat her more like a Dragon hatchling; indeed, an unfamiliar sense of shame at his earlier behaviour muted the beating of his hearts. Not well done, Dragon. Not at all.

“No evil save that which is common to every creature under the suns,” he said at last. “You are not some foul, despicable monster of the night. Inzashu, magic is a tool. The power to use or abuse magic rests in the paws or mind of the wielder. Tell us, why are you so afraid?”

“My mother, Nahritu-N’shula. She is … less honourable.”

What a world of terror and revelation lay in those simple words!

Unprompted, the girl added, “Psyromantic Magic was first imagined as the magic of the first succubus, a kind of wicked female demon who preyed upon men. It’s a belief that is widespread around the realms of Skartun – we are many peoples, not one, as you northern folks often imagine. Like many beliefs, it does have some basis in reality, and from what my mother taught me, its first practitioner was a woman called Psyaru. The story says that she used her magic first to capture the love of a Jabiz, but then, she drove him mad.”

“A kind of psychic-romantic magic?” he clarified.

“Aye. You probably think I don’t know much about life, being just eleven years old, but because of my senses, I know … too much, sometimes.” Removing her hand from Azania’s, she clasped her knees to her chest. Staring unseeing across the bedchamber, she whispered, “This kind of magic is greatly feared in Skartun. My mother used her magic to entice my father – our father, Azania. That’s how I came about. She is – I could use a lot of words – ambitious, ruthless, grasping, amoral … even insane, I’ve often thought. She does not care what she does, to whom, as long as she gets her way. Opposing her is a huge risk. She can hurt you, make you do things …”

Shadows prowled through her emotions. Sad memories.

“Azania, you didn’t know about me because my mother would have prevented King N’gala from speaking about it. About a year ago, we travelled secretly here to N’ginta. We stayed in hiding until a couple of weeks ago, when my mother placed me here. I don’t know what she’s planning – I don’t even know if she’s in the citadel anymore. My guess would be that she’s trying to steal this kingdom for herself. Or to destroy it as … revenge, I suppose.”

Dragon prompted, “So, what about Jabiz Urdoo?”

“I don’t know – well, Nahritu’s definitely using him for something.” The girl shook her head, radiating misery. “It’s all my fault!”

“How so, sweet sister?” Azania stumbled over the endearment.

“If we hadn’t travelled to N’ginta, and mother had not left me here in our father’s care, Jabiz Urdoo would not now be knocking on the gate. I – don’t you see? He wants me. Or, he wants me in order to get to her!”

They chorused, “Inzashu –”

“No! He’s jealous, see? It’s because … because I was born, that he’s come to take revenge on our father, and he’ll destroy this city to do it!”

More hugging. Honestly, this ridiculous Human affectation was … surprisingly understandable. Dragon pulled up. Now he claimed to understand Humans? By his wings, a Dragon had come some distance since he first decided to swat the Prince of Uninhibited Flatulence.

Given another chance? He would not miss.

“You don’t know Jabiz Urdoo. His pride is … it’s a mountain, a volcano! I think he and my mother must have known each other, maybe – and then he learned about me – and the King – and we fled across the desert. I’m sure my mother’s up to her tricks again, but I haven’t felt her for days … and now you arrived! It’s dangerous, Azania! I’ve put everyone, and everything, in terrible danger and we’re all going to die!”

Poor thing. So twisted up.

Naturally, Azania could not convince her otherwise. Sometimes, he reflected, family were the hardest of all to believe.

“Right,” he said, tapping the girl upon the head. “Listen with both miniscule ears. You and I share a teeny-tiny something called magic, agreed?”

“Er … aye?” she breathed.

His Princess shot him a look so loaded, his wings tingled as if he were carrying a massive boulder. Aye. He was trying to be gentle.

Not always easy for a fireless monster, but there it was.

“So, I want you to listen with your magic while I make an important, mighty and unalterable pronouncement. Indeed, I am about to introduce an earthquake of understanding to your little world. Ready?”

“No? Aye. Er … alright, I’m ready.”

Indeed she was. A sensation like ants creeping beneath his scales made his wings flick restively.

Giving her the fiery-eyed Dragon stare, he growled, “None of this is your fault.”

Both girls laughed, to his paw-clenching annoyance.

“It is not!”

They laughed harder.

Gritting his fangs so hard his jaw ached, he said, “Whatever your mother or father or this Jabiz Urdoo did or did not do, it all started long before you were a flame flickering in your sire’s eye. What you say is not logical: correction, it is logic valid only at the emotional level. Therefore, expel this ‘it’s my fault’ nonsense from your thoughts forthwith!”

“Thank you, Dragon,” Azania said pointedly.

“Sometimes things get lost flying from here –” he thumped the girl’s head again, making her wince “– to here.” He poked her diaphragm.

“Close enough,” Azania noted. Grr. Princess-style wing tugging.

“Lesson number one in dealing with Dragons,” he said, flexing his muscles to their impressive maximum, “is that Dragons are always right. And even when we’re wrong, we’re right. Are we quite clear upon this matter, Princess Inzashu-N’shula?”

The girl’s eyes popped wide. Fluttering her eyelashes outrageously, she declaimed in a squeaky voice, “Oh, Dragon, you are so right! I’d never think any differently, ever again.”

“Ah, the family impertinence is in full flow, I see,” he purred, caught somewhere between annoyance and blood-fizzing pleasure at her response. “You definitely get that attitude from your sister, I’ll have you know.”

“Oh? Azania?”

The older sister chortled, “Dragon, you are awful.”

“I am also the world’s foremost draconic expert in quirky, irreplaceable Princesses.”

“Dragon, you are so right,” both girls chorused.

“I collect them.” Backing away from the bed, he added, “On that note, I now plan to let you two catch up on the last eleven years. Ignore my snoring over here – correction. Dragons never snore. We just breathe heavily.”

Turning about twice, he formed his body into a neat curl, and settled down with a weary sigh. Both Princesses stared at him. Disconcerting, the similarities in their eyes and features.

He narrowed his eyes. “Princess the younger, when I spoke, what did your magic tell you?”

The girl smiled uncertainly. So much of Azania in her! Yet, minus the fierceness. This one’s emotional colours were sweeter and gentler, more the healer than perhaps she imagined.

“Well?”

“Dragon, you were right. I don’t know how to –” her voice cracked, drawing a nervous giggle “– thank you, enough.”

“That was perfect.”

* * * *

At an utterly unreasonable hour, his Princess snuck out of the bed she had shared for the very first time with her long-lost sister, thinking she would wake a sleeping Dragon – or rather, avoid waking him?

He let her tiptoe right up to his head, before murmuring, “Lesson number two …”

Azania jumped half a foot off the ground. “Dragon. Don’t you – you pest.”

He grinned lazily. “Never …”

“Never wake a sleeping Dragon? Oh, you got me,” she gurgled merrily, rubbing the scales beside his eye. “Rise with the dawn, o Dragon. Actually, it’s well before dawn.”

“What kind of a horrible hour do you call this, Princess?”

“The hour of the zingu’uk – the dawn wind,” she informed him, bouncing eagerly upon her toes.

No conventional Princess would be so excited about a morning’s diverting destruction. Positively draconic!

“Ah, by my wings,” he said blandly.

“Ah, indeed. I propose that a brief visit to the closely-pitched tent encampment might be in order. Do I hear that the flaming has resumed at the gate as well?”

“You are correct. We ought to test those new fuses on the oil jars.”

“Oh, you despicable beast!” she cried, placing her hand upon her breast. Drama, drama. “Aye. Sadly, it appears that the Dragon handlers are replaceable. We ought to punish them for their temerity.”

“We could not possibly abide this blatant provocation.”

Sharing a wicked cackle, they reverse-burgled the King’s residence in search of weaponry, the new oil jars, and sundry implements relating to the chastisement of enemy armies.

Dragon grandly ignored all of his recent injuries. Majestic male in all his pomp. Nothing hurt. Of course not!

Twenty minutes later, they launched off the Royal Palace’s flat rooftop. Azania sat at his neck, arranging weapons and supplies. More arrows were a must. Two sacks of oil pots hung behind her. These had been fitted with fuses soaked in resin. Hopefully, the flames would survive a fall from a height. The Princess, however, tested the wind with an unhappy clucking of her tongue.

“Not enough. We need to wait for half an hour, at least.”

Spreading his wings, he climbed in a slow circuit away from the range of the ballistae. Brutish weapons. They could fire a heavy bolt hundreds of feet through the air with great accuracy.

“You’re thinking of the gate, Princess?”

“I was. Then, we can test the fire-snuffer. Otherwise, we might need to land again to replace the resin when it’s burned out. It also isn’t in the greatest supply, is it?”

“No.”

Flying up to an altitude of over eight hundred feet, he took them out over the eastern wall before they turned and made for the inferno at the gate. He hovered, watching the distracted ballista engineers trying to aim their weapons at near-vertical angles. Limited, weren’t they?

“First away!” the Princess crowed. A few moments later, she growled, “Miss.”

Three more oil pots rained away in quick succession.

“There we go!” Dragon approved. Even he could hit that much of a target. “I guess clonking them on the head is as good as burning them alive?”

“Whatever does the job,” she agreed.

They took turns bombarding the stationary Dragons with a rain of oily fire. Several of the fuses failed to ignite, but once they had a nice bonfire raging down below, it did not matter. The Princess hit one Dragon right on top of the head cage, as best they could tell; that beast dropped and did not rise again. Had they killed him?

Dragons were tougher than that, surely?

Then, the city’s defenders took over. Azania spotted them readying several large barrels; despite the heat that reached them even at this height, and the danger of enemy archers and ballistae, they used a wall catapult to toss the barrels over into the mess they had created. Green-tinged flames sheeted a hundred feet into the air. The Dragon bombardment fizzled as the handlers tried to flee out of harm’s way. Suddenly, they were in full retreat.

He snickered, “Do you think they worked out that standing in a raging pit of burning oil is bad for the complexion?”

“Makes me wonder why my father’s generals did not try something like that before,” the Princess mused. “I mean, it’s well known that Dragons are fireproof, and all … hmm. I have three clay pots left.”

“Shall we have a potshot at the ballistae?”

“Aye. Better that than simply pottering about up here waiting for the wind to rise.”

“Ha ha. Do you think we can make one of them potbellied? Ah, never mind, that was a weak joke. On target … now?”

“Away!” Azania chirped. A moment later, she deadpanned, “Well, their day just went to pot.”

Gurgle, snort, chortle. “You really should take up pottery, Princess.”

Tired of potting one another with increasingly badly potted puns, they winged away toward the southern horizon on a short reconnaissance mission.

Having found nothing but endless expanses of black sand unmarked by tracks that might suggest Jabiz Urdoo might be up to mischief, Dragon and Princess rode the parched desert wind back toward N’ginta Citadel. There, they welcomed the Skartunese soldiers to a dawn of a burning tent city.

