the Grand Master's Dragon

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. They appeared in the last century, with the return of the elders. The pilgrimage of both parties to our little village wasn’t unexpected, either. Their arrival on the second of June was foretold by our resident soothsayer. What was unexpected was the appearance of the Grand Master. He arrived in the early morning, on the back of a large, green, Armored Striker. The boy and his mount were both cloaked in thick black chainmail that swished at the dragon’s large scaly feet. When the garments were finally removed—with the help of several giants—the Master was finally revealed. He was dark-haired. Skinny like a corpse, with red glowing eyes. And to our great amazement, he was not a man. He was a boy.

In the vast forest outside of our village, my friend and I pick raspberries and recount all the details we can muster from the arrival of our strange visitor this morning. My hands curl around a particularly lush berry and I pop it into my mouth when my friend isn’t looking. Red juice leaks over my lips and I cover the evidence with my palm, feigning deep thought. But Harcourt isn’t looking. He is too invested in the details of the boy and his dragon to pay much mind to me.

Curly red hair drops over tight blue eyes. Harcourt’s hands joust in animation. “I’m telling you, Rain, it was at least ten feet longer than the books said. Do you think they feed it something special? Was the creature chosen by the last Grand Master also unnaturally large?”

“I’m not sure.” I can’t remember. My grandfather spoke about it briefly when I was still a child, but the specifics are lost to me. What I do remember is that the Grand Master was a man, not a boy. This fact unsettles me, as it should unsettle my friend. But Harcourt has always been more invested in beasts than in people. He was the first and only volunteer to assist with the Stryker. The dragon will need fed and watered, and his scales will need scrubbed. It is not a job I wish to take on—grooming a fire-breathing reptile.

I steer our conversation to the boy. “What did you think of the Grand Master?” My voice is innocuous—not betraying the fear growing deep inside.

“He’s young, you know, obviously.” Harcourt smiles, showing long, crooked teeth. “But it does give one hope, doesn’t it? For us? If a boy can become a Master, then maybe a kid from the Dregs can make something of himself, too.”

My heart warms toward my friend. His candor is what drew me to him and what cemented our friendship long ago. People in the Dregs don’t say what they really mean. Not usually. Sentences are crafted carefully, so that the words can’t be used against the speaker later. It’s how the whole village operates. Everyone knows everyone else superficially. But true strengths and weaknesses we keep hidden. We have to, if we want to survive.

Harcourt has come close to discovering my weaknesses several times. It’s the downside of our friendship. But I suppose that some risk in life is unavoidable. And I do my best to keep him in the dark.

“Do you think he’s qualified?” I’m thinking again to the boy. “I mean, the prophesies say he will have to—”

I’m relieved when Harcourt cuts me off. I would prefer not to voice the Master’s dark fortune. “Yes, I know.” Curly red hair falls further over my friend’s eyes as he plucks several raspberries from the vines. “But if he was chosen, then he has what it takes. The prodigies train from the moment they can walk. He’s got a good decade and a half under his belt.”

I don’t say it, but the Master before him had three times that amount. Shrugging, I do my best to shake out the shiver of fear building in my stomach. If he’s too young, if he’s too inexperienced, he might not be able to…

“Done for the day?” Harcourt asks, his basket overflowing with fruit and his hands stained red.

I look to the vines and back down to my own basket, not nearly as full as my friend’s.

Though there will be repercussions for this choice later, I nod to him. “Yeah,” I assent. “Time to call it.”

---

Sky, the oldest of my brothers, is the first to spot my shortcomings at the market. He has a keen eye for details, especially as they relate to money.

“We’ve had plenty of rain this week. The bushes should have been full. Where’s the rest of your basket?” His dark brown eyes—just a tad lighter than mine—search me for an answer.

“Take it out of my allowance,” I answer, plopping the basket on the scale next to other fruits and vegetables that the family has scavenged. We only have a small plot of land at home—just enough room for a few tomato bushes, so we get the rest of our goods by foraging or trading. My sister, Flower, draws the most customers with her tomato pie. The dish doesn’t sound appetizing, but it is. Flower is by far the most talented and the kindest of all the children in the household. She puts a hand on Sky’s shoulder. My brother glares at me but says nothing more.

As the morning wears on, we sell two pies, half of my basket of berries, and three small onions. My brother pockets each dollar and coin with a half-smile. The attempt at a smile is for the customers. Underneath it, he is grimacing. With the arrival of our recent visitor, we had expected a larger turnout to market. The upper-class lives in Whitehall, a few miles outside of Dregs, with the market halfway in the middle of both. Whitehall should be celebrating—preparing for the Grand Master’s visit there in a few short days. But we are seeing the same amount of customers as we always have. Maybe even less.

