Were of the Drakon Read online

  There was a flash of light and a small squeal from somewhere. He felt anger surge in Zirca as the massive head swung toward the sound at the doorway but it subsided. Trag wobbled his head around and saw through the film over his eyes that Vistala had entered the barn. She slowly approached, warily eying Zirca but not being warned off, until she eventually stood in front of where he dangled in Zirca’s grasp. Even Vistala seemed huge.

  “Trag?” Tentatively.

  He gurgled and waved his arms, unable to speak. Damn.

  “It is you, isn’t it Trag?”

  He waved and gurgled again as Vistala examined him.

  “You’re so tiny. I thought you’d be bigger than that and you’re covered with icky stuff. You need washing and you’ll need something to eat. I’ll go and get some warm water and a cloth and some meat. Oh yes, I’ll tell Septican too. Let Zirca know, if you can that I’m going to get something to wash you down with.”

  Vistala left and Trag tried to communicate her intentions to Zirca. He must have succeeded for when Vistala returned with a small bucket, Septican in tow, Zirca carefully and gently handed Trag to her. He was so tiny Vistala held him in one hand while she spread a piece of linen on the straw and placed Trag on it before setting to with a warm, wet rag and thoroughly cleaning the diminutive drakon. As she wiped off the gooey film which covered him, his tiny, soft scales became visible, glowing black like shiny night. Septican went down on his knees to inspect the tiny drakon and like Vistala before him asked if it was he.

  “You’re so tiny. Is that you Trag?”

  Trag couldn’t resist. He stood on his hind legs, flapped his stubby little wings and hissed. Septicon beamed, happiness plastered across his face.

  “Dramad be damned. It is you. Wonder of wonders. Now I won’t feel so bad burying your old body. It served its purpose and I’ll find a place to honour it. It must be confusing for you in there. It’s confusing enough for us. Hungry?”

  At the word ‘hungry’, Trag realised his little stomach was rumbling and he mewled. Septican produced a piece of meat from a bag he’d brought and was about to give it to Trag when Zirca rumbled. He halted, with the piece of meat suspended in the air and sat still as Zirca took it gently from his hand, her prehensile lips barely brushing his fingers. She chewed it before bending her head down until her huge lips nearly touched Trag’s tiny ones. He understood and took down the stream of saliva and chewed meat. There was something extra in the saliva, what he didn’t know but immediately Trag felt full of energy and vitality. He held his head up for more. Septicon once again gave Zirca meat and the process was repeated.

  It didn’t take long for Trag to feel sleepy and soon he was snuggled in the straw under Zirca’s protective wing, his rotund little belly nearly popping. He didn’t see Septican gently lift his withered little cripple’s body, now a lifeless shell and walk out of the barn with it, Vistala right behind him.

  After asking Wiley’s permission, Septican buried what was left of the first incarnation of Trag in an out of the way corner of the garden they had spent so much time in. Only he and Vistala were there to say a few words over the empty cocoon that was Trag’s original body, buried at the base of a tree. There was no need for a marker of any kind as Trag still lived.

  Trag grew at an amazing rate. He was fed by Zirca whenever he was hungry and slept for hours afterward. He’d retained nearly all the knowledge he’d had and as he grew larger, Septican would come to teach him magic. Zirca approved and once Trag found he had the dexterity to gently turn pages with his forelimb talons, Septicon would leave him books on magic to read. It was his wings which were a constant source of amazement for Trag, besides having legs which worked properly. He often unfurled his wings to their full extent and flapped them madly. It did nothing until he’d grown to the size of a large dog, which only took six weeks, then he could feel his front end lighten as he powered the wings downward.

  All was going well but as ever there is always something or somebody to spoil things. In this case it was Helmar, the fellow he’d met at the barn door the first night Trag spent in Balfour’s Keep. Trag had never liked the man. There was something off about him, the way he never looked you in the eye or the feeling one got when standing near him. He was always poking about into things which were none of his business and when Zirca saw him once Trag was amazed at the hatred which coloured her thoughts. She broadcast pictures of Helmar teasing her all those long days ago when she’d had a broken wing and was shackled to the floor of the barn.