Fewer than a third were occupied.

Why all the show?

Leaving a wind-stoked, rampant inferno turning the skies black in their wake, they flew up to the Palace once more. Time to correct the strategic model.

Something was wrong; they just did not know what.

Chapter 31: Perfidy

ALL MORNING, THE DEFENDERS repulsed attacks from either flank as the infuriated Skartun army tried repeatedly to breach the walls. The sands developed darker red runnels of blood. Dragon and Princess played a game of swat-the-mole with any black-crested warriors who dared to show their heads above the battlements.

Azania called it ‘swat the dune mole,’ a rodent of a certain reputation in the northern eighth of the kingdom, where some desert crops grew.

They quickly worked out that some of the ballista crews had been moved from covering the main gate to try to thread his snout, should he dare to poke it above the battlements, with an eight-foot quarrel. Since a Dragon of his size could stand upon a handy flat rooftop and reach atop the outer wall to swat luckless Skartun, all was well until he crashed through the roof of a house.

“Too much breakfast, Dragon?” Azania sniped.

“It’s your extra weight on my neck,” he retorted.

“I’ll eat less.”

“Don’t you dare. Azerim will never forgive me for bringing over a waif.”

“I eat well, considering my size.”

Shaking his head slowly, he clambered free of the house, making profuse apologies to the owners, who had arrived from nearby. Much hand-waving and hair-pulling appeared to be the order of the day. Peeling back his fangs, he called, “I’m sure the King will make redress. And as for you, Princess – you do indeed, but I’ve no idea where you put it.”

“Active outdoors lifestyle. All that fresh air at high altitude.”

Never short of a snarky reply, was she?

A child called from nearby, “We love you, Princess!”

She turned to smile and wave. This set off a small commotion among the neighbours, several of whom offered their humble homes for similar draconic demolition.

Humans never failed to surprise.

As they rushed off to the next warning trumpet call, he chuckled, “Fame, eh?”

“Infamy, thanks to you.”

“I am a massively conceited Dragon, that’s true.”

By the afternoon, the Skartunese forces drew back, having done their work for the day. Hundreds of men lay prone in the sand without, or were being taken into the citadel’s mausoleum within.

He and the Princess walked back up to the Palace, where they rested and the Princess spent time with her little sister in the gorgeously appointed sitting room which formed part of her royal chambers. At eleven, her sister was already half a foot taller. When Inzashu mentioned how some people must have quite forgotten to grow up, or upward at least, Azania waspishly suggested the royal layabout shift her behind into motion and put her healing skills to use.

Practice on a Dragon?

Gnarr!

How his Clan would laugh to see him now, working with an eleven-year-old Human girl on magical skills – allegedly to hone her healing powers, but in reality, they were both sharpening each other with insights, hints and suggestions. Bright little thing. What a pleasure to see her come alive like this, as she overcame her fear of a Dragon and – by his wings!

Snapping out a paw, he collected his second Princess.

Well, more accurately, he prevented the girl from smashing her fine but tiny nose upon the marble floor, which was exactly the moment King N’gala chose to arrive with the three Princes in tow.

“She fainted,” he explained, placing Inzashu upon the nearest couch.

None of them even appeared to notice. Wonderful attitude toward women. Perhaps tying the royals to a spit and turning them regularly above a raging bonfire would supply the needful motivation? Hmm. Tasty idea. Flame-grilled royal kebabs. Basted in acid!

“Dragon. Why are you not out there destroying the Skartun?” N’gala grated. Again, zero score for empathy.

“We’re resting ahead of the next assault,” he said smoothly. In the background, Azania went to her sister. “Any thoughts on where Jabiz Urdoo might have taken himself?”

Cold as ice, Prince Aragu said, “We were planning to ask you to scout the desert, Dragon, but we hear your eyesight is not the best. Tonight will be full of moons. What are your thoughts?”

His thoughts served up a proposal to smack an arrogant young Prince deep into next week. Or a flying lesson, Aria-style. Mwaa-haa-haaa!

His nostrils flared. Smelling salts to help a fainting Princess revive? Inzashu must have overdone her magical exertions. He should remind her that youngsters had a much smaller capacity for magic use, at least from what he knew of Dragons. Perhaps magic-using Humans were the same?

Her eyelids fluttered; Azania helped the girl to sit up.

“Which direction would you recommend we investigate, o Prince?” he inquired.

The Prince tossed his head haughtily. “How would I know?”

“I thought you’d have scouts and spies out.”

Azania had been right about her bother Aragu; truly his father’s egg. The other two were bearable, especially N’chala, but not this one. Aragu dared not voice his opinion, but Dragon was convinced his thoughts revolved about worms and lizards, when he spoke to a mighty Dragon of the air.

The King said, “We’ve inquired of the other citadels via messenger hawk. No-one has seen sign of Urdoo. That leaves only the deep desert. South. Why he would venture back into those hellish conditions is a question we must ask ourselves in all seriousness.”

Dragon nodded. “We will fly tonight.”

The younger Princess coughed, and said weakly, “Father, may I –”

“Absolutely not!” King N’gala glared at his progeny. “Having one mutinous daughter in the family is more than enough. You will stay right here in this palace.”

Had that been her question?

Fiery eyes flickered as more than his physical gaze raked the King’s person. Could it be that this malady which gripped his family was due to something other than a mental deficiency or change sparked by the Princess’ mother, Nahritu-N’shula?

Could there be an artefact, an amulet … a jewel? He had read of the practice of forcing magical power into inanimate objects – the dark magic practise was forbidden, because those objects had a way of exploding without warning. One way of such magicians curbing their own numbers. However, what if there was a way of binding power into a crown, say? Or a keepsake?

Abruptly, he said, “King N’gala, where is the girl’s mother?”

His head jerked strangely. “What of her?”

“My Dragon intuition has tingled restively since I entered your citadel,” he ad-libbed. “I wish to understand the family dynamics and power structures here at N’ginta, that’s all.”

“I rule!” His dark eyes blazed briefly with an unnatural light. “Do you dare dispute my authority, Dragon?”

No clue as to where that might have come from. This magic was cunning.

Senses alert, he attended closely as Prince N’chala drew breath. “Father, it’s a basic question. Of course you rule; you are the King.” Turning, the Prince addressed the four-pawed one, most clearly ignoring his sisters. “All authority rests in the crown, Dragon. We three Princes support our father in running the kingdom. Our disparate duties have recently focussed on the war effort, of course. There are five generals, three of whom are currently present here at N’ginta Citadel. Princesses have other duties, unrelated to rule or decision-making.”

“I understand Princess Azania was not previously aware of her sister’s existence?”

“No,” the King said.

Now, his eyes roamed faraway desert landscapes. He was not even with them mentally, Dragon suspected.

He said, “You are not currently – married, or engaged with anyone, Your Majesty?”

That provocation bit deep.

Acrid emotions flared through whatever power gripped the man, centred in his stomach of all places, if he was not mistaken.

“Who are you to judge, worm?”

As N’chala protested, Dragon voiced a warning growl. “I remind even a King to watch his words.”

The King spat, “Yet a fireless, voiceless, Clan-less Dragon, is here in the company of my own daughter; nay, led by her like some dumb beast at the halter!”

Understanding flared. He spoke about himself.

That insight was all which kept his fury in check. He sensed Azania tense up until the material of her clothing quivered audibly. She must fear a paroxysm of draconic rage. Breathe in through the nose. Out through the fangs, wishing that for once he had even a curl of smoke to dispatch into the fray. That strange, cramped sensation squeezed against his breastbone. Out! Come out! As always, nothing of his fire emerged. Not even the scent of smoke.

He said, “I had always believed none could rule a Dragon, until I saw how through dark magic, the Skartun subjugate, abuse and destroy my kind. I would do anything to stop them.”

“Is this your fear, Dragon?” the King asked.

“Aye, it is the fear of any free creature. What is your fear, King N’gala?”

Again, he detected a seepage of emotions, almost like smoke drifting through a keyhole. The King touched his stomach, before displaying that strange, jerky mannerism once more.

He said, “My kingdom, my people, and aye, the fate of my daughter, number among those fears.”

Back to aloofness.

“So, her mother is lost?” Dragon prompted.

“Nahritu-N’shula, she was the one – she was –” his eyes rolled wildly. Straightening his crown, he whispered, “She … left me. Now, he is coming.”

No-one else found his behaviour bizarre?

Stepping toward the doorway in a clear signal that the interview was at an end, the King added, “My allies may attempt to prove their doubtful worth by flying out immediately on patrol. Sniff out the enemy. Do not rest until you find Jabiz Urdoo!”

He departed on this note, sweeping three obedient Princes along with him. N’chala alone directed a sympathetic glance toward his sisters.

* * * *

Beneath the bright moons, the desert undulated like a steady, unchanging ocean of sand. Only, Dragon was beginning to learn, that impression was not true. The desert was more subtle, more beguiling and more ravenous than he had ever imagined.

One thing he had learned to appreciate about Princess Azania was that she gave him space. She did not chatter on. Even now, they exchanged a few words – the route ahead, how wide to sweep on the east-west trajectory, what sign they could possibly hope to find of the passing of at least half of a large army. The temperature changed rapidly. When they set out, warmth still radiated up from the obsidian sands. By two hours after midnight, it had plummeted, the clear skies swallowing the heat as if it had never been.

Chilly desert nights. Who would have thought?

Peering through his spectacles, he said, “Look there, beyond that dune.”

“A Dragon’s body,” she said. “We should … aye?”

“Aye.”

Landing at the base of the hundred-foot dune, they padded over the still-warm sands toward the half-buried remains of a green Dragoness. Azania shivered, not only with the cold, he imagined. The sandstorm had covered her hindquarters, but her head remained free, facing the north as if she longed to return to the Tamarine Mountains of her birth.

The Princess said, “They removed her head cage.”

The body had long since stiffened and become desiccated. Scavengers had not been at it nearly as much as he expected. Quietly, he pressed a talon to her forehead and whispered a draconic blessing over his fallen kindred. There were only holes where her eyes had been.

“Dragon, are you alright?”

The question was so kind, so unexpected, his wings quivered and he sucked in a deep breath.

“I’ve … never been this close to a dead body before,” he realised aloud. “Not – I mean, plenty of Human bodies, aye, but not a Dragon. I’m sad. I think she collapsed with failure of the hearts. Your sister might have been able to tell, but I would not have wanted her to see this. Look at the scars here on her lip, and the way they removed two fangs either side to bridle her like a beast.”

Azania shook her head. “I just don’t understand how they do this.”

“Me neither.”

He paced a circuit around the Dragoness, kicking moodily at the sand. Even now, as the grief pumped in hot, bloody clots through his hearts, he could not summon the fire. Failure. Fireless worm. Gutless, craven, useless excuse for a Dragon, and a complete waste of lair-space. The old litany ran through his mind, caustic and unrelenting. What was wrong with him – fire by water and electrolysis? Nonsense. Face the truth. He was deeply, irredeemably defective …

“Dragon. Dragon!”

