Wings of Fire: Dragonbite

Vapor in the Air

The world went grey around the edges. His stomach twisted into a thousand knots and his scales shifted green-white-green before he finally got control of himself.

I have too many enemies. Dragonbite has too many enemies. His mind flashed back to his abandoned stash of knives, so many miles away, buried where no one would ever touch them. Even he wouldn't be able to find them in the ever changing landscape of the delta. He'd meant it to be permanent. He'd never thought that someone would be able to find him.

And I'll pay for it with my life if I don't act quickly. His mind fell back into the patterns of a life half-forgotten. Hiis identity warped back to an older, crueler mold.

Dragonbite straightened, scales turning to Skywing red, and prowled out of the room. The crowd was nothing but vapor in the air. The hissing voice of his enemy less than that.

No, not enemy . . . Target. A twisted grimace of a smile decorated his dark red face. His tail, curled around the sharp barb, swished side to side like a cobra's dance. His rumbling laugh sent the few dragonets in the halls fleeing, scrolls left haphazardly in his path.

It feels good to be fighting again.

It's good to be dangerous.

***

Dragonbite came into the art room like a storm of fury and venom. It was empty, or nearly so, and shadows cast by the low sun gave the sculptures of twisted wire and glass an ominous look. Fragments of red and gold light danced across his scales. The whisper of wind creaking through ropes on the ceiling resurrected memories of the gallows.

And what fine memories those were. There's nothing as satisfying as the sight of your rivals swinging, Dragonbite mused to himself as he stripped the room of anything sharp enough to kill. Well, nothing but the knowledge that you were skillful enough to escape the same trap that caught them. He took the razors and glass-cutters first, then collected the awls and clay working tools. A few strips of leather caught his eye.

Just what I need. Dragonbite smiled as he tied the blades to his forearms, legs, and tail. In another moment he crafted a harness for his back. The familiar weight calmed him, helped to settle his mind. It made it easier to think. If only I had my knives - my real knives. He bounced a crafting razor in one hand, rolling its round handle across his talons so the blade flashed silver and white. It was a far cry from the blackened, twice folded steel he was familiar with, and not half as sharp as his bone-mounted obsidian blades, but it would have to do.

Or will it . . .Doesn't the school have an armory?  It was that sort of contradiction that made Dragonbite hate the school, even though Boto had learned to love it. Dragonbite saw only the protection it gave as a disguise, and the fact that these peace-loving 'teachers' had a room of weapons somewhere . . . He shook his tail out, spike ringing against the stone floor. They preach peace and unity, but even the famed 'Dragonets of Destiny' don't feel safe without a couple of blades hidden. They promise safety and then let trained assassins into the heart of their school.  

Three moons, I wish I knew who my enemy is. 

Dragonbite scanned the room one last time, then raced to the armory. A single chest, fragile from dry-rot and bound with rusting iron, only accentuated how empty the room was. But the school's only a couple of months old! Did they get it old on purpose?? With an almost unnecessary twist of his claws in the lock, he sprung it open. A pitiful clawful of weapons looked back morosely as if they were ashamed of their existence. He certainly was. 

Then he saw the glint of something dark and cruel at the bottom of the pile. His heart raced as he shook the rusted blades aside and saw . . . 

"Oh, you're beautiful," he whispered to the dagger, cradling it gently between his claws. The double-sided blade was made of folded steel and edges with obsidian at one end. Its hilt was hard dark wood, wrapped in a death-white ribbon and patterned like dragon's scales. Its balance was perfect.

He slipped the dagger into the sheathe on his left arm, and moved the bag of razors to his back. The weight settled coolly against his scales and balanced him.  He could already picture the look on his target's face when he finally won.

He walked back to the school's entrance with a confident swagger, scales shifting to dusty yellow. Dragonbite could almost feel the heavy black diamonds that ran down his neck. The pattern was still as familiar as breathing after all this time. 

"Somebody was looking for me?" he called out with a cocky grin. For a moment the room fell silent.

Then the screams began. 

Every Sandwing in the room shrieked his name, and the ones who didn't faint ran from the room at the head of an already panick driven mob. Well, every Sandwing but one. Dragonbite looked down at his target with a mild smile. She's tiny. Looks tough as nails, but three moons, she's tiny. Her scales were an even orange-yellow, the exact color of the southern sands. Her eyes were blacker than his, and seemed to absorb all the light of the world. Her knives - if the hilts were any guide - were the finest blades this side of the mountains, and worth a queen's ransom. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't jealous.

"Dragonbite," the Sandwing hissed. Her voice was a nest of vipers.

He smiled. "Well, you found me. I guess you aren't afraid of ghosts then, are you, darling?"

"Don't mock me, you worm-eaten carcass. You know why I'm here."

"Oh, do I? I have several ideas, but truth be told I don't have a clue who you are."

A look of utter surprise danced across her face, and Dragonbite allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. It's always nice to see them stumble. 

Then silver flashed through the air and he realized that his target might not be such an easy victim after all. He dodged to the side, throwing a shower of razors, and laughed as the smell of blood filled the air.

It's good to be back.