“Go talk to Grant,” whispers my brother, out of the corner of his teeth, as yet another customer walks by without buying anything.

“Why don’t you go talk to him?” I retort, my voice far too loud. A woman with shiny silver bracelets scowls at me over our tomato pies, then continues walking.

“You owe us,” says Sky, his face falling as he watches the woman glide past.

I can’t argue with this logic, so I look myself over and set off for the tent at the far end of the market. After retying my shoelaces twice, and flattening the cuffs of my sleeve, I find myself acceptable enough and pull aside the flaps.

Inside the tent, gadgets, tools, jewelry, and other miscellaneous items are strewn across long tables. There are no price tags. I tuck in my arms so that I don’t accidentally brush up against anything as I pass. A beautiful jade necklace carved into the shape of a dragon’s claw catches my eye. I feel like I have seen it once before, on the neck of a man that bought strawberries from us last week. I remember because I had eyed it as the man passed over his payment. It was a family heirloom, the man had told me proudly. Quickly, I avert my eyes, and try to forget that which I have remembered.

“Raindrop!” a booming voice yells. A large hand paws across my back.

“Rain,” I correct him, jostling my shoulders to try and subtly brush him off. His thick arm does not budge.

“Naw, I don’t think so,” says Rubin Grant, looking upward, as if seeing the sky through the top of the tent. “Clear skies all day.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

Rubin’s arm pulls me tighter. “Saw you lookin’ at that beauty over there,” he says, gesturing at the jade necklace. “’Bit out of your price range, unfortunately, but I’m always willing to make a deal that suits both parties. Got something to trade for it?” He looks me over, and his fingers find a button I must have forgotten to snap.

This time, I resist the urge to slap his hands away.

“Probably not,” he says, answering his own question. “But I could always use another seller,” he continues. “I’d give you the necklace for a month’s worth of work. It’s a good business. Lots of perks. You get a fourth of anything you sell.”

I know Rubin’s game. He has at least three “sellers” employed at this very moment. I’ve seen them sneaking around the market.

“I’m not here for that,” I tell him, my patience finally snapping. “My brother needs to know where all the Whitehall buyers have gone to.”

“Ah, well, information is like an object, isn’t it?” he says, picking up a hammer from the table beside us. “It has it’s uses. And thus, it has its price, too.”

“You want me to pay you for an answer to a question?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Or we could make a trade. I give you the answer to your question, and you give me the answer to mine.” Rubin’s eyes grow larger. His meaty hand grips his overgrown brown beard. “Tell me about the Armored Striker,” he says. The clouds of grey growing in his eyes make his face appear dark and gaunt, like a shadow is rearing up within him.

“You saw him, didn’t you?” I ask. We were all there when the boy and his dragon arrived, weren’t we? Had Rubin somehow missed his arrival?

“Your redheaded friend will be tending to the beast. I saw him volunteer. I would have done the same but…” His eyes grow glassy, then refocus. “Go with him when he goes to groom it tonight. Come back and tell me what you see, and I will tell you where your wealthy customers have gone, and how you can get them back.”

I weigh the request in my mind. Harcourt wanted to see the dragon up close, not me. I’ve read too much about the creature’s unpredictable nature to be assured that such a venture would be safe, and from the looks of it, Rubin feels the same. On the other hand, the elders would not have chosen a teenager for the task if they found it too dangerous, would they?

Rubin throws his arm over me yet again. I want to tell him no, for the simple pleasure of watching him be denied. Most people in the Dregs cannot be trusted--Rubin the worst of them all---and yet, somehow, he always seems to get what he wants. I despise contributing to that cycle. But I also know that my family is struggling, and I have an obligation to help.

Offering my hand to Rubin, we shake on our deal. At the same time, I silently send up a prayer. I hope Harcourt is more prepared for tonight than I am.

---

Harcourt meets me in the woods outside his apartment. We could have met at his place, but both of us find the space too cramped. We prefer the openness of the woods, and the solitude. I remember when we met out here, several years ago, both of us wandering out alone at night, foraging for food. I was weary of him, at first. He was another body to scare away the deer I enjoyed watching. Even worse, he was another mouth to pick the berry and vegetable patches I had claimed for myself.

But he won me over. Slowly. One day at a time.

He would find me each day and start telling me stories, as if he had known me forever. Even when I refused to acknowledge him, he would trot alongside me, commenting and responding to himself. Before long, I wasn’t just listening to his stories, I was a part of them.

