Robin Hobb - Blood of Dragons

It was perfect. Vengeance, beauty, long life and wealth were all within his reach. All he had to do was master the dragon and transfer its loyalty from Davvie to himself.

The dragon had come very close now. He was quite a stunning creature, really. Extraordinary. What was it like to own a dragon? Sedric had one, as did his primitive friend. Even the little pink girl with the gold scaling had a dragon. How hard could it be to master one if someone like Sedric had done it?

The dragon’s eyes spun like whirlpools, gleaming swirls of deepest blue mixed with black. Hest imagined himself dressed in black and silver, astride the creature. A black saddle and bridle, trimmed in silver and blue. They would alight in the centre of the main market in Bingtown, mid-morning when the trade was thickest. He imagined how people would point and shout as they looked up at him on his circling dragon. They would scatter before him as he swooped down to alight in the centre of the market. ‘All eyes will be on me,’ Hest murmured, entranced by his vision. He reached out to touch the dragon’s muzzle.

It swung its head aside from his touch. That wouldn’t do. ‘Dragon, stand still when I reach for you.’ Dragon? That wouldn’t do. Evidently Davvie had neglected to give his animal a name to answer to. Hest would correct that right now. ‘I will give you a name, now, a special name to show you are mine.’ Easy enough. No harder than naming a horse or dog. ‘Your name is Blue Glory now. Blue Glory. Do you understand, dragon? You’re mine now, not Davvie’s, and you have to learn to obey me. So when I call you Blue Glory, you should come to me. And stand still when I reach to touch you.’ Hest spoke simply and firmly, dominating the animal with his stance and stare. He radiated confidence and command as again he reached out a hand to rest it on the dragon’s muzzle.

The animal’s eyes were spinning more rapidly. Deep gold sparks seemed to ride the whirlpool of blue and black.

‘That’s better, Blue Glory. The sooner we understand each other, the easier this will be.’

Just as his fingertips brushed the animal’s scaling, the dragon swung his head aside, lifting his head high and looking down on Hest. ‘I understand you, human. And I think I will give you a special name, too.’ The words rode a low rumble of sound from the beast.

Extraordinary. But an excellent sign of how swiftly they were bonding. Hest smiled at his dragon. ‘Shall I help you, Blue Glory? You could call me Glory’s Master. Or Silver Rider.’

The dragon still looked down on him, considering each name carefully. His eyes spun faster and faster. ‘No. I think not,’ he said, and amusement shimmered in the rumbling voice. ‘I think I will name you “Meat”.’

Then the creature turned his head sideways, his jaws opened wide and the gleaming teeth and brilliantly coloured maw came at Hest, swift as a serpent’s strike. Hest leapt back, shouting in anger and fear, but the trumpeting of dragons outside swelled loud. Hest spun and dived for the steaming bath. The dragon snapped after him and he felt a sharp tug at his leg before he fell free into the water. It had barely missed him.

The water was hot, almost scalding. Hest fought his way to the surface, spluttering and shuddering. He shook water from his eyes, snorted it out of his nose and looked up to see the dragon standing at the edge of the pool. ‘I do like you,’ the creature said, and there was no mistaking the amusement in its voice. ‘You’re delicious.’

Hest drew a deep breath and prepared to dive beneath the steaming water. In one awful moment he glimpsed the red swirls in the water around him and grasped their significance. The dragon had not missed him. His leg was bleeding badly.

No.

His leg was gone.

He screamed then in the full horror of what had befallen him. Hest with one leg? Hest a pathetic cripple that others would mock? ‘NO!’ he shouted.

‘Yes,’ rumbled Blue Glory.

The open jaws closed on him, and his last scream was engulfed in the scarlet and yellow cavern of the dragon’s maw.

Day the 16th of the Plough Moon

Year the 7th of the Independent Alliance of Traders

To Reyall, Keeper of the Birds, Bingtown

From Erek Dunwarrow and Detozi, Keeper of the Birds, Trehaug

Reyall, it may soon be that the Masters of the Birds in Bingtown will request you to bring to them all my breeding records, including my side notes and nicknames for the birds, for an intense inspection and review. Please do not be alarmed. I wish you to be completely forthcoming with them, and have complete confidence that I do not have anything I wish to hide.

We wish we could tell you more at this time, but we cannot. This note will be delivered to you by one or more Masters of the Guild. Please take no alarm from this.

Truly, all is well, and will soon, we hope, be even better as a cloud of doubt that has hung over the Bird Keepers’ Guild is dispelled.

Have faith in us.

Erek

Thymara peered at the black dragon, trying to discern what was wrong with him. She took a half-step forward, and Tats seized her upper arm and drew her back. ‘He’s mad with pain.’ Tats said apologetically, ‘He isn’t one of ours, Thym. He might do anything.’

The battered black dragon threw back his head and roared again. The insides of his mouth and throat were bright green with red streaks. When he dropped his head, a red froth dripped from his mouth to sizzle on the paving stones. He stared around at all the gathered folk, his eyes swirling madly. Thymara could not tell if the sounds he was making indicated pain or whether he was threatening anyone who came near. He had not uttered a word that she understood. His half-folded wings were ragged and rent. Some of the tears looked old, but there were recent ones as well. He looked both healthy and yet battered. He lifted his head and roared again. Then he curled his head in and down and swung it from side to side.

‘Can’t we help him?’ Thymara spoke the words but didn’t step forward again. When the dragons sounded the alarm, their keepers had come running from all directions. Thymara had thought Mercor and the other drakes would drive the black intruder away, but they had let him land.

‘IceFyre.’ Sintara had confirmed for her when she had reached toward her queen. ‘Stay clear of him. I think he’s mad.’

All the keepers had gathered to stare at the oldest dragon in the world but they had halted at a sensible distance. Mercor, Sestican and Sintara were on the ground. Even they had not approached within striking distance of the black. The others circled overhead in a whirlwind of colours and wings. The keepers exchanged looks but no one approached him.

And into the midst of the chaos came Heeby and Rapskal, dropping through the circling dragons like a dumpling falling into soup. The red dragon landed ungracefully and her rider slid from her shoulder.

Tats gave a distressed groan.

‘What is he thinking?’ Thymara demanded of no one. Since their night in the well, she’d kept Rapskal at arm’s length. There had been moments, during a meal or a shared task, when he’d seemed to be his old self, and her heart had yearned for them to be friends as they’d once been. But then there were the moments when he seemed completely foreign to her, calling for death by dragon for the prisoners. Or, as now, dropping down into their midst in extravagant and fanciful dress. Rapskal had put a heavy shaft to one of the spear-heads he’d found in the old armoury and he brandished it aloft as he walked in a slow circle around the black dragon. The scale armour he wore over his Elderling tunic and trousers shifted as he walked, and it seemed to Thymara that he deliberately rocked his hips to encourage the movement. It was effective. The sunlight caught and bounced off it, making him gleam black and gold. Heeby wore a matching harness. A water-skin hung from it, and something that was perhaps a horn. Thymara could not identify the rest of the items that dangled from it. The red dragon jingled as she pranced to follow Rapskal, well pleased with herself.