  Helmar was always on the lookout for Helmar and the instruction by Wiley Balfour to stay out of the barn ate at him. He wanted to know what was going on. He’d seen Vistala and Septican visiting the place on a daily basis without a problem, he’d also seen the golden drakon come out of the barn now and again and walk off for a short period of time. Thoughts of drakon gold lured him. Visions of a small hoard, secreted in the barn by a golden drakon. He wouldn’t need to steal much to be a wealthy man and buy his own farm then find himself a wife.

  Helmar planned carefully and waited patiently, lurking around the stables pretending to be occupied until he could seize his chance. It eventually came and one day Zirca came out of the barn and walked off around the keep. Now was his chance. He surreptitiously made his way over to the barn and slipped into the dim interior, intent on locating the gold. He heard talking and realised the old man was in here but who was he talking to? Helmar silently crept down to the far end of the barn and with a start saw there was a form in the straw about the size of a large, well grown calf. It was obsidian black. Its identity was revealed when a sinuous neck popped up and looked down on a page of the book the old man was holding. Another drakon! Still, it wouldn’t stop him searching for the gold. Helmar withdrew his knife and reversed it. Wouldn’t do to kill the old man but knocking him out was acceptable. He noiselessly crept the final necessary steps and swung at the old man’s head. There was a dull thud and his victim toppled sideways, out cold.

  Helmar hadn’t expected what came next, he was suddenly facing a rearing drakon, flapping its wings and screaming fit to burst. It almost sounded like language coming from its viciously fanged, not so little mouth. Helmar stopped thinking of gold and started thinking about defending himself. He reversed the knife and made a few swings with it as he retreated from the attack, hoping the beast would settle down. It didn’t and events were now heating up. At that moment, the doors of the barn imploded and a golden drakon charged through the whirling fragments of timber. Helmar only had time to look over his shoulder to see his nemeses before he was snatched up and bitten in half. The front part of his body was swallowed whole without chewing, shortly to be followed by the lower half, trousers, boots and all. His knife was flung to the floor in all the confusion.

  People came running from all over the keep to see the reason for the smashing and roaring sounds but halted shakily and afraid at the shattered remains of the door as the golden drakon inside vented her anger. Eventually, Wiley arrived and with him, Vistala. Without further ado she entered the barn.

  “It’s me, Vistala. I can help. You know me. Calm down Zirca.” Keeping up a continual flow of words, Vistala walked to the back of the barn, stepping over the shattered remains of the door. Trag had settled somewhat and was standing over Septican’s slumped body. As Vistala bent over the old man she heard a groan and he sat up, rubbing his head.

  “Someone hit me, hard enough to knock me out. Where’s Trag?”

  “He’s right here Septican, unharmed. Any idea who could have done it?” Vistala gently asked him as he rubbed the back of his head before looking at his hand to see if there was any blood. Thankfully there wasn’t.

  “Trag knows but can’t tell us.” He looked to the diminutive black drakon. “Can you Trag.”

  Trag had been trying to work out a way to communicate with Vistala and Septican for a long time and now, right at this moment, it came to him. He hissed at Vistala and pointed to the dirt floor with his forelimb before ext
ending a single talon and gently inscribing wobbly letters there. H E L M A R. Vistala squealed with delight which caused Zirca to whip her head around and rumble deep in her throat while those crowded at the doorway flinched and stepped back a pace or two. Vistala turned and walked back toward the door. On the way her foot kicked something in the straw. She looked down and saw Helmar’s knife which had been hidden there. Vistala stooped to retrieve it before walking to the doorway to show her father.

  “Helmar came in here. He knocked Septican out. I don’t know what he wanted but here’s his knife. It still has a few of Septican’s grey hairs caught in the handle.”

  Wiley looked around the inside of the barn.

  “Where is Helmar now then? This is definitely his knife and he’d never part with it.”

