I am Dragon (Dragon Fires Rising Book 2) by Marc Secchia (famous ebook reader TXT) 📕

A Dragon swam in triumphal majesty through the air.

He revelled in the blast coursing over his sensitive wing membranes, in the protective flickering of his narrowed eyelids, in speeding low over the mosses and lichens. Blowing over the end of the plain as if a Bloodworm were chasing him, Dragon focussed his energy into shooting down a long slope, seeking a safer, lower altitude for his passengers.

Even Azania and Yardi bent low over his back.

Battle speed!

Never had he flown like this. His thrusting wings were making a more convoluted action in the air, more a figure of eight than a standard rowing motion, which reduced drag as well as producing power both in the upstroke and downstroke. How was this? A resonant drumbeat of joy pulsed in his Dragon hearts.

Up on his back, a Princess chuckled, Fly, Dragon. Fly! Oh, how he thunders over the mountains!

The wind’s roaring did not drown out her voice?

Somehow, through slipstreaming or angles or something to do with his body position and speed, he heard her as if she were talking right inside his ear canal. Drop! Hurtling over a cliff, he swooped into a rapid descent, realising that Juggernaut’s lair lay not far ahead, and for sheer exultation, he might just crack open his jaw and – a cramp seized his hearts.

My sire!

Blaze the Devastator was present. Whatever was his father doing up at Juggernaut’s lair?

All the old feelings came crashing back into his breast as his poor eyes followed the far sharper lead of his scent senses. The familiar flame-orange dipped over the edge of the crater. Were his brothers with his sire? Not unlikely. His hearts crashed around his paws at the thought. Gone, the joy. Vanished, the beautiful oceanic sounds that had hurtled him across the miles at a speed he could scarcely credit. That was a thirty-mile sprint. Thirty!

He panted hard, not only because of the physical exertion.

A tiny hand patted his scales. “Alright, Dragon?”

“Not so much.”

Yarimda croaked, “That was your sire?”

“Aye, but we must not admit it. I am an outcast, unknown to these Dragons – but known, if that makes sense. It’s easier if we pretend we don’t know each other. I’ll be treated with stiff formality at best. What’s imperative is that we get our message across.”

His voice trailed off as his slack wings took them over the cliff’s edge. Far from being the quiet retreat he had yearned for, Juggernaut’s lair was a busy hub of Dragons hailing from at least seven Clans that he could identify at the tap of a talon. Perhaps more. That was nothing compared to the anxiety of gazing down and seeing his brothers Brand and Brawl strutting their stuff around his sire, greeting the Dragonesses, trying to get wing-touches with Juggernaut – blergh!

Was it wrong to hate his kin so?

Brand the umber, sly and suave. Brawl was the same burnt orange as his sire; as Dragons said, born in the same scales. Together with his sire, they must represent the Devastator Clan at this gathering.

The draconic congregation hushed dramatically at the sight of a shabby, moulting Dragon of considerable size arriving in their airspace with four Humans clinging to him like fleas to a deer’s ears. Four! Jaws creaked, fire spat here and there, and wings quivered with indignation. Best guess? None of these Dragons had ever seen, or even imagined, indignity to compare. His brothers must be livid! Trying to rescue his shattered dignity with a whirl of his wings, Dragon hovered above the training ground, seeking wing space to land.

Then, a bellow reached his ears that almost made him shed his wings in shock. Dragon! How fared the war in T’nagru? Juggernaut thundered. Give us that battle roar I taught you!

Chapter 8: Blergh

GRATITUDE FUSED WITH THE cauldron of nausea churning in his stomach as the import of Juggernaut’s greeting hit him on many levels at once. Brotherhood, acknowledgement and a path to such honour as he could scrape together, delivered in one breath.

Yarimda kicked his neck with her heels. “I’m blocking my ears, young Dragon.”

He wanted to laugh, or weep, he knew not which. The years had taught him to hide his face at moments like this – yet he was changing, becoming something new. Could he believe it?

A ninety-four year old Human woman flew wing guard with him.

Sucking in a deep, ragged breath, he paused – and breathed in a bit more, until his ribs ached. Focus. He had one chance at this. Blitz the Fritz was dead and buried. He was a Dragon who had shot down a Bloodworm, frazzled Jabiz Urdoo in his own juices and carried a matchless Princess upon his back.

III – AAMM – DRRAAGOONN!! His sonorous roar reverberated off the tall grey cliffs of the sinkhole.

Auditory shock! Brand and Brawl smacked together and tangled wings, while many of the other Dragons reacted by assuming instinctual defensive postures and emitted involuntary spurts of fire. Using the space created by the reeling group, he landed gracefully – for once – and strolled over to greet the orange-black warrior Dragon.

Master. Apologies for the intrusion.

No, Dragon. I am glad you came, said he, touching wingtips as if they were old friends. Will you light our understanding with your testimony?

We shall. We flew directly from T’nagru, as you suspected. N’ginta is safe, but a far greater danger lurks in the desert.

Turning, Juggernaut offered a courteous paw first to Yarimda, but seeing she had already alighted and was trying to arrange her rickety knees beneath her with Inzashu’s help, he lifted the paw high instead. “Princess? Honoured guests? This way, please.”

Master politician. Dragon could only shake his head and take notes.

Remembering his manners, he introduced his group to the master warrior, from oldest to youngest following the draconic tradition.