As is expected, Harcourt can hardly keep his mouth shut. The night drags on in front of us as I nod along to his detailed description of the Armored Stryker--aptly named for its long arms and scales as thick and as hard as iron. He talks about other breeds of dragons, and other creatures, too. Serpents, golems, and griffins. Any one of them could have been the Master’s chosen creature, but Harcourt is especially glad that he chose a dragon.

At a mouth of a wide, black cave, we stop. Several houses high and wide, it’s the perfect place to host a fire-breathing beast. The dark, damp cavern walls cool the reptile’s naturally high body temperature, and the enclosed space allows intruders to enter from only one side, so the dragon can sleep relatively peacefully, without the need to always be on guard.

Above us, I spot runes carved into the cavern ceiling—handiwork of the giants. They made this cave at the turn of the century, when the newest vein of magic opened up, birthing the revival of the dragons and the demons.

I shiver.

There is no need to fear, I remind myself, bargaining with the familiar sense of dread creeping up within me. That is why the newest Grand Master is here.

Skimming the cavern walls with my fingers, I let the cool surface calm my nerves as we walk deeper into the dark tunnel. A loud rumbling greets our ears as we finally reach the inner depth of the cave and its inhabitant.

Chained to the back of the cave, the Stryker sits, its long tail curled up over it’s back and it’s wings flat against its sides. Even in this calm position, it is intimidating. Giant grey claws glint at the end of large, wide feet. Two slitted, red eyes follow us around the space, never blinking.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” says Harcourt, staring up at her lovingly, as if she were a dog, or a kitten. Not a creature that could tear him limb to limb in one swift motion.

“Sure,” I say, braving a few steps closer as well. Rubin had implied that I would see something special on this dragon. Some detail that I would need to report back to him. But she seems exactly as the books described, down to the swampy-green hue of her belly.

“You’re impressed,” a voice that is neither mine nor Harcourts echoes around us. It is crackling and deep, almost harshly so, as if the speaker’s vocal range has dropped an octave below what is natural.

At first, all I see are his eyes. Red and narrowed, like the dragon’s. Then his body comes into view. In the dim light, he is ghastly-looking. Tall and gaunt, with high, chiseled cheekbones, the boy stares at us. The Grand Master who is destined to save us all.

“She’s impressive, isn’t she?” the Master says again.

“Absolutely!” says Harcourt, still gazing at the dragon.

The Master’s red eyes gauge into me. Uncomfortable, I look away.

“Yes,” I concede, moving my eyes over to her. She lifts a foot and places it back down again, as if she, too, is rattled by the Master’s presence. The earth shakes and the reverberations knock my knees together.

The Master’s eyes, still on me, compel me to speak. If I ask a question, maybe I can encourage him to look elsewhere.

“How are we to groom her?”

“Why, is the better question, isn’t it?” the Master retorts, challengingly.

“The Grand Master cannot groom his chosen creature himself, for he will risk disrupting the delicate power balance between the two parties.” Harcourt recites, as if reading directly from a book. “Grooming is a domestic gesture. It implies a bond. But there should be no bond between the Master and his creature. The creature is to be controlled, not tamed. It will need its untethered nature for the battles ahead.”

I risk a look at the Master and find him wincing. Harcourt, unsurprisingly, doesn’t notice. “Fighting machines, dragons are,” Harcourt states plainly, his voice returning to normal. “It’s the choice I would have made as well, if I were you.”

The Master’s eyes glow a deeper shade of red.

“Unfortunate that you can’t have at least one companion, though. It must be lonely. Doing what you do. Killing demons. And then, in the end… sacrificing yourself to seal their magic back into the earth... It’s bad luck, man, I’m sorry.”

I hadn’t expected Harcourt to go there. My head fills so fast with embarrassment and shock that I can hardly stay standing. I know my friend to be blunt and naïve, but there is no excuse for the words he just spoke. Not only is it improper to speak of the ill-fate of any soul, it is especially unkind, given the circumstances.

The Master’s eyes burn so brightly that the once-dark space is becoming lighter by their glow.

“You feel sorry for me, do you?” he asks, a cruel edge in his tone.

Harcourt, finally rousing some common-sense, starts backtracking. “I just meant that it must be hard. You can’t even do something nice for the creature that fights alongside you.”

“You think I should try to be friends with the beast? That is your suggestion?” Again, his tone is sharp, cutting.

“No, I mean, obviously you can’t. You shouldn’t,” Harcourt stutters.

“Let me show you what happens if I try to groom her,” the Master responds, ignoring the look of fear plastered to my friend’s face.