WHAT??

The Princess blinked at his thunder.

“Sorry.” He snapped his fangs toward the sky. “It’s not you. I meant, what have you found, Princess?”

“You were faraway. Sorry I barked at you. Look. Come look at her earholes.” He stumped over, touching his spectacles and then removing them. Close up sight had never been a problem. She said, “What do you think of this strange scarring?”

Her brown fingers traced the rim of the earhole.

He frowned, bending closer and tilting his head to get the best view. “Are you saying they clamp something inside the ear canals? That’s rubbing – no, it isn’t. Not quite a callus, is it?”

Of one accord, they moved so that the white light of the moons shone fully upon the Dragoness’ ear holes. Each hole was a little smaller than the diameter of Azania’s fist. With an apologetic word, the Princess extended her fingers and slipped her hand right inside.

“The scarring goes deep.”

“Burn scars,” Dragon blurted out. “Those are burns!”

“Could it be that they’re burning the slave Dragons inside their ears?” she asked. “Would that hurt, Dragon? Are your ears –”

“Extremely sensitive,” he breathed, aghast. “Packed with nerve endings. Probably even more sensitive than the eye. How would they even do that? Why? Do you think it could be those silver things – those handles? I saw that one Dragon, do you remember I told you how his eyes registered so much pain it was almost as if his mind had snapped or been driven into insanity?”

“Aye. This is … I have no words. I mean, if you burned a Human constantly inside their ears, for years, I think it would drive them … over the edge. Oh, Dragon!”

They shook at the same time. Azania wiped her eyes.

Silently, they took to the air again, sweeping southward and more to the west. There was no sign of an army heading in any direction bar due north. How did an entire army vanish in the middle of a desert?

After a long time, the Princess said, “Do you think she could be controlling my father, even from afar?”

“Almost definitely.”

“His erratic behaviour, do you mean?

“Using techniques I learned from your sister, I sensed an eerie magic emanating, strangely, from the region of his stomach,” he explained. “I thought at first he must be wearing an artefact, perhaps in his crown or upon his breast, but that does not seem to be the case. There was a clear sense of … well, tentacles, like that giant squid we saw in the Lumis Ocean, do you remember?” Her body bobbed slightly against his neck. “It was like mottled grey tentacles of emotion reaching from his gut up into his mind. That was my impression.”

Azania shook her head slowly. “He’s not in his right mind. Father was always a hard man, but not … not like this.”

“Poor Inzashu.”

“Aye, but it’s the mother I’m worried about. It seems clear she’s using Jabiz Urdoo against my father for her own ends – but what?”

“Winner gets a kingdom, or an army to destroy a kingdom?”

The Princess kicked his neck unhappily. “It just doesn’t add up. Nothing adds up.”

“Exactly. Why leave your sister in the palace? Surely that gives the King leverage against Nahritu-N’shula?”

“If she even cares.”

“Oh.”

“Maybe she just wants the child out of the way.”

Dragon flicked his head as something in that statement percolated into his brain. Out of the way? Azania talked about how difficult it was to discover one had a sister she had never known about, a beautiful and talented creature who had gaily swept in and replaced her with a blink of her dewy, dark eye. She did not want to be jealous, but she was. One daughter sidelined, replaced immediately, as if –

“As if he wanted you discarded, in order to install her,” he thought aloud.

“Dragon?”

“The Vanracian fiasco was not his – it was her initiative!” he growled, with rising excitement. Insight struck like lightning, causing his scales to prickle sharply. “Nahritu-N’shula needed to install someone else in your place, someone more qualified to carry out whatever her plans – it’s your sister! She’s controlling King N’gala!”

Azania snapped, “Dragon, no! We’ve barely met her, but she – she wouldn’t –”

“Perhaps unwittingly?”

“The mother primed my sister to use her powers against my father?” The girl shook her head violently. “No, Dragon. Aye. Curse it, that makes almost too much sense … if it’s possible. And then she left to rejoin Jabiz Urdoo, to continue with the next phase of her plan – which is what?”

His wings froze.

Gnarr-grr arrr-GRR!!

“Dragon, what is it? Could we kindly use words containing syllables and actual meaning?”

Unsteadily, he said, “I scent sense perfidy. Would you not agree, Princess, that King N’gala gave the impression of being very keen to have the two of us out of the way, too, this very evening?”

“What do you mean?”

“Suspicious haste is what I mean.”

Now, she scratched her head. Fleas, he wanted to tease. Lice. This was far from the hour for joking. His five hearts sank as he realised – and she did too, judging by her sharp inhalation – how cleverly they had been played.

Azania complained, “I’ve a horrible premonition that you might be right, Dragon. How do you do that?”

“How is hardly the question. When? Answer, far too late.”

“So does father want allies or not? A Dragon to defend the city, now shoved conveniently aside – perhaps he is fighting this enchantment she has cast over him? He’s trying to be his own man. He wants us around, then he does not. He wants to protect the city but he also wants to fling wide the gates and let Nahritu-N’shula right in; only, he can’t quite do that. They’re sealed. Best guess?”

“She and Urdoo disappeared to find something to crack those gates like a nut?”

“Exactly.”

“Plus, we can reasonably conclude that the nutcracker was due to arrive this very evening?”

“Ooh Dragon, you are not just a heavily armoured bag of muscles.”

“Handsome bag of muscles, you meant to say.”

“A true devastator in a sense your kin can never be,” she replied, wriggling about as she scanned their surroundings. Despite his better instincts, his ego came ablaze. Predictable, aye? “You’ve already turned to the north?”

“Aye. We’re going to have to shift fast, my flattering friend.”

“Shall I blow extra hard?”

“I regret to inform you that Prince Floric holds a monopoly on that skill, but not with his mouth.” She hooted with laughter. “On second thoughts, would you mind getting that fancy crossbow mount of yours clamped onto my back? I’ve a feeling we’re going to need it all too soon.”

Chapter 32: Jabiz Urdoo

DRAGON STRETCHED HIS WINGS to their fullest extent as they raced up from the southern wasteland. Massive, powerful beats. No pausing to search for tracks now. Somehow, they assumed, Jabiz Urdoo had outsmarted everyone – or all parties danced to the tune of the Psyromantic Mage, Nahritu-N’shula. How, they could only guess, but the consequences must surely be dire.

They flew high for part of the way, nearly three miles up, but after a time, Azania began to complain of headaches and altitude sickness. He descended five thousand feet while gliding, gathering his strength for the final sprint into N’ginta Citadel. Meantime, the white sun crested the horizon first, stretching talon-sharp shadows from the crest of every dune. Soon a much deeper redness followed, softening the effect, but as the white sun remained dominant, Ignis seemed diminished despite his relatively enormous size.

He tried not to think about large Dragons being diminished. No portents wanted here!

As the flat rooftops of N’ginta came into sight, they realised the time for portents had passed during their absence. The citadel was under attack by a monster.

Quivering of talon, he pointed, “What’s that? A Sea Serpent on land?”

The prodigious creature attacking the main gates was segmented and moved like an earthworm, but its vibrant red colour stood stark against the obsidian sands. The creature was also a goodly fraction of the size of the city. Taller than the outer gates at its crown, he estimated, and perhaps a thousand feet in length. No wings, no paws.

The Princess gasped, “It’s a – ah, what do you call these?”

“A living city-cracker?” He made a joke without the slightest mirth in his hearts.

To the sides, they saw in magnificent array an army easily three times larger than that which Jabiz Urdoo had fielded before.

Armoured worm? Draconic?

Whatever it was, it must freak the scales off any sensible Dragon.

Thankfully, this Dragon was anything but sensible, normal or standard, he told himself firmly. Courage! Fire up the fireless one!

“It’s a Bloodworm,” Azania exclaimed, her voice high-pitched with shock. “I’ve only ever read about them. Those would be the reason no-one crosses the Blood Desert.”

“Inescapable logic,” he said drolly.

“Dragon,” she gasped, “are you pulling my leg? How are you calm?”

“No, I shed my wings in shock a moment ago,” he returned, “and we’re now flying by sheer magic alone. Princess, I’m thinking a lot of things right now, and most of them start with, ‘That’s impossible, but …’ ”

“Aye. I can only say, Jabiz brought one humongous door knocker. Can’t really miss it.”

Bloodworm. Dragon had read about them, too. Somehow, this whippersnapper was a tad larger than the legends had bothered to explain. The legends had also not bothered to suggest the use of Bloodworms to flatten cities.

Had three-quarters of his army gone to fetch that monster?

As they watched, the long creature bunched up, slowly shifting away from the gates. After a breathless pause, it shifted forward almost languidly until it smashed against the gates. They could not hear the impact from this distance, but the dust that shook off the battlements and massive gatehouses told the tale well enough. His wings quivered; he shook them out right to the wingtips, demanding his body behave itself.

“My guess?” he said.

“We’ll find one Nahritu-N’shula at the bottom of all this?”

Grrr.

Waving her hands, the Princess seated atop his back added, “And in today’s exciting news, our favourite, mysterious Psyromantic Mage has discovered how to turn the thoughts of the great beasts of the deserts to her beck and call?”

“Quite. Therefore, for her, this isn’t a casual jaunt through T’nagru.”

“Oh, we aren’t talking about world domination, are we?”

“Crazy is as crazy does.”

“Crazy? Mad genius, maybe,” she corrected, smacking her hand on her thigh. “Nahritu probably intends to run her little pet right through the seventeen kingdoms. And who would stop her?”

“The first and only Dragon Rider and her magnificent sack of flying muscles?”

Perhaps if he said that another thousand times, he’d believe it too.

Today promised to be grim.

The Princess said, “I am totally with you, winching this Dragon bow into readiness, but one teensy question. How do we even damage that thing?”

“Eyes, ears, brain,” he mused aloud.

“Alright. Let’s say it does have a brain in there somewhere. What do you propose – fill it with splinters of wood?”

“Whatever it takes. Meantime, we look around for the other brains of the operation and see if we can’t distract her with a talon to the neck, say. Or a bolt through the heart. You wouldn’t have a handy schematic laying out where to find Bloodworm brains, would you?”

“I’ll just pop down and ask around, shall I?”

The city’s defenders had taken a leaf out of the aerial draconic scroll of hitting the enemy with oil, and burning it as much as they could. One problem. Despite being cooked in great quantities of the finest, most aromatic oil, the Bloodworm showed not the slightest sign of frazzling to a crisp.

Very annoying that the creature did not have a glaring weakness. Fifty feet tall. Over a thousand feet long. How many tonnes?

