Boss, how do we get ourselves into spots like this?

The dragontamer stood, shirtless, at the bottom of a pit that was twice as deep as he was tall. Two native men—Uupohna—were with him. All three of them had shovels, and they had spent the last two days digging this pit, filling buckets with earth and sand and stones. When a bucket was full, one of the men would tug on the rope, tied to the handle of the bucket, which went up to the top of the pit, where more Uupohna slaves waited. They would haul up the buckets, empty them, and lower them back into the pit. Since the night that the Dhyuzmanii had captured him, the dragontamer had been helping to dig one pit after another, from sunup to well past sundown. 

How many days he had been doing this, he didn’t know. But by running his hands across his face and head, he could tell that the cuts and scrapes he had suffered when the Dhyuzmanii had shaved him had healed. Sometimes, he tried to remember how long it had been, but he had lost count. Days and nights seemed to run into each other. There had been many times when the overseer had blown his whistle, indicating work to stop, and the dragontamer had simply fallen asleep a moment later, at the bottom of the pit, oblivious to the ropes thrown down for him and the other men to climb up. Sometimes, he had jerked awake at night and sprang to his feet, arms moving as if he were digging with an invisible shovel, chest heaving as he imagined, for a moment, that he had fallen asleep again during work, and would be punished.

Though digging was hot and hard work, the dragontamer was grateful that he wasn’t one of those working aboveground, in the burning desert sun. When the pits got deep—like this one, now—it was cooler, and had plenty of shade. At first, he hadn’t known why they were digging, but eventually he had found an Uupohna man—a fat fellow missing his front teeth—who spoke a little Diheneh. From him, the dragontamer learned that the Dhyuzmanii were looking for yellow stones. “Gold?” he had asked. 

“No,” the man had told him. “Spirit stones.” 

The dragontamer had never heard of “spirit stones,” and after days of digging, he hadn’t found any, either. And so they kept at it, day after day. They would dig down, down, and when the overseer was convinced that there weren’t any “spirit stones” in the pit they had spent days digging, he ordered them out. They would move a few yards away, then start digging again. And so on. 

Each night, the whistles blew and the men climbed out and were fed bowls of mushy rice, sometimes with some salted meat. And then they were chained together and they lay on the ground and slept, while soldiers with rifles watched. Every day, at least seven or eight Uupohna—usually children, or the old ones, but sometimes a man—collapsed, and the Dhyuzmanii dragged them away, and sometimes there’d be a poc as a gunshot went off, and then the vultures would circle down out of the sky and wait in the usual spot at the edge of the camp.

More and more, the dragontamer grew convinced that one day, the vultures would be waiting for him. 

How do we get ourselves into spots like this? he asked, again. 

He looked up; the sky was darkening. Sunset, of course, not rain: it would not be the rainy season for several months. In a few hours, it would be time to quit and eat. I can’t believe I’m looking forward to more of that rice gop, he thought. He stuck the end of the shovel in the hard clay underfoot and pried up another lump to dump in the bucket. 

The overseer—a tall, thin Dhyuzmanii that the dragontamer had nicknamed Alvaro—peered into the pit again, as he did every so often. He shouted something in his native tongue, and though neither the dragontamer nor the two Uupohna men knew what he was saying, they started digging faster. Seemingly satisfied, Alvaro wandered off, disappearing from sight.

One of the men muttered something that the dragontamer was sure—despite that he did not speak the Uupohna language—was a string of curse words directed at Alvaro. “Yes,” the dragontamer said, nodding his head vigorously. “Yes, you’re right.” Both of the other men grinned. 

poc

What? the dragontamer thought.

pocpocpoc

Rifles. Who’s shooting? the dragontamer wondered.

pocpocpocpocpocpocpocpocpocpocpocpoc

Screams, from women and children—and men. Shouting, some of it Dhyuzmanii, some of it Uupohna. More rifle shots. The thwpp of arrows flying and the solid thkk of them finding their targets. More shouting, More rifles. 