Clicking his tongue, the Master walks over to the dragon’s coiled form. Her pointed ears flatten. In the large shadow she casts, it is even clearer that the Master is only a boy. His short arms reach upward towards her belly and she pulls back, chains groaning against the effort.

When the boy’s fingers connect with dragon, she snarls, then relaxes, momentarily. Shifting her weight, she offers her back to the boy.

But when the boy moves his hand further up her belly, she snuffles and extends her claws. A plume of black smoke barrels out of her nose.

“She doesn’t seem to like that,” Harcourt warns, his eyes wide.

The boy’s hands begin stroking. “No, she doesn’t,” he responds, his voice dropping even lower. “Kindness is not meant for us. Me or the beast. We are killing machines. We kill and we destroy. It is what we were born for. What we are destined to do. We rebel against kindness.”

His tone is biting.

The dragon moves her head closer and closer to her Master. He is standing in the crook of her neck, now, two large red eyes and two small ones near to one another. Still, the boy’s hands move over her as she curls herself around him.

A long, silvery tongue slithers out of the dragon’s mouth. That is not the correct color, I think, recognizing how odd it is that this would be the moment that I would find out what Rubin was looking for. Stryker’s tongues are usually blue. A shaving from that tongue would be worth a mint if sold to the right buyer.

The Master locks eyes with me. His hand moves from the beast’s belly to the tip of her nose.

Harcourt’s head shakes violently. “You shouldn’t—"

The boy leverages his fingers deep into the dragon’s nostrils, knuckles going white with the effort. As she opens her mouth, the boy smiles.

It is a smile that will haunt me for years to come.

In one fluid, fast motion, the dragon snaps her jaws into him.

And then, there is just one set of glowing red eyes.

In front of me, the boy’s body hangs limp and motionless. If not for the blood seeping from the thin frame, I could be convinced that a skeleton was sleeping in the beast’s mouth.

The dragon turns to Harcourt, who is screaming. I can’t hear him. My ears refuse to function.

As the dragon lets out a fiery breath, flames slowly lick around the Master’s body and the skin starts peeling off in layers.

Harcourt screams again, but still, I hear nothing. My whole body is cold, unhearing, unmoving, as if ice has formed around me and locked me in an impenetrable, immovable embrace.

Closer and closer the dragon walks to my friend, until she is directly in front of him. Harcourt seems to be locked in the same cold grip as me. He, too, stands without moving. The dragon’s large, glowing red eyes rest even with his shoulders.

Hanging out of the side of the dragon’s mouth, one of the Master’s legs is still burning, the remains having not yet been turned to ash. It is bumpy and black, reminding me of a scorched log, sizzling in a fire. I picture Harcourt’s legs laid out in a similar fashion alongside it.

Something snaps in me and I run, launching myself toward Harcourt. When we collide, the force sends him tumbling across the cavern floor and into a shallow pool of water. Mercifully, the water awakens him from his stupor and he begins to backs away, arms cradled over his head.

Turning to me, the beast lets out a screech. My heart beats in my ears. This is not how I thought I would die, I hear myself narrating. The silver tongue flicks in and out. I recall from our readings at school that this is how they smell, through their tongue. I wonder if I smell good to her. If I smell like the Master smelled. Like something irksome and worth devouring.

The tongue flicks over me and I close my eyes, doing my best to embrace death. If I am going to die, I decide to do it with poise. With acceptance. With peace.

A slimy weight presses against my eyes. Hissing fills my ears.

I say a final goodbye in my head and then I observe my final moments as a scientist would, all emotionality removed. At any moment, my world will go black. My heart will cease its beating.

Any moment.

But there is nothing.

Still, my heart beats rapidly.

And eventually, it calms.

I open my eyes. Everything is masked in a hazy red glow.

The dragon has lain down in front of me, scales flat, as if resting. Harcourt, several feet from where I had thrown him, gazes at me with an open mouth.

“Your…your face…”

My hands find my cheeks. Was I bit? Did the dragon bite me? My hands look to be lit by a red light. When I move them away from me, the color lessens in them slightly.

I spin around, confused, but the red glow follows. It lands brightest on objects nearer to me, and darkest on those further away.

I take a few steps toward my friend, who flinches. The closer I get to him, the deeper he cringes. Am I disfigured?

My feet splash in the puddle I had pushed Harcourt into just minutes ago. Or was it merely seconds? I couldn’t tell.

As the water soaks into my pants, I take a reflexive look down.

Stupefied, I can only choke out a gasp.

The red haze at the edges of my vision… the red glow that follows me... it makes sense.

It shouldn’t, but it does.

Staring back at me are two red, pinched, glowing eyes.

I am the source of that red light.

The red glow is coming from inside of me.