Nor did it possess anything that could be called eyes, Dragon observed aloud as they approached within half a mile. He sensed its magic, like a great, elongated furnace of raw power. Graaaboom!! The citadel shook. The Bloodworm shuddered at the impact, but began to steadily draw back again as if unaffected.

They scanned the massed army for sign of Jabiz Urdoo or a mysterious woman of unfathomable powers and incalculable evil – but she was not apparently waving a large sign or anything quite so convenient. Plenty more ballistae, he noted in an undertone. Any run upon the Bloodworm was going to be exciting to say the least.

“There,” Azania said, pointing. He had to crook his neck to see where she indicated. “Back of the tail.”

Now that he spied the man, Dragon wondered how they could have missed him. Jabiz Urdoo was a stalwart chunk of a fellow clad in golden armour and a billowing black cloak. The outfit screamed, ‘I’m the leader around here!’ Had he been a Dragon, he would have pegged him for the kind of fellow that ate Princesses for breakfast and spat out the bones for the dogs to fight over. Not that he was ugly, scarred or any kind of brute. He carried an aura of velvety power, much like Juggernaut the Grinder. Confidence that stemmed from ability rather than bravado. A calm, calculating demeanour. His black eyes observed their approach with great attention.

Beside him stood a strongly built woman of mahogany skin, clad in a many-layered black dress that shone like an insect’s carapace. Unusually for such a dark person, her eyes were green, and ablaze with power like a Dragon’s eyes blazed with the fires of battle. She wore many silver amulets draped about her neck and wrists, and in her right hand, clutched a white staff topped with a blood-red jewel.

Enchantress!

As a precaution, he drew his protective magic about them.

Just in time. Dragon felt the strangest, stroking sensation against his brain – like a spider’s limbs testing silken threads for potential victims.

No trapped insects here. Not today, lady. He counterpunched, trying to follow the sensation to its source. The green eyes immediately fixed upon him. He wobbled in flight as the threads pulled at his consciousness, his wings, his resolve.

Snip-snip! Visualising rending talons, he flung them at her, and had the satisfaction of seeing the woman stagger against Jabiz Urdoo. Blergh! Take that!

Enough.

Glasses. Dragon bow in paw. Quarrels at the ready.

“You hit her?” Azania asked.

“Not enough. Next time, she’ll be ready.”

As they approached, arrows and wooden quarrels flicked up to greet them. Dragon flew evasively, then at the Princess’ word, straightened and lowered his head. They both fired as one, their quarrels arcing down into the great mountain of blood-red flesh below. Whurr-whurr! Zipping off like angry wasps. Hit, and vanished.

The winch above his back squealed as the Princess worked it frantically; Dragon jinked again, taking them out of the worst of the covering fire. He discovered he could fire at about twice her rate, since he had no need of a winch to draw his bow. They punched five more quarrels into the beast as they passed over; the Princess ducked flat and swivelled the bow to the rear to pound one more quarrel into the Bloodworm as they left it in their wake.

Despite vanishing somewhere inside the massive body, as best they could tell, the quarrels made no impact whatsoever. Not unexpected.

Circling tightly, they sank shot after shot into the behemoth as it slowly pounded the gates. Men laboured frantically behind the shivering timbers, he noticed, trying to bolster it from behind with great dark logs and building rubble. Other soldiers evacuated the populace from the outer city – already? Not a good sign. Back of the Bloodworm on the eastern flank, the slave Dragons lined up like a docile rank of cows standing behind a fence.

Twice more, Nahritu-N’shula tried to slip through his defences. Azania responded by firing a speculative quarrel shot at the command position, but it fell five feet short.

He lost count of the number of ricochet shots he took in the belly and flanks. At the range they kept, a fast-moving Dragon made a difficult target, but he now wore a quarrel in his left inner hind thigh, and another which had penetrated his stomach, but only shallowly. He yanked them out in a welter of fury. At least the Princess was untouched – so far.

“Out of quarrels,” Azania said.

“Me too. We aren’t doing enough damage.”

Graaboom!! The gates shook. The left sagged visibly, the massively solid stone gatehouse starting to show signs of cracking as well.

Dragon said, “Much as I hate to say this, I think we need your sister’s help.”

“Aye. It’s a risk, however.”

They discussed the matter as he winged up to the Palace roof. There was a distinct danger her mother could use the girl against them. Armoured but unarmed, they decided. That was the best they could do – and tie her on so that she could not try to escape or throw herself overboard.

Since King N’gala was overseeing the evacuation of the outer city, the Dragon intimidated the younger Princess’ guards into turning a blind eye to a blatant case of royal theft. He specialised in the art. Next, he had to bully the Princess into donning armour – several sizes too large for her – and terrorise a couple of soldiers into giving up their shields. Useful how a dint of snarling and waving one’s talons toward vulnerable necks earned instant obedience.

“What will I need all this for?” Inzashu asked, meantime. She was not exactly dressed for war. Lovely white gown. Pah! This was war, girl, not a ballroom!

“Protection for when we’re up there,” Dragon replied.

“Up where?”

“We need your help against the Bloodworm,” he said grimly. “Come along now. Azania, tie your sister to my neck saddle.”

“No. No – you can’t, I’m afraid of heights!”

“Look, Princess, technically you won’t be on a height, but in the heights, so actually you’ll realise there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Azania put in, “Helpful.”

“I know.”

“Why don’t you go chew off your paw in a quiet corner, Dragon?”

He glared at the Princess. Now, the extra lip? One would think she was made of pure vexation.

“Thanks … but no.” Inzashu made to take the shields off her arms. “I am not flying anywhere with anyone, and that’s final. I don’t do heights. I’m from Skartun. Flat desert, except for the volcanoes. Feet firmly in the sand.”

“Well, never mind then. Come help us load up,” Azania said, winking at him behind her sister’s back. “We’ll need more quarrels, Dragon.”

“The soldiers were just fetching them.”

Shortly, they walked outside once again, hearing the sound of Jabiz Urdoo’s army cheering on the Bloodworm’s efforts to destroy the gate. Inzashu helped them to load up the two quivers with quarrels, and they took the proffered sack of oil bombs as well. Might be a chance to anoint Jabiz with the finest of local fragrances. The girl watched in shy admiration as her sister scrambled up to his back and took her seat behind the Dragon bow mount.

“Ready, Dragon?”

“Ready.”

He said, “Oh look, Inzashu, you have something on your toe.”

As she glanced down, he scooped her up in one paw, the two shields in the other, and to the accompaniment of a most pleasing shriek of pure horror, he leaped into the air and beat for the great vault of the sky. Frankly, he was amazed. How could anyone be afraid of a little fresh air? Could it be the lack of wings, perchance?

As they cruised up into the early morning, watching the Bloodworm retreating and gathering itself for what had to be the penultimate assault on the gates, the girl managed to stop wailing. Her eyes remained glued shut, as best he could tell. He thought she might be praying – at least she had stopped shrieking. Couple of minutes, and she’d be as fine as her sister always had been.

He peered down, raking the battlements and gatehouses with his unreliable gaze. The great crossbars hung at disconsolate angles, that much was obvious. One of the hinges had ripped right out of its foundation tower.

Right. Time to move. Dragon popped unhappy Princess number two onto his neck saddle. “Strap yourself in and stop snivelling. If you get one drop of snot upon my scales –”

Azania snapped, “Dragon, sit!”

By his wings, now she darted agilely down his neck to help her sister! “Straps. Hold the shields either side of you and for Taramis’ sake keep under cover, Inzashu. It’s going to be a bad one, alright? Now, eyes on the Bloodworm –”

“Ooh, I don’t feel good.”

“Bloodworm! Where’s its brain?”

“Owww … my stomach …”

“Sister, our nation needs you. Please, try to detect its brain with your magic.”

Dragon jumped nearly ten feet in the air as with a loud gurgling sound, the girl leaned over and decorated the side of his neck with something warm and unspeakably vile.

Azania said, “Better now?”

Apparently, this feat earned the younger sister a pat upon the back! Outrageous.

Inzashu said, with a clear hitch in her voice, “I do feel better now, thank you, Azania. One moment.”

He spread his wings and tried not to shudder. Circling east, he took them up above the besieging army, gathered in its great gleaming ranks, trying to enjoy the idea that someone down there might discover fertiliser raining from the sky. Humans. Absolutely the grossest species ever to walk the coastal plains of Solixambria.

Inzashu said, “It’s quite far back – let’s see – one, two, three segments from the armoured part of the nose. See the two vertical dark red stripes? Count three segments back from there, then move ten feet down from the top. It feels like a collection of basal ganglions. These creatures are sub-intelligent, but there does need to be some basic function to keep the whole thing working. That’s probably what was keeping my mother –” her voice lowered into a horrible snarl “– how dare you steal my daughter, Dragon!”

Her forehead thonked against his scales.

For his most scale-frazzling moment of the day, that was impressive.

Azania cried, “She’s fainted!”

“Tie her on; tie her shields up or something. We’ve got to do this now,” he ordered, willing his hearts to stop thrashing about and return to normal beating. At about ten times the speed. By his sire’s egg!

The Princess said a bad, bad word about Dragons and their demands.

“Quickly, while I line us up.”

Cloth ripped as the Princess turned her sister’s gorgeous white gown into something rather less gorgeous. A minute later, she had tried her in a doubled-over position to his neck. She pulled up the flaccid wrists and tied those too, bracketing Inzashu’s body with the shields. Good coverage – as good as they could get.

Turning, Azania slipped as the wind buffeted him.

Paw!

To his vast surprise, he executed a perfect, gentle catch as she dropped over the side of his neck. Even more gently, he lifted and then lobbed her back up onto his shoulder.

The Princess uttered a few extra spicy words. He understood completely.

“Sit down, shut the mouth and take aim,” he snapped, demonstrating the depth of his understanding. He was sure she appreciated his Dragon-may-care tone, too.

Blink. Blink again, stupid eyes! He counted segments and estimated the location.

“We have to get closer than before,” Azania said.

“Punch the bolts deep?”

“Aye. Nothing at surface level will do – make sure you don’t overdraw your bow either. It can snap, given your strength.”

“The Bloodworm’s on the move again.”

Turning upon his wingtip, Dragon lined up his run from a touch north of due east. Hopefully the suns rising behind would partially blind some of the catapult and ballista engineers. Azania cranked up her weapon, he held a bow and quarrels ready in his forepaws. Time to do this.

He snarled, “Going in high and fast, then I’m going to plummet just before we hit firing range.”

“Uhh …”

“Inzashu?” Azania called. “Stay under cover!”

The girl paused in her struggling, but her heart was getting more exercise than an excited grasshopper.

The wind whistled over his wings as Dragon picked up speed. Jink. Sway; throw them off their aim, or introduce the element of doubt at least. At least twenty-five ballistae now threatened this flank; less on the western side, but he peripherally noticed men preparing something near Jabiz Urdoo’s position. A new weapon? They swarmed over several catapults and a low, long cart behind. It held several lumps covered in a grey cloth. Leave that. Focus on the target, on the essential timing.