And then a high, whining, sizzling sound, like meat frying in a pan, followed by a ghastly, undulating shriek—and then screams, very close, that like of which, the dragontamer had not heard for many, many years. Dying, he thought. Someone’s dying, and they’re in a lot of hurt, too.

Then Alvaro was flung backwards into the pit, arms flailing as he crashed to the bottom, the dragontamer and the Uupohna men flattening themselves against the dirt sides of the pit. Blood bubbled from his lips as short, ragged gasps escaped him. One arm, one leg, and half of Alvaro was normal; the rest of him was dissolving, melting like ice under the hot desert sun, seeping into the floor of the pit. 

Don’t look at that don’t look at that don’t no no no die already die already hurry, the dragontamer thought, the air suddenly growing hot around him and his hands suddenly icy and his jaw tightening as he fought not to spew out. And then the two Uupohna men smashed the blades of their shovels into Alvaro again and again and again, grunting with every blow, and the dragontamer didn’t know if they killed him out of vengeance or mercy.

A rope—the one they used every night to climb out of the pit after digging all day—came down. Ceramic masks, painted in blue and green and orange, with designs of skulls and suns and serpents—peered down at them. War masks, the dragontamer recognized. Uupohna war masks. It’s a raid. A rescue. 

The two men grabbed the rope and climbed, the warriors overhead pulling them up and out of the pit. “Hoy!” the dragontamer shouted, waving his arms. “Me, too! Take me! Take me!”

The masks stared down at him.

“Don’t leave me here!” the dragontamer begged. “Please!”

The masks disappeared. Nearby rifle fire drowned out the dragontamer’s curses. Then that sizzling sound again, and more inhuman shrieking. 

He looked over at the bleeding thing that used to be Alvaro. Melted. Mother of Us All, he’s melted. 

The shriek again. More screaming. More rifles. 

It’s the Lichxii Na’atseed, the dragontamer realized. Has to be. 
 
 

“Another week, and still no stones,” General Porev said, leaning back in his chair as the servant tucked the napkin into the collar of his uniform. “Thank you,” Porev told the servant, who bowed deeply, smiling at his master’s gratitude. The cook lifted the silver lid of the serving dish: a haunch of steaming meat, ringed with boiled potatoes.

“General, the stones are here—” Onisimev, the fat seer, insisted.

General Porev raised a hand to silence him. “What is this?” General Porev asked.

“Desert antelope,” the cook replied, bowing. “A bit small, but fresh. I hope the General will find it tender and delicious.”

“At the very least, it will be a change from that salted meat,” General Porev replied. “Thank you.” The cook and the other servant bowed and left the tent. 

“Where were we?” General Porev asked, helping himself to some of the antelope and potatoes. He did not bother to look up at Onisimev, Major Cerikov, and Chief Nan-tan-ah, who stood before him and the small table set solely for the general’s dinner. 

“There are stones here,” Onisimev said. “I’ve re-checked my charts: they are correct. We just have to keep looking.”

“If they are not here,” General Porev said, “we will have to move on, abandon this site. Look somewhere else.”

“This is the only place they are,” Onisimev replied. 

“Are you certain?” General Porev asked.

“Yes,” Onisimev insisted.

“I have it on good authority that there are other places to look,” General Porev said, glancing at Chief Nan-tan-ah. “If you can’t find the stones, you’re of no use to us.” He turned to Major Cerikov. “Please contact Colonel Nykonov and have him send more seers. Arrange an escort for Onisimev to return to the shore camp, and then transfer back to Dhyuzman.” 

Major Cerikov nodded. 

“But…I was sent here to find the stones,” Onisimev said. “ I…I can’t go back without them.”

“You’ll be leaving in the morning,” General Porev replied. He turned to Chief Nan-tan-ah and switched to the Ysparrian language. “Chief, your people have worked hard, but—”

poc

The men stopped.

poc poc

poc poc poc poc

“Major Cerikov, why is there firing in my camp?” General Porev asked. 

“I will find out, General,” Cerikov said, bowing and hastening from the tent.