  “Gone Father. Simply gone. I don’t think I’d question his whereabouts. I doubt if we’ll ever see him again.”

  Vistala looked over her shoulder and fixed her gaze on Zirca. Wiley’s eyes widened as he understood the implication of her measured stare. He turned to those assembled behind him and took command as a Master of the Keep should do at such times.

  “Right, show’s over. Get back to whatever you were doing. I want a couple of you men to repair the doors or make new ones, right now, and don’t go into the barn. Vistala or Septicon will fetch what you need from in there.”

  Wiley looked over his shoulder and saw Septican wobbling toward him slowly.

  “You alright old friend?”

  “I will be. Hope your people take this as a good object lesson. You can’t muck around with drakons, they tend to sudden.”

  Wiley nodded and placing his arm around his friend’s shoulder, assisted him to walk back to the keep.

  Month after month Trag remained in the barn as summer came and went and the weather grew cooler again. He was now feeding himself but still took food from Zirca as there was something in her saliva which made him feel very alive and to grow rapidly. Septican came daily to give Trag instruction in the many disciplines of magic contained in the supply of contraband tomes he’d hidden in the secret compartment in the wagon bed and the young drakon soaked up the lore. He managed to find a bridge to his grandfather’s mind, maybe because they were related, Trag didn’t really know how he did it, and they were able to communicate as if they were conversing. Trag couldn’t yet do the same with Vistala although she came every couple of days with news of the keep and surrounding lands. She worked as she chatted to him, oiling Trag’s hide until his black scales shone. It wasn’t just for vanity; Trag was growing at such a rate that he risked his skin drying and tearing at the stretch points. Thanks to Vistala it never did and lately she’d taken to oiling his wing membranes for him as he patiently stood with his wings outstretched for what seemed like hours. He’d grown so much that Vistala had to stand on a step to reach the top part of his wings.

  Zirca was patient. Trag knew she longed to be out flying, away from the confinement of the barn but she couldn’t risk them being discovered. If Trag was harmed or even killed, the whole exercise would have been pointless. Starting a hive was the reason Zirca had chosen and made herself a mate. Trag. The golden drakon, glowing with health and vitality, took to flying on clear moonlit nights when the two moons shone brightly and the tides were at their maximum. She’d return before daylight tired but refreshed. It was a calculated gamble, as drakons didn’t normally fly at night but it helped reduce her feeling of captivity. In this manner they passed the days, weeks and months until Zirca thought Trag was ready for the next stage.

  Winter was long gone and spring had brought warmth and new growth to the land when Zirca suggested it was time for Trag to learn to fly. In truth, Trag was going stir crazy. With his drakon abilities, he had taken to the magic Septican taught him like a duck to water and among all the minor and lesser magics, he could levitate objects, himself included, with ease but the walls were now closing in. He needed some variety. For the first time in his short life Trag had mobility. He could walk under his own power and didn’t need a cart anymore. For exercise, he walked up and down the barn, now large enough to carry Vistala on his back. She never tired of the game and talked often of being on his back when he flew.

  Wiley’s people became used to Zirca’s comings and goings; the large, shiny golden queen had come to recognise many of them and stopped growling at everyone she saw. The denizens of the castle knew not to approach her or the barn and had started taking pride in the fact they had a resident drakon queen but all of them still respected their vow of silence.

  The day finally came and after Trag had explained what they would need to Septican, the area behind the keep was cleared of people so the drakons could use it. Zirca led Trag around to the clear area and told him he had to learn to glide before he could learn to fly and demonstrated how to do it. She held her wings out straight and speedily ran forward before angling them slightly. This caused her to rise from the ground and glide for a short distance. Trag thought it looked easy and copied her. It wasn’t. His wings weren’t pitched identically and once in the air he slewed sideways and bounced off the ground. He repeated his efforts a few more times with the same results. Nothing was injured other than his pride, as his scales had hardened long ago and were almost impervious to damage but the exercise was harder than it looked. Undeterred he tried yet again and this time managed a short distance before he tipped over. Wings, legs, tail there was so much more of him to manage than he ever had to manage before in his crippled body.