“Hold on!” he roared.

He folded his wings. The drop slammed his stomachs up toward his spine. Inzashu moaned, her legs squeezing his neck with surprising strength. A flight of spiteful quarrels buzzed right overhead, not a single one striking the target; many arrows also, but only a couple passed through his wings. Second wave! Snapping out his wings, he arrested the drop and had the satisfaction of seeing almost all the shots pass beneath them. Azania cried out.

“You hit, Princess?”

“It’s nothing. Go, Dragon! Go!”

Flicking his wings wide, he steadied them about fifty feet above the heads of the soldiers, level with the Bloodworm’s eyes – if it had any. The creature elongated segment by segment as it charged once more for the gates.

“Now!” the Princess yelled, her voice shrill with pain.

They released in tandem from fifty Dragon paces out. Azania had fired two quarrels, he saw – bang on target. His shot plugged two feet lower, buried well beyond the fletching in the Bloodworm’s flesh.

Reload!

“A foot lower!” Inzashu shouted.

Brave girl! Agony speared into his right shoulder, but Dragon held a steady course and slowed as the Bloodworm’s huge bulk surged just ahead. Now, he dipped slightly so that Azania could target her shot perfectly. Whurr-thwock! Whurr-thwock!

Magical backlash slapped him through darkness into light.

He shook his head.

A distant voice cried, “Dragon! Dragon! Pull up!”

Farther away, another person screamed in a welter of agony that sliced into his mind; conversely, the sharpness of the sensation brought clarity to his reeling senses. Soldiers flashed toward him! Pulling the Dragon bow up toward his chest in a gesture of pure instinct, he smashed full-bore into a regiment of black-helmed Skartunese soldiers, using them to break the momentum of his fall. The Dragon bow ripped away. His clenched paws pounded through them, elbows and knees flying – the clatter of armour, shields and javelins sounded incongruously like one long kitchen disaster. He ripped free and through.

Left wing not working?

Net! Somehow, as he slewed toward the black sand, Dragon discovered that his left wing and flank had been netted. For once his size had worked for him – the snarl was bad, but not incapacitating.

He landed beyond the decimated squad of soldiers in a sandy shower, glancing back over his shoulder. The Bloodworm convulsed and writhed, rolling across a swathe of the Skartun army.

Ooh. Ugly, but ever so satisfying.

Chapter 33: Lightning Strike

JABIZ URDOO BELLOWED ORDERS, but even he was just one of a wave of men fleeing like a school of fish dashing away from a marauding shark. The Bloodworm avalanched slowly over the western flank of his army, before the body crunched up and the head scraped away to the east, sending that flank into a similar panic. Thousands of men, crushed. Brutal as war was, he had never imagined anything like this.

Dragon’s eyes jerked, fighting for focus. The gates still stood, but not for long. One of the gatehouses had collapsed in its entirety at that final strike, leaving a yawning gap.

N’ginta Citadel lay open.

“Princess, the net!”

“Can’t – I’m … sort of pinned to the saddle.”

“I’ve got it.”

To both of their surprise, Inzashu produced a dagger. Not completely helpless, Princess? She cut herself loose with a series of quick slashes. Then, she ran up the base of his neck and out along his shoulder, onto the netted wing. Quick hands set about unsnagging the claw-like hooks. She folded back the heavy net layer by layer.

“Azania?” Dragon curved his head back to check her over.

“Arrow in the upper thigh. It’s a shallow wound, straight through the muscle. I’m fine. Just can’t move well.”

“There’s another jutting from your shoulder.”

“Thank Taramis for armour. That one missed. Soldiers!”

A contingent of keen Skartunese warriors rushed toward them, javelins held at the ready. Cranking up the Dragon bow, the Princess took aim. “Stop right there!”

The men fanned out.

Behind them, the army began to reform its ranks, moving like a great organism with a single brain. Jabiz Urdoo’s roaring sounded nearby; despite the loss of his pet, he made certain to launch the final assault.

Dragon snapped, “Inzashu, go to your sister. Hold on tight!”

“I need a weapon,” she cried, but did as he commanded.

“Where’s your mother?” Azania hissed.

“Can’t feel her.”

The second the eleven-year-old reached her sister, he raised his wing, still half-covered in netting. Dragon lurched toward the men, swinging the net in a low sweep, left to right. They roared in fury as he snarled up over a dozen and then stamped on them. Blissful silence.

Two leftover archers gaped open-mouthed at the destruction. Pleasing, right? So artfully done, one man was actually hugging the other in terror.

Azania shot them with a single quarrel.

Dragon said, “Little Princess, go fetch the weapons you need. Be quick. No pausing to lose your breakfast.”

“Already empty,” said the girl, in a strange voice.

Humans could not only turn pink and blue, but green as well. Oddly fascinating.

She leaped down onto the soft sand, rushing to the stricken archers to rob them of a bow and several quivers of arrows. Shaking visibly. Predictable, but he did feel bad for her. How much death would a girl have already seen in the notoriously brutal Skartun culture? Nothing like this; rivulets of blood snaking across black sands.

Inzashu-N’shula acted steady enough. She had a strong character inside, he concluded, beneath the shyness. After arming herself with a sword and bow, the dark girl ran again to his wing and freed the rest of the netting.

“Worm! Fight me, you cowardly worm!”

Jabiz Urdoo! Turning, Dragon saw the bearded man, as dusky as Azania, approaching amidst the company of a huge retinue of Skartunese soldiers. The Jabiz bore the limp form of Nahritu one-handed over his shoulder. That strange cart was now some ways behind, bogged down in the sand. What could it hold? Those two substantial bulges looked like stippled columns of stone. Whatever it was, he did not fancy discovering what it could do.

Azania cranked up the Dragon bow.

“Slinking lizard! Come on, what’s the matter – too busy hiding behind little girls to fight? Shrivelling fool! Weakling! What are you so afraid of? Where’s your fire, you slimy, gutless worm, you leftover piece of maggot-puke?”

Later, Jabiz Urdoo. This Dragon had better things to do than listen to a litany of pathetic insults.

“We have to get back to the city,” the Princess whispered. “Quickly, sister, strap –”

“I’m in.”

Azania whispered, “Bow ready.”

Rising, he drew breath, and thundered, I – AM – DRAAGOONN!!

Almost, the tactic worked. The front ranks shouted and covered their eyes as his rage blasted sand into their eyes, but Urdoo jerked aside so quickly that Azania’s quarrel missed him by an inch and flattened a man standing right behind him. Inzashu also unleashed an arrow, but it dipped into the soldiers surrounding the Skartun leader.

Whirling upon his heels, Dragon lurched into a run, purposely spraying sand behind him with his paws to confuse any pursuit or further attacks. Jabiz Urdoo bellowed invective at him until they were out of earshot. Acid to the ear canals; molten lead to the hearts. Let his words wash off the scales, Dragon!

Launch!

Wings pumping as he took to the air, he swept back over the city. Columns of men streamed like army ants toward the breach. Already, five or six slave Dragons had marched up to the broken gates, working to clear the rubble and force a way through. Ladders and grapnels flew up to the battlements in dozens of locations. The Bloodworm had crushed a substantial portion of the Skartun army, but there were thousands left as yet. Where did one even start amidst the mayhem?

The populace still rushed through the inner gates. They must be the priority.

“We have to start taking out those Dragons,” he called over his back. “Handlers first.”

“There’s the King,” Inzashu pointed to the inner battlement. “Do you think he’ll help us now? Or, will you just –”

“YOU MEN! HIT THE DRAGON HANDLERS!”

“– deafen everyone?” she finished.

Squads of T’nagrun soldiers formed up in the area behind the gate, locking shields as they crouched in position. Archers swarmed over the nearby houses and atop the battlements. Men ran to winch ballistae into position to cover the breach.

“Pass Dragon the oil bombs,” Azania directed.

“Here, Dragon.”

What they needed most of all, was time. However, as a hail of arrows took out the Dragon handlers seated atop those first beasts, their Dragon thralls kept on working. Room for but one thought? All those nice ranks lined up behind them … ah. Target practice. Drawing back his paw, he set about lobbing a few bombs – some into the gap, others beyond into the Skartunese soldiers. A hail of ballistae quarrels hissed around them. One pinged off his left elbow. Cursing, Dragon ducked behind the ramparts. He flap-ran along the tops of the houses for fifty Dragon paces, before surging up to smash aside a troop of Skartunese soldiers who had established position upon the battlement.

Two sets of bows twanged behind him, taking out soldiers who thought they were safe out of paws’ reach.

“Low pass,” he snarled. “Ballista crews, girls. Let’s go warm them up.”

“Dragon bow ready. See that quiver next to your left knee, sister? Those are flame arrows.”

“Ooh, can I play too?”

Azania laughed wickedly. “Anytime.”

Evidently, both Princesses had taken the wrong sort of education in their misspent youth. So different, yet in some ways, so alike!

Thundering his delight, he used the rampart to hurl himself so low over the Skartunese forces, he could kick a few heads in passing. Indeed – better idea! Snatching men up with his paws, he hurled them left and right, and briefly experimented with using a couple as flails, holding them by their legs to beat their fellows.

They did not last long, sadly.

No wonder Aria liked those ridiculous swords of hers.

Still, he now understood a little of what Humans meant when they talked about reaping wheat. Tossing a random leg into the faces of one more troop, he skimmed over so narrowly that one Skartun ballista crew fired their quarrel directly into the backs of their own troops. Funny yet nasty. Here came Jabiz Urdoo and his retinue from the western flank, forging through his own force by means of beating out of the way those who did not clear off fast enough.

Interesting method of command.

Dragon assessed the target. The ballistae were arranged in a row behind the troops upon the crest of a taller dune, giving them an excellent field of fire.

“Net!” Azania screeched.

He dodged smartly. The net passed by so narrowly, one of the trailing hooks ripped out a small chunk of his Princess’ hair. Now he was spitting mad.

“I call one and two!” he roared.

“Three!” said Azania, levelling her Dragon bow.

“Four!” Inzashu shrilled, blowing on her fingers as she almost dropped her fire arrow.

Whomp, whomp! The oil bombs landed perfectly – to his vast surprise – and ignited at once, sending the crews scuttling for cover. The Princess pierced the wind-up mechanism of the next weapon, causing it to unleash and rip off one of its own firing arms. Inzashu missed with her shot at the fourth ballista, but Dragon took another bomb in paw and finished the job from a height of fifteen feet or so. Even a creature with terrible eyesight could see that far.

“They’re turning to target us,” Azania said, working the winch as fast as she could.

Dragon slewed toward the Bloodworm, taking them further out of range. “Up and over!” he purred, throwing his muzzle toward the sky. Both sisters groaned as he took them through the vertical in a somersault and then performed a half-roll to bring them into normal orientation again. “Call targets!”