“My auguries say that we’re close,” Onisimev said. “If you give me more time, I’m sure—”

pocpocpocpocpocpocpocpocpoc

Screams, from women and children—and men. Shouting, some of it Dhyuzmanii, some of it Uupohna. More rifle shots. The thwpp of arrows flying and the solid thkk of them finding their targets. More shouting, More rifles. 

“Outside,” General Porev said, getting to his feet and plucking the napkin from his collar. “You, too, Chief,” he said, in Ysparrian.

“What’s going on?” the general demanded, as he stepped outside the tent into the dusk. Both of his guards had their rifles ready.

“Sir, we’re under attack!” one of the guards replied. “Natives! They’re coming from that way, I think,” the man said, pointing east, into the gathering dark.

“You two come with us,” General Porev replied, drawing his pistol. “Keep an eye on the seer and the chief. Make sure they’re safe.” 

Crouching to avoid enemy bullets and arrows, the five of them hurried east. They had gone only a few dozen yards when scores of Dhyuzmanii troops appeared, running towards them as fast as they could, routed and not even attempting to fire back. 

“Cerikov!” General Porev bellowed, seeing his man fleeing as well. “What’s going on?”

“We’re…” Cerikov began, pointing back the way he had come. When he saw—again—what was there, he could not finish.

The monster was squat and fat and a repellant yellow-brown. Its head was flat and its mouth was wide and lined with hundreds of tiny, pointed teeth, but what drew Porev’s attention were its eyes. Each of them—and there were three—was bigger than Porev’s head, and though the very top of each eye was white, most of each filled with a red fluid. Blood? Porev wondered.

Grinning, the monster swung its head and a stream of red sprayed out of one of its eyes, a sizzling sound ripping the air. The spray splattered three Dhyuzmanii soldiers as they ran. General Porev could see quite plainly that as the stream squirted, the red liquid in the monster’s eye lowered, like water running out of container. Screaming, the men fell, their clothing, their limbs, their torsos dissolving, melting. 

The monster shrieked, a piercing eeeheheeheeeheeeeee that Porev found unnervingly intelligent, as if the monster was cackling with glee. Then another eye sprayed, and more of his men died; and then another eye sprayed; and for a few long moments—how long, he didn’t know—Porev could only watch in horrid fascination as more red fluid gushed into each eye, filling them up to spray and kill again.

“Stand your ground!” he bellowed. “Fire all weapons on that creature! Bring forward the artillery!”

“Fire!” Cerikov repeated, training his pistol on the monster again. 

Around him, men rallied, raised their weapons, fired, reloaded, fired again. The dark was growing, and the smoke obscured his vision. Porev couldn’t tell what, if any, affect his men’s rifles were having.

General Porev whirled. “Do something!” he snapped at Onisimev.

“I…I don’t…” Onisimev sputtered, eyes wide and locked on the monster. “There’s nothing I can…no…”

“Chief Nan-tan-ah,” General Porev said, in Ysparrian. “What’s—”

“That’s—” Chief Nan-tan-ah began, but suddenly something splattered behind General Porev, and Onisimev and the two soldiers that had been on duty outside Porev’s tent screamed and fell, hit by spray from the advancing monster. A stench, like burning trash, filled the air as the shrieking men, arms flailing, dissolved into goo.

“General!” Onisimev screamed, his fat flesh bubbling. “Generaaaaal!”

Cerikov fell to his knees, vomiting. “Retreat!” Porev called. “Retreat!” He looked around. Uupohna warriors were streaming into the camp, shooting and hacking down his men, freeing the young and healthy slaves while leaving the old, the sick, and the injured. Though they outnumbered the Uupohna, the surprised Dhyuzmanii were too distracted by the monster to stop them. “Where are those damned artillery?” General Porev demanded. 

Chief Nan-tan-ah stood, not moving, watching the Uupohna. 
 
 

He jumped, grabbed at the walls of the pit for something to hold onto, slid to the floor again, his boot splashing into something wet that used to be part of Alvaro. Jumped again, grabbed again, found something. Kicked his toes into the side of the pit. Looked down. He was not more than a shin's length off the ground, but it was that much closer to the top. He pulled one leg up, his foot feeling around for something to step on. Found it. Reached a hand up, felt around. Found another rough spot he could hold on to. 

