Call
Me Dragon
Dragon
Fires Rising Book 1
by
Marc Secchia
Genre:
Humorous Fantasy
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.
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?
Call me Dragon – Excerpt #1 ‘Murderous Poetry’
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.
Call me Dragon – Excerpt #2 ‘Desert Snark’
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.”
Call me Dragon – Excerpt #3 ‘Dragon, fetch!’
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!”
Marc
is a South African-born dragon masquerading as an author, who loves
writing about dragons and Africa, preferably both at the same time.
He's the author of 25 fantasy books in 5 languages including 10
rip-roaring dragon fantasy bestsellers. Dragonfriend won a Gold Award
for Fantasy in the 2016 IPPY Book Awards.
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.
$50 Amazon
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Oh yeah! Thanks for sharing.
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