  “Feel the air, Trag.” Zirca said to him. “It passes over your wings like thin water. You can push against it and steer through it. You’re a drakon now and your drakon body knows what to do. Allow it to.”

  Trag thought of using magic to help but that would be cheating so he tried again. And again and then some more. It was wonderful to be outside in the sunshine. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed the outdoors and just how much he’d grown tired of the inside of the barn. It made him realise what Zirca had given up to turn him, Trag, into her drakon mate. It made him glow with pride to think that out of all the available people in the land, she’d chosen him. He’d stopped thinking about what he was doing for a moment and suddenly found himself gliding easily above the ground before immediately crashing but he had it now. Soon he was galloping up the steps to the walkway at the top of the walls and leaping off to glide and turn and spiral in the air making odd huffing noises, the drakon equivalent of joyful laughter.

  He would have loved to have flown but Zirca expressly forbade him to. His wings were not yet strong enough, he would need more gliding practice first. He got it. Every two or three days for the next couple of weeks, Zirca would take him out to the clear area behind the keep for gliding practice, anxiously keeping watch on the skies above for the appearance of sentinel drakons. She’d relaxed around the castle inhabitants, Trag was now large enough to defend himself and the only danger to the inhabitants of Balfour’s Keep was getting crushed if they got in Zirca’s way and she didn’t see them in time.

  Trag was introduced to death. He was a drakon and drakon’s had to kill their prey. Zirca told him it was time he learned to kill a sheep or a goat. The idea appalled Trag but Zirca made it easier for him. She explained how to secrete poison down his two hollow teeth, thinking of what it was he wanted the poison to do so his body delivered the correct formulation for the task. Trag was surprised to learn there were almost an infinite number of compounds available, all he had to do was think of its purpose and it would be there, ready for his hollow fangs to deliver it. The goat was pushed though the barn door as usual and it stood there, quivering as it smelt musty drakon scent. As well as gliding, Trag had learned speed, which came to his aid for his first kill. Before the goat had fully registered his dark presence in the dim light, a sinuous black neck had struck from the shadows and bitten. The goat gave a single bleat of terror then as Trag watched, it went down on its knees to fall over sideways. Dead. He was amazed at how simple it all was. He’d th
ought he would be unable to kill but his drakon body knew what to do.

  He should really listen to it more often.

  Eating the goat was yet another lesson in how drakon’s functioned. Up until now, all Trag’s meat had been sent ready prepared or given to him by Zirca. Now he learned to rend and tear. His body could ingest any part of an animal, including hoof and hair and digest it with ease. He ate the whole goat, including its innards and was mildly disgusted with himself but at the same time enjoyed the power of being able to tear prey to pieces and the content feeling as his belly filled up.

  The day Trag flew was his finest yet as a drakon. Zirca told him to leap off the wall into his normal glide but this time try swimming through the air with his wings. He and his body understood each other now and within moments Trag found himself airborne. He didn’t have to work at it, all those weeks of gliding had given him strength in his wings and confidence in the air which he put to good use as he flew higher and higher. Zirca warned him against going too high for now and flew beside him. He could feel the glow of satisfaction emanating from her as they flew together. Below, the land looked like a map, with Balfour’s Keep in the centre of a cleared area surrounded by forest. He could see the sparkling blue sea off to the east and the road he and Septicon had travelled on down from the hills when he was just a little crippled boy escaping the Duke’s edict. The two drakons, one large and golden, the other smaller and black as jet flew around one another, diving and swooping with joy. Too soon he grew tired, the muscles which powered his wings becoming weaker with the effort of staying aloft. Zirca instructed him to glide into a landing as he would have plenty of time to learn vertical landings later.

  Vistala ran up to him right after he touched down and reached up to throw her arms around his neck.

  “I’m so proud of you Trag. It’s hard to remember you as the little cripple boy who turned up here over a year ago. You’re so large and handsome now. I know you’ll have to leave eventually but I hope you won’t ever forget me. I won’t forget you.”