Did it again. Did it again. A few inches at a time. His arms shook. Don’t let go don’t let go don’t let go, he told himself. You let go, you die here. Climb or die climb or die no hard choice climb or die come on come on do it do it for Juanita and the girls and do it come on do it—

One hand slapped the ground outside the pit, groped around, found something—tree branch? he wondered, no something doesn’t matter—to grab. He pulled, pulled. His head came out of the pit. He kicked his legs—come on come on come on almost there almost do it climb or die—and got his shoulders out. The other hand reached out, grabbed the thing. It was the leg of a dead Dhyuzmanii soldier, lying on his belly.

He hauled himself out of the pit. There there there there there, he told himself, as he lay on the ground, gasping for breath.  You did it you did it you did it aw gods that hurts that hurts ah gods….

Night had fallen, but the camp was aflame. The rifle fire was much louder now, and unrelenting: no more shots here and there, no more streams of fire and then interludes of other noise. No, now it was a steady torrent of fire, a sound like rain falling, as hundreds of rifles sounded at once. 

The dragontamer crawled to the dead soldier, felt his sides, rolled him over. There was a huge, dark, wet spot on the man’s belly. The dragontamer felt around the soldier’s waist, his sleeves, his boots. Nothing, he realized. They took his pistol, his rifle, his knife, his razor—anything they could use for a weapon. Even his matches. 

He crawled forward, the gravel and dirt scraping his bare chest, his hands, his elbows, but he didn’t dare stand up in the midst of the firefight. Find a gun, he told himself. Find a gun, maybe a horse, or a mule, or something. Get out of here. Get home. Get—

The shrieking sound. Very loud. Very near.

The dragontamer felt the water he had drunk an hour ago trickle out of him. Ah no no no no no

The monster lumbered forward, its three eyes brimming with its blood.  Dhyuzmanii ponymen galloped past the beast, firing their pistols into its belly. A spray from one eye, and pony and rider screamed as they collapsed, their flesh puddling together. For a moment, the dragontamer was sure that the man who had just died was the one who had sat on his legs while the others had shaved him.

Run, run, run, the dragontamer told himself, but he still found himself crawling. Get up you fool get up run run it’s going to kill us it’s if I run it will see— 

Another squirt of burning hot blood, and two more ponymen died. The monster swung its head and noticed the dragontamer crawling away. Eeeheheeheeeheeeeee, it cackled, plodding after him.

One chance one chance, the dragontamer thought, knees shaking, as he rose to his feet. Can’t run can’t no remember remember Naalnish said remember—

He raised his hands in front of the beast and shouted, “Nieve!”

Mere yards from the dragontamer, the monster stopped. Its three eyes fastened on him. The dragontamer watched in horror as two of the eyes began to fill up with blood again. It’s not going to work, boss, he told himself. It’s not going to work and it’s going to kill us we’re going to die and Juanita and the girls what will—

The dragontamer sang:

Ajiiotssaiin sik’is
Ts’ida biholniihgo’ate!
Naahaidaa shidine’e taa Diheneh doo
Na’asho’iitsoh ndahodoolaal
Doo k’ehdahidi’ni nihi gi’adaat’eego

The monster held still, ignoring the roaring flames, the circling ponymen, the sting of bullets ricocheting off its hide. His voice stronger now, the dragontamer kept singing: 

Ajiiotsa!
Naahodeeszhiizh doo il hosh 
‘Ii daa la’I niildli
Nihi gi’adaat’eego

Slowly, the blood began to empty out of the monster’s eyes. It’s working, the dragontamer thought. He kept singing:

Uupohna binaat’aanii aniigo na’atseed
Binaa adaatlts’ozi dine’e
Beenilniih ndishni la’iniildi naa doo
Hool’aago doo hooshch’i t’aa

Jiiniba’goo doo
La daa shilghal—t’aadoo’ anit’ini—
Dooleel
Ntseskees
Ni ‘iisxiinii doo—

And there was a puum and a FWAAAM as an artillery shell pierced the monster’s side, the explosion slamming the dragontamer to the desert floor, cutting his forehead on a large rock. 

