Asta

I bellow, throwing my head back. Then I go on all fours, loosening the muscles in my wings in preparation to fly. Every single person has a dark O for a mouth. I guess it’s not every day you see a Dragonweaver Shift. Harold’s face is the color of raw flesh, a bright red.

“You bastard, a Dragonweaver?” The gold clad man shouts, face flushing an even deeper shade. I tilt my head to the side, studying him. Draped in an olive green uniform with gold embroidery and clasps at his throat and sleeves, a tri-plumed hat, a silver and emerald rapier hanging off his indigo sash belt. So this was the High King of Hadir. Not very impressive.

“Yes. I happen to have a rather diverse inventory of weavers aboard my ship. This boy is one of them.” Rover says. Then he hobbles over to the three prisoners.

“What are you doing?” Harold demands.

“This.” Rover grabs Mary by the collar of her yellow dress and drags her to her feet. He whips out an oyster knife, and makes three diagonal cuts across her left bicep in three swift motions.

“How dare-”

“Dragons are attracted to blood. It’s what makes them go all savage, giving in to their instincts and driving them mad until either the thirst for blood is saturated, or the dragon dies or is able to overcome its ancestral appetite.” Rover locks his remaining eye on to me. It’s a test, I realize that. A test to see if I can conquer and bury my instincts.

The soft aroma of salt and iron drifts into my nostrils, and I jerk my head, like a fly just thought it funny to land on my head. The scent gets stronger, and I feel my blood churning, my intestines cramping as I fight it. I flare my wings and dip my head, jaws parted, drool dripping from the corners of my mouth. My talons dig trenches into the wood deck. I don’t even react to the sharp flares of pain from splinters burrowing into my scales.

Rover clamps a hand over Mary’s wound, and I growl low in my throat.

I can best this.

Slowly, I recover, pressing my wings to my back. Mary’s eyes are wide, watching me with fear. I advert my gaze, instead studying the layout of Harold’s troops.

There’s about three hundred solders and sailors in three triangular formations on the North Swan’s deck, all of them armed to the teeth.

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“I change my terms. The Dragonweaver and my daughter, or the total annihilation of your ship and her crew.” Harold bellows, drawing his needle of a sword out of its scabbard.

“The latter sounds more enjoyable, and slightly messier than cleaning out the guts of a dead Drake. Pardon me curiosity, but I can’t help but wonder if a fine fellow such as yourself has ever seen one.” Rover’s voice gains the accent I’ve heard him use on naive traders and cabin boys who had broker’s chance at surviving their first year at sea.

“No. I have never seen one of your Drakes. You have until the count of three to hand the dragon and my daughter over, or I will open fire.” The king pulls his sword the rest of the way out of the scabbard. He holds it at a forty-five degree angle above his head. The cannons of the North Swan pull inward, the scrap of rusted metal audible.

“One.” Nothing happens, the two crews besides the ones preparing to fire stand still. I unfurl my wings, climbing up onto the poop deck.

“Two.” Several birds land on the railing in front of my snout. I roast them with a quick burst of yellow flame. Men on the other ship shift uneasily.

“Three.” Rover says, sounding impatient.

“Do not test me, demon spawn.” Harold sputters.

“I would never.” Rover purrs.

“Enough. Hand over the Dragonweaver and my daughter, and you’ll not face the gallows. I will even make you a privateer in the service of the Hadirin Royal Draking Guild.” Harold says, changing his terms yet again.

“I’ll pass. Otherwise, what’s exactly the point of piracy if no one’s going to try to run you down after you give the locals a wee sample of freedom?” Rover snaps.

“Then you made your choice.” Harold growls.

“Before you blast me and me crew to the watery depths, did you forget that the subjects of this utterly delightful conversation are on the very vessel you plan to destroy?” Rover gestures with his hand to Mary, then to me, green eye flashing from under his hat brim. Harold blinks, fear and horror flashing across his face as he realizes his mistake.

“Might I make a small suggestion?” Harold switches his sword to his other hand.

“You may.” Rover bends at the waist and gestures with one arm to no one in particular.

“This.” Harold sweeps his arm in a downwards motion. One of the ballistae swings around, the tip of its harpoon gleaming silver with the sun’s reflection. One of the two men working the weapon cranks the lever, the other aiming. I flare my wings, standing up on my hind legs.

“Asta, don’t!” Mary tugs on her restraints, pleading. I ignore her, and that’s my first mistake. The harpoon gets flung free from its cannon, tip spinning fast, three barbs gleaming. Bright sharp agony puts its roots into my gut like a throwing dart that found the bullseye.

I stagger, my vision blurring. Mary’s saying something to Rover, her mouth moving in dark pink streaks. Cannon fire booms in the background, muffled. I can hear my heart slowing, my breath becoming deep and ragged. Rover snaps something back at Mary, then, to my utter most surprise, puts the key in her shackles and frees her. Mary’s weaving her way through the rush of Hadirin soldiers trying to board the Scarecrow, and the pirates pushing them back. She’s yelling something, words I can’t understand. the world goes dark and smoky after that.

I shifted back. I realize. Another harpoon digs into the deck wood a handful of feet from my head, the shaft wobbling. More cannon fire, accompanied by battle yells and cries of pain, then silence.

Cold, dark, heavy silence.