Excerpt from 'Raphael'
Sunlight and the smell of cinnamon, sandalwood, cedar; a dry, sharp smell.
The tunnel was not at an end, but here was a cleft in it, a break clean and cruel as though struck by a heavenly axe. One hundred feet away, on the far side of this splash, the foxhole continued, black and round. But in the middle of the sunlight sprawled the heavy-sighing wearer of the chain.
He was not coiled: not like withies are coiled to make a basket. His metallic length lay in a sort of G-clef pattern, and though in the sun he glinted in a rich array of red, green, and indigo, his color was black.
Black except his head, which was golden horned, his face framed by a whole series of scaly spiked collars, yellow, scarlet, and indigo, giving him the appearance of a chrysanthemum with a long, bare stem.
He had four legs, no sign of wings, and a crest like little burnished flames which ran from neck to tail tip, some ninety feet in all. His eyes were enormous, gold, slitted like a cat's, and staring down at Saara from great heights.
The greatest witch in the Italies had seen dragons and wyverns before, and would have recognized many fell beasts on sight, but she had never seen anything like this. She stood stock-still while she framed in her mind what might be the greatest power song of her life. Or the last.
The creature pulled iron-black lips from teeth the blue-white of skimmed milk. Each of these was the size and shape of a scimitar, and his tongue between them was forked. The noises of forges increased. A movement began at the creature's tail and traveled up the serpentine length of him, like the flood crest of a river when the dam has gone.
Yards of gold crest vanished, to be replaced by flat, lustrous belly scales. Four long legs curled up, their etiolated, thumbed paws exposing claws the size and shape of cow's ribs. Last of all the ornate head flipped over and hit the stony ground, until it was gazing madly at Saara, upside down. The eyes were now at her level.
"Bonjour, madam," he said, very correctly. "Comment allez-vous aujourd'hui?"
She blinked. "I don't speak Langue d'Ouil," she answered in Italian, wondering if the beast's purpose was to distract her, and feeling he had certainly succeeded. "I don't speak any languages but Fennish and Italian."
"Fennish and Italian!" The dragon (if it could be called a dragon) chuckled. "Many people speak Italian. No one speaks Fennish but a native of the Fenland," he stated, speaking that tongue. "Therefore I presume you to be an émigrée of the Fens residing now in the Italies. The north Italies, if your accent is any indication."
Hearing the clear, comfortable sounds of home from this huge bizarrity struck Saara nearly dumb. But her wit returned to her in time to allow her to reply, "Then you, too, must be a native of the Fenland. The south, however, I would say by your accent."
"Lappish is equally familiar to me," the creature replied, shifting his voice more into the nose. His five-fingered paw scratched belly scales reflectively.
"But it would be ludicrous to attempt to convince you that I come from the land of ice and snow. I am merely an exception to the rule I myself stated." Amber eyes hooded themselves complacently, and then the dragon rotated again, in the same direction, so that his jaw rested on the ground twenty feet from Saara's feet, while his body rested quite comfortably with a half-twist in it.
"There ARE dragons in the north," stated Saara, taking a chance on his species.
Window-sized nostrils dilated and the creature emitted a huge snort. The dry, woody smell thickened. "Dragons, perhaps, but not such as I," he stated, pique shading his voice. Suddenly the beast flipped to his feet and his neck arced above her, coiling like black smoke in the air (which had grown very hot). "Do I have a barrel like an ox's, wings like a plucked chicken's, breath like rotten eggs, and incrustations both dorsal and ventral?
"Furthermore, have I attacked you with inhospitable fury on the suspicion that you come to rob me of some possession-- not that I have any, mind you?"
With a song of seven words Saara created a forty-foot wall of blue ice between the dragon and herself. It was an arduous spell, though quickly done, and her heart was left pounding.
The dragon watched, then casually he leaned over the wall and laced his fingers together. "Really now, madam. Can you claim that any of the graceless creatures who inhabit their charred holes on the steppes have more than the slightest resemblance... I do not mean to sound egotistical, but I am no more like your European dragons than you are like the Emperor's monkey!"