What in all hells? the dragontamer thought. And then, It was working, it was working damns it was working and now—

The monster shrieked, turned—puumpuum—and two more shells struck it, blasting huge, ragged tears in the beast. The dragontamer stayed down but could not help but watch as the monster seemed to deflate like a torn balloon, collapsing to the ground. It writhed for a few moments, croaking feebly, its claws rending the ground. And then it moved no more.

What in all hells? he wondered. What in all hells? More rifle fire. More shouting. Dhyuzmanii soldiers—emboldened by the monster’s death—ran past him, bayonets pointed, swords and knives and pistols drawn. Distantly, the dragontamer heard screaming. Counterattacking, he realized. The Uupohna will be breaking off. Got to go. Got to get up. Go! 

He staggered to his feet—and found soldiers around him, rifles trained on him. The dragontamer raised his hands. Don’t kill me don’t kill me you goatfaced ba—

“Stop right there, Erisian,” someone said, in the dragontamer’s native language. “I want a word with you.”

General Porev.
 
 

“Where were we?” 

Napkin tucked under his chin, the general was seated at his table again, another serving of roasted antelope spread before him. Major Cerikov and Chief Nan-tan-ah stood before him, as they had earlier this evening, but instead of Onisimev, the dragontamer was there, still shirtless, his hands bound. Four guards, rifles in their hands, stood just inside the flap of the tent.

It had been a little more than an hour since the Dhyuzmanii had chased off the last of the Uupohna warriors. Outside, the remaining slaves—following Dhyuzmanii custom—were throwing the bodies onto funeral pyres. A much larger fire was already consuming the carcass of the monster.

“We don’t have a full casualty count yet,” Major Cerikov replied. “A hundred or so of our men—probably most of those are fatalities. Maybe forty or so native raiders. We recaptured some of the slaves…some died in the attack…but we don’t know how many actually escaped.”

General Porev sipped his wine. “Chief Nan-tan-ah,” he said, in Ysparrian, “in exchange for the release of your youngest son, there were to be no more attacks on our forces. Was that not our arrangement?”

“As I told you then, General,” Nan-tan-ah replied, “I am not the only chief of our people. My son—”

“Yes. Your son,” General Porev interrupted. He nodded to Cerikov, who stepped outside. Porev took another sip of wine, helped himself to another forkful of meat. Cerikov returned a few moments later, a soldier leading in a teenaged Uupohna boy with his right arm bound to his chest with a bloody bandage. The boy’s feet were shackled again. 

“Here is your son,” General Porev said. Major Cerikov handed him a red and brown war mask. 

“I am told,” General Porev said, “that he fought bravely, and was only captured after being shot in the arm.”

Chief Nan-tan-ah did not look at Porev or his son.

“Your son was supposed to tell the other chiefs that the Dhyuzmanii did not want to fight them, did not want their land,” General Porev said. “Instead, he conveyed them your order to find this place, raid this camp, and attempt to free the captives. Isn’t that so, Chief?”

Nan-tan-ah did not answer.

“And that creature that helped your people,” Porev said. “What was that?”

Nan-tan-ah said nothing.

“It was a dragon, wasn’t it?” General Porev asked. “Your people do have dragons after all, don’t they, Chief Nan-tan-ah? That’s how the Uupohna have managed to resist the Ysparrians and the Diheneh. You—like them—can control dragons, and use them to fight for you.”

The boy eyes went from his father to the general. To Cerikov and the dragontamer. To his father. To the general.

“Release Chief Nan-tan-ah's wives and daughters,” General Porev said to Cerikov. “The other sons remain here. Take these two away.” Cerikov bowed, gestured to two of the guards. They left with Chief Nan-tan-ah and his son.

“A seat for this man,” the general commanded, and one of the guards brought a chair from the other side of the tent for the dragontamer. Gingerly, he sat down.

“And you, my good fellow,” General Porev said, in Erisian. “Who are you?”

