He swung Princess Azania back up into his paw. “Sure you’re alright?”
“Just a spot of blood.”
Surely he was the one who pretended bravado with the worst possible timing? Reaching over with his free paw, he carefully put pressure on the puncture wound with a pinch of his talons.
“Thanks, Dragon.”
“Contrary to popular belief, I do prefer my captive Princesses alive.”
“You’re never going to let that one go, are you?”
“No, I’m never letting you go,” he blustered, making her chuckle at the blatant misinterpretation. Dragon kin! Brothers and sisters! Help me clean up these Skartun scum! Target any men on the ground and wipe them out!
The carrion birds would feast this day.
* * * *
Slipping down her trousers, the Princess cleaned her new wound with water from her gourd and then bound it firmly using strips of material provided by Dragon. Skartun cloaks. Given his Princess-sharpened talons, creating bandages these days posed no problem at all.
Halfway through, he said, “Well, at least that Skartunese warrior over there got his dying wish.”
“What? Who?” she muttered, yanking a knot tight.
“He saw the Black Rose of the Desert in her underclothes.”
“Dragon, he’s dead.”
“Almost,” groaned the man. He was only four feet away, and in bad shape.
“See? Although, how anyone can be attracted to these twigs you call legs, is quite beyond this Dragon. Is this attractive, man?” He waved a paw illustratively.
Either it was the heat or the pain of his burn wounds, but the warrior’s eyes glazed over as he peered at the Princess.
She sniffed, “Oh, if I must. O warrior of Skartun, how do you keep cool during the desert crossing?”
“Not … telling.”
Azania primped her hair and did some sort of wriggle with her hips that he assumed must be suggestive. Now, if Ariamyrielle Seaspray had done that with her haunches …
“I’d really like to know,” she cooed.
The dusky Princess had turned a whole slew of knights, men-at-arms and rapscallions into her slaves with just such a glance. Not for nought was she said to be the most beautiful woman in the seventeen realms. True to form – and to the watching Dragon’s disgust – the man’s brains promptly evaporated, or some effect close enough to be indistinguishable.
“We carry coldstones,” he groaned, “green gems imbued with the power to – ahk!”
With a ghastly splutter, he passed into the afterlife. Azania glared at the man as if he had personally disappointed her.
Dragon said, “He’s dead, you can stop teasing him.”
Squirming back into her tight leather trousers, the Princess patted her good thigh and said, “Ever seen more powerful twigs than these?”
He shook his head. “Male Humans are idiots.”
“And male Dragons are not?”
“Obviously.”
“Doth mine ears hearken to the intellect-stealing, musical strains of sea spray?”
“Be quiet, woman.”
She pressed, “Sing you an aria?”
Gnarrr-Princess-kebabs!
“Just repeat after me, ‘Women are always right.’ ”
“Don’t push your luck, titch. Are you sure that leg’s alright?”
She eyed the blood already seeping through the pad of bandages. “No, not really. Want to cut up a few more cloaks for me?”
While his back was turned, his brave Rider face-planted in the desert sand of her native kingdom. Dragon rushed to her side with an aggrieved bellow. Aye, check one for the bravado. Gently, he tried to wipe her face clean of sand. He bathed her eyes and lips as best he could from her water gourd, alert to the fact that he should keep plenty aside for the trek back to N’ginta Citadel.
Humans. So frail.
What did that matter? He knew about being different. Why could he not simply apply that to a species most Dragons regarded as fleas, lice and cockroaches?
Because it was true of some? He could point to a few rather unsavoury Dragons, his own dam and two brothers being foremost among them. By his wings, such were the complications of family – as Azania knew all too well for herself.
If they walked fast enough, they would return in time for her eldest brother’s coronation at noon. King N’gala had not survived the treachery of a woman of Skartun, the enchantress Nahritu-N’shula, who had brought him low through her unusual magical gifts. She was also the mother of Princess Azania’s younger half-sister, Inzashu-N’shula.
The Psyromantic Mage had vanished into the desert, or within the citadel. No-one knew where she was, although the search was on.
Marshalling the Dragon thralls with a bellowed command, Dragon had them quickly hunt for as many of the green stones as had survived his fires. If a creature were honest, he would admit to being a touch shocked by the power at his command. His throat hurt worse than ever, and he wore six javelins and more arrows than he could count in various places around his body, but – oh, why not a little swaggering? He was a victorious Dragon once more. His legend grew!
Along with the ego, Azania would be quick to point out.
Big creature. Big ego, right?
Dragon and his six taciturn escorts backtracked for four hours before being met by an eager patrol from N’ginta Citadel. By then, Azania had recovered from dangling over his paw like an overused dishrag, to the relief of everyone.
The patrol leader saluted smartly. “Sir, the royal family awaits you both for the coronation ceremony just as soon as you are able. What can you tell us about the Skartun remnant?”
He briefed the man, meantime pleasantly picturing which body part he ought to surrender for calling a Dragon ‘sir.’ A foot?
