Cowboys & Dragons

Part 1

El Dorado

A city of gold. Gold, I tell ye!

- Crazy Pete

Summer 1888, The Inca Kingdoms, Amazonas

The water of the pond was red with blood. It boiled and churned from the fight that was raging on below its surface, creating pink foam that slowly drifted away by the current created by the waterfall. Shock saturated the heavy air. It was fueled by the panic-stricken screams of a soldier who tried to stanch the blood gushing from the stump where his right arm had been. That fellow had been the first to climb the rocks that led to the cascade. He had been careless—and unlucky. The dragon lying in wait behind the veil of falling water had made sure he would remember that for the rest of his life.

"Come on, come on, Az," whispered Eddy, his gilded revolver in hand, scanning the water for any sign of the dragon or his best friend and partner, who, as usual when a wyrm needed killing, had lost no time diving into danger.

In this case, that meant jumping on the dragon's back with nothing but his Bowie knife.

Azrael's gloved hand, holding the knife in a reverse grip, tore through the foaming surface and disappeared just as quickly to be replaced by an equally brief view of a pale reptilian underbelly as the beast desperately rolled in the water to get rid of his attacker.

The soldiers started firing, their bullets whipping the water.

"Stop shooting," shouted Eddy, worried they might hit his partner.

The order was repeated, albeit this time in flawless Spanish, by Marquis Isidro de Orellana, their employer on this ill-begotten adventure. The firing ceased instantly. The Marquis kept his dogs on a tight leash; Eddy at least had to give him that.

The struggle continued—a good sign, Eddy hoped. The beast was small for its kind, barely larger than a horse; it was ugly and wingless, a land hunting variation Eddy had not seen before. It reminded him more of a gargantuan lizard than the winged terrors that ruled the skies. Still, it had proven its deadliness once already, and even though Eddy knew no man more apt in the business of killing than Azrael—and Eddy knew many men in that line of work—he was still worried that his partner would run out of air soon.

A tense minute passed, and then the water took on an even deeper hue as more blood was spilled. Moments later, pink entrails rose toward the surface and floated away like snakes on the escape. The ugly, reptilian head of the dragon surfaced.

"Fuck!" Eddy fired.

In quick succession, Eddy emptied his revolver. He was sure that at least two bullets hit their mark, yet the beast did not move. Suddenly he realized he was the only one firing.

"It's already dead," grunted Azrael, panting heavily. Eddy almost slipped on the wet stones, so surprised was he to hear his partner's voice. Azrael had surfaced a few feet away from him to his left.

"Not bad, Señor Grimes," the Marquis complimented Azrael. "I can see your reputation is well earned."

Azrael looked pleased, though Eddy knew it was not due to the compliment he had just received. Killing dragons always made him happy, and happiness was something seldom seen in the grim bounty killer.

Tall, pale, and as thin as a greyhound, he was clad in soaking wet black garments of sturdy cloth and leather. He carried more weapons than a small armory; two Colts dangled on crossed belts across his hip, and two sawed-off Buffalo rifles loomed from holsters strapped to his back by a pair of ammo belts crossing his chest. Brushing away an intestine that had been caught around his neck, he tucked away his huge knife in the sheath in his boot, the serrated blade looking as hungry as always.