“My name is Yakob Fhurdrickson, sir,” the dragontamer lied. “I’m a prospector.”

“There’s no gold in these parts,” General Porev said.

“I’m not a very good prospector, sir,” the dragontamer replied.

General Porev laughed and enjoyed another sip of wine. “No, I imagine you are not. I am General Mitrofan Porev of the Fourth Expeditionary Force of Her Highness Sofya III, Czarina of Dhyuzman. All these men—and more—are under my command.”

The dragontamer bowed, as he had seen the others do. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“Mr. Fhurdrickson, would you care to join me for dinner? I hate to dine alone.”

“I’d…I’d like that, sir,” the dragontamer said. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a good meal.”

“I imagine it has.” General Porev said something in Dhyuzmanii to the soldiers. One of them bowed and went out of the tent. Switching back to Erisian, General Porev said, “If I have your word as a gentleman that you won’t try anything foolish, I can have those chains removed for you.”

“I’m no gentleman,” the dragontamer admitted, “but I’m not stupid, either. I’d be very grateful if you’d take off these chains.”

“Consider it done,” General Porev said. He beckoned for another soldier, nodded at the dragontamer, murmured something in his language. Taking a key from his belt, the soldier quickly unshackled the dragontamer. 

“Thank you,” the dragontamer said, to the soldier, who ignored him as he went back to his post. “Thank you,” he said to General Porev.

pocpoc

Rifle fire.

“That—” the dragontamer began, turning in his seat. “That chief…and the boy?”

General Porev nodded. “How did you know he was a chief, Mr. Fhurdrickson?” 

“I…I speak a little Ysparrian,” the dragontamer said. “Just enough to get by. You have to, in this part of the world. You called him ‘Chief.’”

“So what brings you to this part of the world?” General Porev asked. “Certainly not gold.”

“I’m a poor man,” the dragontamer said. “I’ve always been poor. I heard stories about fortunes to be had here, in the Weste. I came looking for mine. I haven’t found it.”

“And how many years ago did you leave Erisia?” the general asked.

“Oh, I’ve been gone a long, long time,” the dragontamer said. “I’d have to say it’s been…seventeen, eighteen years or so.” 

“You’ve been out here all that time?”

“For the first few years, yes. Well, not here,” the dragontamer admitted. “The Uupohna don’t like outsiders. I was mostly south and east of here.”

“And where else were you?”

“For about five years or so, I was in Ysparria,” the dragontamer said. “Northern part. Worked on some ranches there, raising horses. Then I left, and came back.”

“Hmm.” General Porev served himself another slice of meat. “And why did you leave Ysparria, Mr. Fhurdrickson?”

“I heard stories—new stories—about silver lodes being found. And I was tired of working for the ranch owners. Wanted to be my own man. You know…”

“Yes, I can imagine,” General Porev said. “And perhaps it’s not unreasonable to suspect that a man in your circumstances might—fairly or unfairly—have run into some trouble? Trouble that, perhaps, warranted leaving civilization and taking one’s chances out here in the wild?”

The dragontamer hung his head. “I won’t lie to you, sir. I’ve done some things I’m not proud of.”

“Understood,” General Porev said. “So how did you come to be in my camp, Mr. Fhurdrickson?”

“I was out prospecting nearby, sir,” the dragontamer said. “This was—oh, a week or so ago. I don’t really remember when it was. It was almost evening, and some of your men—they were on ponies—they ambushed me, sir. Hit me over the head and brought me here. Took my horse and all my gear and they did this to me,” he said, pointing at his shaved head. 

General Porev said nothing.

“I didn’t do anything wrong, sir. I wasn’t trying to spy on anyone, or take anything—I didn’t even know you all were here.” He signed. “Then they put me to work with the natives, digging pits, sir. To look for yellow stones, I was told.”

General Porev reached into his pocket and took out the small, dusty yellow stone that Onisimev used to carry in the double-locked box. He handed it to the dragontamer. “Stones like this one, Mr. Fhurdrickson. As you’re a prospector, perhaps you’re the best one to ask: have you seen any of these stones?”