“One.” “Two!” “Three and four!”

Excellent response from his Riders, he thought peripherally – he and they were learning how to work together.

He swept down on the terrified ballista crews. Only one managed to fire on target, but the narrowness of the angle made the quarrel skim painfully off his flank without penetrating. They made the team pay for that mistake.

By the time they finished with the ballista crews, Jabiz Urdoo stood admidst the massed ranks of his army, toward the front line, directing the attack. The eastern flank was enveloped in heavy fighting, but the greatest press was still at the gates. As they gained altitude, Princess Azania noted aloud that the inner gates were now being pushed shut. It was also clear that both flanks would soon be overrun. Having clearly taken a leaf out of the aerial team’s tactical manual, the Skartun commanders must have determined to deploy the Dragon thralls to clear the battlements of defenders. Flame blossomed in multiple places; he saw one Dragon boosting another up to the top of the wall.

They might not fly, but this was bad enough.

“Time for the Dragon bow?” Azania said.

“Aye. Aim low in the belly, just in front of the hind legs. That’ll do enough damage without being fatal, I hope.”

They swept back and forth over the battle, struggling mightily to make a difference. Every now and again, they heard Jabiz Urdoo roaring in the background, “Worm!” “Slithering serpent!” “Weakling!”

King N’gala’s ballista teams were unmerciful. The Princess struck down five Dragons almost exactly as they had planned, only for them to discover that the handlers drove the Dragons on anyways. Even one female whose hind leg had clearly been broken, dragged herself up and over the battlements and into the houses behind. The King’s teams aimed for the kill.

Soon, they would have to face that reality, for the Skartun pressed in with ruthless efficiency. Their war machine was roaring now, as Dragons would say. Leaving the outer gate in their wake, the handlers walked their armoured Dragon thralls through and up to the inner gates, where the fighting grew fierce. Numbers of the Dragons wore quarrels in their hides, but gave no sign of being affected by pain.

The T’nagrun soldiers were forced to abandon the outer battlement, or die. Full retreat to the packed inner citadel! Azania called that she spied King N’gala himself fighting amidst the rearguard down in the streets.

Dragon fire raged against the wooden inner gates.

Landing briefly to reload, the Dragon-Princess force launched out again, intending to focus upon the Dragons raging against the gate. Dense smoke poured up from the inferno there.

As they swept overhead, a brutal pain suddenly gripped his mind. He heard Inzashu cry out at the same moment; they drew together to keep Nahritu-N’shula out, but she attacked again and again. Psychic sledgehammer blows! Dragon forced his wings to keep going. Keep flapping. Losing altitude too fast! Her attack was monumental, forcing him lower and lower, toward Jabiz Urdoo’s position.

“With me, Inzashu!” he snarled.

Drawing together as one, they struck back, staggering the woman. Azania’s quarrel skittered off the stone right between her legs.

I AM DRAGON!!

His thunder drowned out all sound of battle as they fought not to crash land, his wingtips brushing the houses, when suddenly from the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a silver flash. A quarrel slammed into his flank, but the jolt it delivered was unlike anything he had experienced before. Kerack! Instantly ignited as if by lightning, every muscle in his body seized up at once.

Dragon fell hard. It was all he could do to spread his wings, to take some of the sting off their landing – perhaps that action alone saved the Princesses. He slammed into the cobblestones of the citadel’s lower streets and skidded along for a number of Dragon lengths, bruising his sternum. Both girls groaned.

He groaned, “What … hit us …”

A silver wire linked the quarrel to that strange cart! It stood uncovered, two mounded coils upon it gleaming silvery with power – yanking the quarrel out at the expense of a badly jangled paw, he tried to rise. By his sire’s egg! What had that thing done to him? A team upon the back of the cart aimed a small ballista at him. Another?

“Off! Princesses, get off! I can’t stop …”

As if in a nightmare, the engineers worked the winch mechanism – far too fast for him to recover in time. They could not miss from this distance. Inzashu tore herself free with a groan, rushing to help her sister.

Jabiz Urdoo strode toward them. “Felt a little tickle from my machine, did you, worm?”

Arrogance. Sheer arrogance!

Dragon curled his lip. “Come closer, little man, and I’ll snap your head off.”

“Hit him again.”

Kerack!

Inzashu fell off his back, tossed aside by the machine’s terrible force. Azania slumped, then slowly, ever so slowly, slid off the far side. Limp as a withered reed.

The machine hummed balefully as it pumped its awful load into his body. A crackling sound filled his ears. Dragon tried to move, to unclench his quivering talons. Nothing. Not a chance. He had lost all control of his bodily functions. His hearts fluttered wildly inside his chest, but that was all the movement he knew.

“Azania. Inzashu …”

Stooping, the Jabiz twisted his fingers into Azania’s hair, and dragged her limp body off the ground as if examining a filthy dishrag he had found mouldering at the bottom of a barrel. After spitting directly into her unconscious face, he shoved her toward his soldiers.

“Take these pathetic females away. When they’re awake enough to appreciate it, we’ll spill their guts before their father’s eyes.”

“No …”

Was he even speaking aloud? The machine purred loudly, building up the load of its dark magic one more time. The silver wire! He had to reach the silver wire, but his paws refused to obey.

“So, worm –”

“Call me Dragon!” A hoarse whisper was the best he could produce.

“Worm! Crawling, feckless, pathetic little worm!” Jabiz sneered, his handsome face twisted into a scowl as he watched his men dragging the Princesses away. “Keep those two alive. I want them to scream properly for their daddy.”

Evil. All the colours of this man were a poisonous purple. Ruthless. Proud. Utterly assured in his dominance of the situation.

Jabiz Urdoo smiled. Few expressions had ever terrified him more. He held up a silver rod. “I’m going to teach you about pain, maggot. With this inductor rod, I will introduce you to such agony –”

Groaning at the supreme effort, Dragon pulled his muzzle toward the man.

Urdoo raised his hand. “Another hit!”

Gnaooaaarrr!!

Was that sobbing roar even his own voice?

Blackness sucked away at the corners of his vision. The man approaching his head wavered as if seen through the rising heat of a bonfire. Behind him, Princess Azania came alive in the grip of the soldiers. Pinching a sword, she cut one man down and rounded on the second. Seasoned as he was, the Skartunese warrior’s eyes rather boggled at the impression that a woman no taller than his breastbone was threatening him. The Princess ran the blade smoothly into his groin.

She whirled. “Dragon. Dragon!”

Reaching up, Jabiz jammed something into the side of his head. Deep into his right ear canal.

His handsome features were impassive, as if he knew this was the end. Without bothering to turn, he waved a hand, “Shut her up, would you?”

“Electricity – unnh!”

Dragon saw black.

Then, he saw nothing at all. Such pain roared inside his skull, it was as if he had swallowed an ocean tempest. His ear crackled as if fat were spitting in a fire. Every muscle in his body locked up. When his vision cleared, he saw Jabiz Urdoo still watching with that impassive disinterest, as if the agonised thrashing of a victim hardly held any fascination, for he had seen it all many times before.

“Had enough pain, worm?”

“Call me – gnaooaaarrr!”

Hundreds of Skartunese soldiers had gathered around, jeering, “Come on, worm.” “Get up.” “Slacker.” “Loser, show us what you’ve got.” “Fool.” Worst, was their mocking laughter. He had heard it all his life.

“Asking for more, worm?” Urdoo sneered.

“Call me –”

A surging, sizzling tempest of pain crushed his soul. He felt his back arch so cruelly, he feared his spine must surely snap.

Gnn-arrr-GNAAAARRR!!

So ferocious was his roar, the man stumbled backward, losing his grip upon the silver handle. Dragon knew the other end was embedded in his ear. That was the pain; the thing that drove a Dragon mad. For the first time, he understood how his kindred could have been enslaved. All he could think about was this world of anguish. The roaring destruction of sanity. He heard a voice gibbering inside his head that he had to give up, give over, crawl upon his belly before this man, or the torture would come afresh, and he would die.

Could his hearts even bear it?

“Want to go another round, you worthless, fireless worm?”

As his vision cleared once more, it was to fix upon the Princess of T’nagru, a broken doll slumped upon the stones. Another soldier dumped Inzashu atop her. Discarded like yesterday’s rubbish.

His lips peeled back from his fangs. What had this Jabiz done?

“Poor little worm, are we crying yet? Did you know that a Dragon can lament just like a person? Come look at this grovelling worm, men! Let me show you what we do to his kind!”

“Do your worst, fool!”

“Worm! You will call me master!”

His blink sliced through eternity before returning to the real world. To the endless clamour of battle, to the whining of that machine. Electricity. The Princess had said something about electricity …

For the life of him, he could not remember why that was important.

Jabiz Urdoo stretched his hand out for the silver handle. Blood trickled from his left ear. “Worm! You will be my personal slave. Lick my boots, worm!”

“Never.”

The man’s eyes bulged. “Take this!” He squeezed the handle.

Burning, spitting, unbearable power. Oblivion threatened, but Dragon clung to one thought – his precious Dragon Rider lay there, struck down by this coward. The city would soon fall and these people would die, all because he could never find the fires within him. But if there was electricity, and pain, those must be greater than whatever it was that always burned within him whenever the grief or rage hurt most.

That sensation was white fire behind his breastbone now. White, like Taramis.

“Electricity …”

The Princess had never been more right.

“Useless maggot! Roll over! The torture has only just begun.”

KERACK!! His body buzzed. Sparks flew off his wingtips; his paws clenched uncontrollably. Yet, he was a big Dragon. Their machine had never been designed for one like him, had it? He welcomed the pain and used it, somehow, to drive his paws beneath him. He tore forth the strength to kneel. Panting now. Unable even to see the enemy, the taunting crowd, the man whose words were the distillation of every insult he had ever suffered in his life.

“What’s the matter with you, worm? Don’t you know when you’re beaten, you crawling bug, you dribbling simpleton? No Dragon has ever lived through what I am able to do to them! I will explode your brains out of your earholes unless you belly crawl to me, now!”

He set his jaw. “Call. Me. Dragon!”

Jabiz Urdoo screamed, “I am your master! Hit the worm. Again!”

He never felt where the following arrow struck him, for the white pain that flashed through his muscles was everything, a song of agony unlike anything he had ever imagined. This was his song. The power that he needed had never flared more brilliantly, coursing through his body in unimaginable waves, needing only to be directed to where it would either kill him, or unleash the beast within.

Welcoming all that was seething, effervescent white fire, Dragon shovelled it toward the pain behind his breastbone. Find his fire? No, that search was over. This time, he would rip it out of his very soul.

Ocean always rises.

He squeezed that sensation harder, and harder still, until that new pain became the focal point of his universe. The pressure swelled and swelled again. Quadrupled. The crackling power made his paws spasm, his wings slap against the ground, his tail dance helplessly upon the stones. Nothing was as it should be, but the Dragon knew this was the only way. An egg could never forget its origins.