The tunnel was not at an end, but here was a cleft in it, a break clean and cruel as though struck by a heavenly axe. One hundred feet away, on the far side of this splash, the foxhole continued, black and round. But in the middle of the sunlight sprawled the heavy-sighing wearer of the chain.
He was not coiled: not like withies are coiled to make a basket. His metallic length lay in a sort of G-clef pattern, and though in the sun he glinted in a rich array of red, green, and indigo, his color was black.
Black except his head, which was golden horned, his face framed by a whole series of scaly spiked collars, yellow, scarlet, and indigo, giving him the appearance of a chrysanthemum with a long, bare stem.
He had four legs, no sign of wings, and a crest like little burnished flames which ran from neck to tail tip, some ninety feet in all. His eyes were enormous, gold, slitted like a cat's, and staring down at Saara from great heights.
The greatest witch in the Italies had seen dragons and wyverns before, and would have recognized many fell beasts on sight, but she had never seen anything like this. She stood stock-still while she framed in her mind what might be the greatest power song of her life. Or the last.
The creature pulled iron-black lips from teeth the blue-white of skimmed milk. Each of these was the size and shape of a scimitar, and his tongue between them was forked. The noises of forges increased. A movement began at the creature's tail and traveled up the serpentine length of him, like the flood crest of a river when the dam has gone.
Yards of gold crest vanished, to be replaced by flat, lustrous belly scales. Four long legs curled up, their etiolated, thumbed paws exposing claws the size and shape of cow's ribs. Last of all the ornate head flipped over and hit the stony ground, until it was gazing madly at Saara, upside down. The eyes were now at her level.
"Bonjour, madam," he said, very correctly. "Comment allez-vous aujourd'hui?"
She blinked. "I don't speak Langue d'Ouil," she answered in Italian, wondering if the beast's purpose was to distract her, and feeling he had certainly succeeded. "I don't speak any languages but Fennish and Italian."
"Fennish and Italian!" The dragon (if it could be called a dragon) chuckled. "Many people speak Italian. No one speaks Fennish but a native of the Fenland," he stated, speaking that tongue. "Therefore I presume you to be an émigrée of the Fens residing now in the Italies. The north Italies, if your accent is any indication."
Hearing the clear, comfortable sounds of home from this huge bizarrity struck Saara nearly dumb. But her wit returned to her in time to allow her to reply, "Then you, too, must be a native of the Fenland. The south, however, I would say by your accent."
"Lappish is equally familiar to me," the creature replied, shifting his voice more into the nose. His five-fingered paw scratched belly scales reflectively.
"But it would be ludicrous to attempt to convince you that I come from the land of ice and snow. I am merely an exception to the rule I myself stated." Amber eyes hooded themselves complacently, and then the dragon rotated again, in the same direction, so that his jaw rested on the ground twenty feet from Saara's feet, while his body rested quite comfortably with a half-twist in it.
"There ARE dragons in the north," stated Saara, taking a chance on his species.
Window-sized nostrils dilated and the creature emitted a huge snort. The dry, woody smell thickened. "Dragons, perhaps, but not such as I," he stated, pique shading his voice. Suddenly the beast flipped to his feet and his neck arced above her, coiling like black smoke in the air (which had grown very hot). "Do I have a barrel like an ox's, wings like a plucked chicken's, breath like rotten eggs, and incrustations both dorsal and ventral?
"Furthermore, have I attacked you with inhospitable fury on the suspicion that you come to rob me of some possession-- not that I have any, mind you?"
With a song of seven words Saara created a forty-foot wall of blue ice between the dragon and herself. It was an arduous spell, though quickly done, and her heart was left pounding.
The dragon watched, then casually he leaned over the wall and laced his fingers together. "Really now, madam. Can you claim that any of the graceless creatures who inhabit their charred holes on the steppes have more than the slightest resemblance... I do not mean to sound egotistical, but I am no more like your European dragons than you are like the Emperor's monkey!"