The dragontamer rolled the stone around in his hand for a few moments, then handed it back to the general. “No, sir, I’m afraid I’ve never see this type of rock before. If I may ask, what is it?”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” General Porev replied. He put the stone back in his pocket and wiped his hands on his napkin. 

The servants came in with a plate, utensils, a wine glass, and a shirt for the dragontamer. While he stood and buttoned the shirt, they set a place for him. He sat. They carved and served him slices of antelope and ladled steaming, boiled potatoes onto his plate. The dragontamer began bolting down his food. General Porev waved away the servants, who left, bowing. 

Sipping his wine, General Porev watched him for awhile. “Good isn’t it, Mr. Fhurdrickson?” he asked.

“Yes,” the dragontamer replied, around a mouthful of food. “Yes, sir.”

“Let’s talk about how you stopped that dragon, Mr. Fhurdrickson.”

Still chewing, the dragontamer replied, “Begging your pardon, sir, but I don’t know what you mean.”

“The dragon—that monster that attacked the camp. It was coming towards you. It looked like it was going to attack you. You started…chanting? Singing? And then the monster stopped.”

The dragontamer shrugged. “Sir, I don’t—”

“Fhurdrickson is not your name, is it?” General Porev asked. “Really, you’re Anerson, aren’t you?” General Porev asked. “The famous Thad Anerson? The renegade Erisian? The dragontamer of Ysparria?”

The dragontamer shook his head. “You’ve got the wrong man, General. I’m just a pros—”

“You are Anerson,” General Porev quietly insisted. “Because no other man could have stopped that dragon.” 

The dragontamer finished what he was chewing, then set down his fork. “I suppose you’re going to shoot me, like you shot that Ysparrian captain, Altamirano. Like you shot the chief and his son.”

“If would—if you were just a prospector,” General Porev admitted. He took the wine bottle, leaned over the table, and filled the dragontamer’s glass. “But you’re not. You’re a dragontamer. You’re the dragontamer. You’re the man that made Ysparria invincible.” 

“Yes,” the dragontamer said. “Yes, I am.”

General Porev reached into his pocket again, took out the yellow stone. “Years ago, our seers—you might call them sorcerers—divined that there was great power to be found in these lands. They believed it could be found in these stones. We were sent to find these, Mr. Anerson, so that Dhyuzman could learn what powers the stones have—and to take it.” 

He dropped the stone onto the table. “We’ve been digging for weeks, but we haven’t found any. Not one. But we’ll dig forever, here or somewhere else in this desert, to find them.” He leaned forward. “These lands belong to Dhyuzman now. The power in these stones will help us hold it. But until we can find the stones and take their power, we need your help.”

“Mine?” the dragontamer asked. 

“The Uupohna will continue to resist us, but my army will be able to deal with them,” General Porev replied. “It’s Ysparria and their dragons that concern me, Mr. Anerson. I dealt with Altamirano and his men, but Ysparria will send more scouts. Eventually, they will discover us. And then there may well be war. And we will need to be ready.”

“You want me to find you dragons,” the dragontamer said. “Train them, give them to you, so you can stave off the Ysparrians, hold these lands, until more of your troops arrive.”

“Dhyuzman has many colonies. This will be another one,” General Porev said. He nodded to one of the guards, waved him to the desk. The guard took a satchel from the desk, put it on the table in front of the dragontamer. 

The dragontamer opened it. It was filled with octagonal coins: silver, inlaid with gold. He took one out. On one side was a double-headed eagle holding a curved sword, and above it, a crescent moon. On the other side was the face of a woman with a thin nose and the hint of a smile. Her hair was cut short, ending just below her ears. The Czarina of Dhyuzman.

“I’ll need clothes. And a horse. And guns,” the dragontamer said. “And time.”

“You’ll have all those things,” General Porev assured him. “But there isn’t much time.”

The dragontamer nodded. “I can get you a dragon.” He put the satchel on his lap. “I’d be happy to.”

The dragontamer drank deeply of his wine. The general joined him.
 
 

© Kenton Kilgore, March 2008