Force – it – out!

Mouth agape, he staggered upright. White sheeted across his vision. Nothing was left. Nothing. Pulling all the murderous, fizzing power into his core, he let rip the thunder of his deepest longings.

I AM DRAGON! I – AM – FIIIIRRREEE!!

Chapter 34: Firestorm

LIQUID HEAT HISSED UP through his long throat and over his forked tongue. Since he had never felt such a sensation before, he tried to purse his lips and roll his tongue to control it. A thin, incandescent stream shot forth, a whisper of fire rather than the conflagration he barely dared to dream of.

A column cleared through the soldiers as if by magic. Burned to a cinder.

So shocking was this revelation, he tried to gulp back the stream of fire. Bad mistake. The pressure built so rapidly behind his keel bone, his eyes bulged and his every talon ripped cobblestones out of the road in an agony of white-hot fury. His maw gaped wider than ever before. Lightning crackled around the edges of his vision.

GGRRROOOOAAARRGGHH!!

A crack of thunder shook the city. White flame hosed out of his mouth, gushing before him like a river bursting its banks as he flicked his muzzle from side to side. The Skartunese warriors fell in droves. The houses behind them imploded. Even the bricks burst into flame.

His body was afire, stinging in every scale. He was certain his ear canals must be smoking. How could he not be? His fire was white, incandescent, shot through with colours like the mother-of-pearl shells he and the Princess had found on the western beaches what seemed like a lifetime ago, now. He had never seen nor imagined hotter infernos.

Princess Azania!

He snapped his jaw shut before the fire reached her – but it had never threatened to immolate her, he realised, because somehow amidst his epiphany, he had stepped forward to assume a protective stance over his Princesses. The girls lay together beneath his white-hot throat, holding one another close. Dipping his muzzle, he began to scent their hearts before he realised that Azania’s dark eyes were wide open, glistening with unshed tears.

Terror-wonder-ified? his brain tried and failed to find words to express what he beheld in her, in this instant.

Azania whispered, “That’s my Dragon.”

“You’re the one who believed,” he breathed back, buzzing from muzzle to tail with wonder at what he had just accomplished. “I … I just never … you’re alright?”

“Jabiz!”

The Skartun commander swooped for the inductor’s grip, still dangling from his right ear canal.

Pursing his lips, Dragon blew him away with white fire. The gust picked him up and flung him against the shimmering coils of his machine. With a blinding flash, violent electrical energies blazed through his body; then, the sound of the coils developed a grating buzz.

He dropped his body between the machine and the Princesses.

KAABOOM!!

Shake the head. Black smoke boiled into the air from a small crater where the electricity machine and its cart had stood. Vaporised! By his wings, that could have been bad – well, he had a couple of extra bits and pieces imbedded in his scales, but at least his Dragon Rider was safe. He checked again. Safe, but hurt – as was her younger sister, bleeding from her temple, and her left side and both ears, for that matter.

The girl’s eyelids flickered. “What was that … racket?”

“My Dragon just spit-roasted the enemy.”

Her Dragon? The cheek! Still, he admired her joke with a huge grin.

Maybe it suited. In private, if no-one … he glanced up. Hundreds of Skartunese soldiers looked on. Brown of skin they were, but they looked pale and sickly all of a sudden. Mwaa-haa-haa … why would that be, men?

Dragon smiled amiably and tried to wave a paw. That bit did not work, but his voice did. He rasped, “I suggest you boys start running.”

As gently as he could, he scooped Inzashu up into his forepaw, and helped Azania to alight on his neck. It was all they could manage. He felt as if he had been run over by a Bloodworm, but while he still had breath, this city needed cleansing of a cockroach infestation.

A nice, cleansing fire.

His chest felt moderately terrible, mind. He was not sure what he had torn open in there, maybe this extra stomach Sea Dragons were supposed to have, but nothing inside felt hale and hearty. Could he produce one more blast?

Azania said, “Say, Dragon?”

“Aye, Princess?”

“Would you have an evil Dragon laugh left in you? I could really stand to hear your wicked laugh right now – you know, your ‘bwaa-haa-haa, I’m such a thumping great Dragon’ production.”

“Far too predictable.”

“But fun.”

“You make an excellent point.”

She patted his neck with one tiny hand. “Ouch, you’re hot stuff. Of course I do. I’m a woman.”

Undeniable fact.

As was the fact that he was hot stuff. Positively molten.

That was the thought that made his chest swell until he could no longer withhold.

MWWAA-HAA-HAARRRGGHH!! he thundered, chasing the Skartunese warriors out of the city with a monstrous, billowing wall of fire. Well, many of them didn’t make it out alive.

Bad luck.

As the echoes of his thunder faded, the Princess said brightly, “Do you know what? Just every now and again, you being a typical Dragon is allowed. It certainly works for me.”

“And me,” said he, stepping lively over a road covered in smoking bodies.

“Up to the gates this instant, Dragon!”

“Oh, do we think we’re calling the orders now? I suggest you limber up your bow, wench, in case we run into any stragglers.”

“Wench? I’ll have you know that I’m a fearfully expensive Princess.”

“I’m rolling my eye fires up here.”

“So mature.”

On that note, he picked up the pace, rushing up to the inner gate of the city as best he could. Numb paws. Muscles cramping and unclenching in unfamiliar ways. Wings that refused to settle along his flanks as usual. There, they found the surviving Dragons still toiling to burn down the gate. In order to resolve the issue of how to stop the thralls, they took the expedient of borrowing one handler to explain to them, before his spleen squeezed out between Dragon’s knuckles, exactly how the inductors worked.

The man proved both eager and informative.

Thereafter, they dashed from one Dragon to the next, squeezing the inductor handles and telling them to stand down. Azania worried aloud that if all the thralls knew was how to respond to pain, how would they ever be rehabilitated to normal function again? He fretted about that too, but he was more worried about a person who was missing.

No sign of Nahritu-N’shula anywhere.

Nor could Inzashu detect her mother’s presence. That usually meant she was out of range, but – no guarantees. As smart and powerful as the Psyromantic Mage was, this could be yet another ploy. Meantime, the T’nagrun soldiers toiled to clear and secure the lower city.

When the gates swung open, they had another unwelcome surprise. Report was that King N’gala lay dying upon the battlement beside the gate.

“Father’s – what happened?” Azania gasped, shaking Prince Aragu’s arm in distress.

He began to raise his hand to her, but a warning growl from a certain lurking Dragon gave him pause. It was the kind of growl that argued eloquently that such an action would result in the instant, toothy confiscation of an appendage.

Pulling away, he said, “Something burned up inside his stomach. It looked like a metal spider, at least, that’s what we saw. I will not miss the man – go weep over him if you wish.”

Stepping back half a pace, the Princess appeared to consider this.

Then, moving in a blur, she surged forward and slapped her brother with all of her strength. It was neither a tentative nor a girly slap. This was a full-blooded, Juggernaut-approved version of the slap, one delivered with impeccable timing and all the power of her shoulder and torso behind it.

Her brother hit the ground, half-stunned. “Whaaa …”

She spat, “You are despicable. Dragon?”

He leered briefly at Prince Aragu. “I suggest you take a more civil tone with my Dragon Rider in future, little Princeling, or I’ll be the next to slap you – and that, you will not survive to remember.”

Then, cradling Inzashu-N’shula in his paw, he lifted Azania up to the high battlement, and leaped up a little further along where there was some space behind the crowd. Azania knelt over her father. His entire midsection was a smoking, charred mess, but somehow, he clung to life.

Lifting Inzashu over their heads, he deposited her beside her sister.

The King’s lips moved.

“What is it, father?” Azania lowered her ear toward his mouth.

Her tiny face appeared serene, but Dragon smelled something quite different in her emotions. After a moment, she smiled and spoke gently to him.

Openly incensed, King N’gala of T’nagru perished the very next instant.

Turning her back upon her father’s body, Princess Azania pushed furiously through the crowd. After a second, the younger Princess looked up, her face distraught. Too weak to walk? Dragon reached over once more and scooped her up; she curled up in his paw, weeping without a sound. When the fuming older Princess joined them, her demeanour cracked at last.

“Dragon, take us away … somewhere, please. Anywhere but here.”

He flew them up to her old chambers in the Royal Palace and prescribed a bath. Hot baths were supposed to be good medicine for Humans, he had read – although, how one fixed whatever her father had said to her, he had no idea.

After all, he was only a Dragon.

A breather of fire.

* * * *

It took until the late afternoon for the message to filter up to the Palace that all of the Dragon thralls were standing motionless, exactly where they had been left. By then, the doctors had been in to check over and bandage the Princesses. Inzashu had a concussion and was under strict orders not to budge from her bed. That left a limping, melancholic Princess to be his right-paw woman and figure out what to do with eighteen mindless Dragons, once they had rounded up a few stragglers dotted around the streets and outside the walls.

A prisoner told them that the retreating Skartun army had taken five worms with them. In a profanity-laden tirade, he threatened that the other twenty-nine Jabiz of Skartun would not remain unmoved by this defeat. They would return in the cooler season with an army fifty times greater, and many more worms.

Dragon bade him watch his tongue, or he would pluck it from his mouth forthwith.

“Dragon, we want information,” Azania protested.

“He can write while he’s bleeding to death,” he growled.

Turning to the chained prisoner, the Princess said, “Tell me, what happened to this first mover honour you sought?”

The man said, “Jabiz Urdoo was under the enchantress’ spell – the Psyromantic Mage – as was your witless King, girl. Where’s the honour in that? Our soldiers will cross the desert, or perish. Better that than a life in the dungeons. This is the Skartunese way.”

“King N’chala will decide what to do with you,” she said.

“And with you, I hear,” he sneered. “All you are to this kingdom is chattels, woman. A pretty price for a pretty face. I’d pity you, but somehow, I can’t be bothered.”

Azania raised her hand before his paw so much as twitched. “Don’t kill him, Dragon. Much better for him to suffer in our kingdom’s finest accommodation. The shameful words of a shamed warrior cannot touch me anyways. I am a Dragon Rider.”

The man made to spit at her, but a talon curled about his lips. Dragon growled, “Desist. I am not so merciful.”

“Mercy?” the Princess laughed hollowly. “Rotting in a dungeon is no mercy for his ilk.”

Judging by the warrior’s railing and cursing as they departed, she was dead right. He liked that about his Princess. Tiny cranium, to be sure, but it was clearly packed full of the best stuff. Extremely dense.

She said, “Dragon, your throat’s hurting, isn’t it?”

“Aye. When you helped me work out what I needed from that machine, I think I tore something inside. Maybe I was defective after all, Azania. Something inside my … fire tract, I guess, was blocked up from birth. Were it not for your belief, and what you said –” he shook his head slowly “– because of you, I found the courage to push through all the pain. Plus, as you know, I’m an incredibly stubborn, curmudgeonly chunk of a Dragon.”

“Brain of solid granite, did you say?”

Good try. Her smile did not fool him in the slightest.

She said, “Well, we’ll have to go fetch those five Dragons. Maybe tomorrow. I might be a disreputable Dragon Rider, but I’m also quite exhausted.”

“Mighty Dragon Rider.”

“Oh, the mighty mite. That’s me.”

“Who lost her father today. Grief is no easy companion.”

The Princess gave him a long, uncomfortable look. “My father was at pains to point out what a disappointment I have always been to him. And Inzashu. What do you think of that?”

“What did you reply?”

“I wished him a peaceful rest in the afterlife. Oddly, even after all he’s done and that final expression of his hate, I actually meant it.”

“Then you’re the bigger person.”

“If you’re trying to be funny –”

“No, I was not. Sorry. That’s what Dragons would say. You acted with great honour, which is more than anyone could say for N’gala. Your spirit is bigger. Your fires burn brighter. And, in case you missed the point, I am so proud of you after today, my wings tingle something fierce.”

“Eh? That’s from being zapped to a crisp, or?”

This time, his artist’s eye detected the slightest curvature of her lips – a genuine response. He said, “Smart Princess like you, I’m sure you can work out what I mean.”

“Are you afraid you might lose your fire again?”

He dipped his muzzle. “I hope whatever I ripped open does not heal, aye. For now …” He let a curl of white fire trickle over his tongue, and up past his nose. “It’s hard to control, but from now on, my friend, I plan to light all the lamps for you.”

To his surprise, his tiny friend threw herself into his paws, and gave him a huge, fierce hug.

Perhaps there might have been a little leakage involved.

A male Dragon in all his pomp, he ignored that touch of wetness and did not mention it. Nor did he shudder. Well, maybe a smidgen.

After that, they wandered off to invade the blacksmiths’ quarter with eighteen tame Dragons in tow. They bade the master blacksmiths remove the head cages with the greatest care, especially the inductor probes which penetrated the ear canals to a depth of eleven to thirteen inches. Some of the Dragons were so scarred, the ear tissue had fused to the probes and they had to experiment with grease, oil and blunt, flat instruments to finally extract the wretched instruments of torture.

Now they had eighteen very confused Dragons to look after – he assumed as much, since they were not talking as yet. Proper granite brains, make no mistake.

The confusion had to be exacerbated when a Dragon called Dragon sat them down to have a cosy talk with them. To be honest, he was not sure what to say, but a general chat about freedom, recovery and a pain-free life majored amongst the points he made. He and Azania would be their masters and give them orders, he informed them, until they were ready to take charge of their own lives.

Zero response. His hearts sank into his scaly socks, or … something like that. He and Azania shared identically dismayed glances.

“Next stop?” he asked.

She said, “The healers. Most of these Dragons require treatment, and a jolly good meal. Maybe tomorrow they could help clear up the city and move any rubble that needs to be shifted?”

“Good thinking, Princess. Let’s call that a plan.”

After spending several hours with the healers trying to work out what to do for the Dragons, including diet and special treatment of the ear canals, they left the former slaves to spend the night in the Royal Gardens. Strict orders not to trample the flowerbeds.

“Totally essential point,” Dragon protested.

Azania elbowed his neck and snuggled a little closer. He was sure he could hear her eyelids closing back there. “Just when I took you for a –” huge yawn “– fiery monster.”

“One needs to know where to breathe one’s fire,” he opined. Quick check. Aye, still flaming.

“Are you strutting?”

“Me?”

“Liar, liar, paws on fire.”

“I’m a thief, too,” said he, scaling the royal balcony with aplomb. “May I remind you, priceless Princess, that I still have despicable plans to ransom you to – let’s see – the Prince of the farthest realm I can imagine? Other side of the oceans, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh, you are a wicked beast. Pure evil.”

Taking the Princess in paw one more time, he gently slipped her into the four-poster bed alongside her little sister. He said, “Bedtime story?”

Azania snuggled down upon her silken pillow. “This bed’s so soft. I’m not used to this anymore.”

“There’s always my paw.”

“Give me one night in luxury.” She winked at him. “I am an unconventional Princess, after all. Silk makes my skin itch.”

“Of course. I believe everything you say,” he agreed, settling right up against the bed. The wood creaked in protest. He growled, “No, I am not moving from here, so you can just put up with it. Me and beds have a history, you know. Consider yourself warned.”

“Me, or the bed?”

After the day’s frenetic events, so many unknowns still buzzed around inside his head. What motived a man like Jabiz Urdoo? Was it pride, ambition or honour, or rather, the behind-the-scenes machinations of Nahritu-N’shula which had led to this war in which both Skartun and T’nagru had suffered severe losses? The falling of armies, Dragons and Kings was no small matter. Neither was the Skartunese ambition to return with thirty times the number and decimate the Dragon Clans in pursuit of new slaves.

Nor was the discovery of one’s fires.

Chuckling sleepily, the Princess whispered, “So, about my story?”

All these concerns must wait upon the morrow. Tonight, he would rest in the comfort of victory over two terrible foes: Jabiz Urdoo, and his own debility.

“Very well, Your Highness. Once upon a time, a fiendish, rip-snorting beast perched atop the tallest tower of the greatest castle in all the land, contemplating a little recreational pillaging. All he had managed to do so far was to enjoy a long snooze in the glorious sunshine. Since dawn. Till dusk. Now, despite being saddled with a fine-sounding name like Blitz the Devastator …”

Hmm. In another turn-out for the legends, Princesses did snore.

His storytelling was definitely not the culprit.

THE END

Leap aboard for your next exciting Dragonride in: I am Dragon (Dragon Fires Rising Book 2)

About the Author
www.marcsecchia.com
www.dragonsglory.com

Marc is the bestselling author of over thirty-five books and is published in five languages. Born in South Africa, he lives and works in Ethiopia with his wife and 4 children, 2 dogs, a rabbit, and a variable number of marabou storks that roost on the acacia trees out back. On a good night you can also hear hyenas prowling along the back fence.

When he’s not writing about Africa or dragons, Marc can be found travelling to remote locations. He thinks there’s nothing better than standing on a mountaintop wondering what lies over the next horizon.

If you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a review on Amazon.com. Every review matters and I read them all!

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Email: marcsecchia@gmail.com

Other Books by Marc Secchia

Call me Dragon: Spill-your-coffee hilarious!

Blitz the Devastator has never done a decent day’s devastating in his life. Fireless, artistic and shunned by his Dragon Clan, he struggles to pillage even the meanest village. A future full of misery and failure beckons.

This much is true until the day the burly brown Dragon successfully – imagine that – kidnaps the Princess Azania. As a black Princess of T’nagru, this spirited beauty is by definition the most unforgettable woman in the seventeen realms. Knights errant, men-at-arms and sundry Princes expire at her feet in drivelling worship.

Unfortunately, they all want his scaly head on a platter shortly thereafter. Goes with the territory.

To Blitz’s consternation, the royal nuisance refuses to behave herself and be a typical pampered Princess. With humour, unconventional flair and the odd stomp of her diminutive slipper, she sets out to reform her Dragon.

One question remains. Who will save the Dragon from the Princess?

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Scrolls of Fire series: The Dragon Librarian, The Dragon Loremaster

Shapeshifter Dragon Legends series: The Pygmy Dragon and The Onyx Dragon

Shapeshifter Dragons series: Aranya, Shadow Dragon, Song of the Storm Dragon and Beautiful Fury

Shapeshifter Dragons linked book, read after Song of the Storm Dragon or after Beautiful Fury: Chaos Shifter

Standalone Books: Dragon Thief, Tytiana

Set in the same world as the Shapeshifter Dragons series, join Zhialeiana in an oceanic adventure with Whales and Sea-Dragons:

IsleSong series: The Girl who Sang with Whales, The Girl who Loved the Whales, and The Girl who Swam with Whales, after which this series connects with Shapeshifter Dragons above in Dragons of Sea and Sky, coming soon.

Mister Drainpipe: The power of dignity and redemption.

Contemporary literary fiction. A wrenching story of a homeless man living in a drain in modern Ethiopia.

Mister Drainpipe

Whisper Series: Enter the canyon maze!

Conjured by the sadistic Warlock Sanfuri, Whisper faces a stark choice. Run with his message, or die. Bound by the Warlock’s unbreakable magical imperative, Whisper is forced to navigate the tortuous pathways of a labyrinth twenty miles deep, riven by Dragon-infested canyons and scorched by sunstrike. An extraordinary legend is born.

Whisper Alive

The Equinox Cycle: Amputee, survivor, heroine!

Trapped in a car wreck, crushed by a train. In seconds, Zaranna’s world is torn apart and she must start life anew, as a survivor. A double amputee. Yet why does this promising equestrienne remember a flash of sulphurous fire, and a crimson paw hurling her mother’s car onto the train tracks? Why does a tide of beguiling butterflies flood her increasingly chaotic dreams?

As Zaranna Inglewood adjusts to life minus legs, plus gorgeous Alex, the paramedic who cut her body from the wreckage, she learns the terror of being hunted. Relentless and inimical, the enemy lures her to a world where dreams shape reality. Equinox. A world of equinoctial storms; lashed by titanic forces of magic, dominated by the Pegasi and their centuries-old enmity with Human Wizards and the Dragons. This is a world where a girl can Dream her destiny. Where her soul can fly, or be chained forever.

She is Zaranna, the Horse Dreamer. Survivor. Fighter. A girl who doesn’t need legs to kick an evil fate in the teeth. All she needs is courage – the courage to Dream.

The Horse Dreamer (Equinox Cycle Book 1)

The Shioni of Sheba series: Discover ancient Ethiopia!

Unique African historical fantasy adventures set among the myths and legends of ancient Ethiopia.

Shioni of Sheba #1: The Enchanted Castle

Shioni of Sheba #2: The King’s Horse

Shioni of Sheba #3: The Mad Giant

Shioni of Sheba #4: The Sacred Lake

Shioni of Sheba #5: The Fiuri Realms

Shioni of Sheba #6 – The Night of the Hyenas

Shioni of Sheba #7 – The Secret of the Simiens

Shioni of Sheba #8 – Storm over Sheba

Shioni of Sheba Box Set – Books 1-5

Epic fantasy (New Adult and Adult readers) Epic length tales of unique worlds and powers.

Feynard

The Legend of El Shashi

Foreign language editions

Italian – Dragonfriend, Il Drago Pigmeo, Aranya

Spanish – Dragonfriend, Aranya, El Dragón Pigmeo, El Bibliotecario Dragón, Tytiana

Portuguese – Aranya, Shadow Dragon, The Pygmy Dragon, The Onyx Dragon

Chinese – The Pygmy Dragon (US, China) Aranya (US, China)