In The Lair of the Draca (Book 2)

In The Lair of the Draca (Book 2) Chapter 21: The Haven's Creek Incident

Luka, chest tightened and features egg-shell white, gripped his flint stone blade until the fragile skin of his palm split. Every Evening Folk Person, particularly the men, was conditioned from birth to demonstrate no overt traces of fear before their worst enemies (which of course, on Weema, were the dragons), but even Luka felt vastly unprepared to comprehend the macabre sight that unfolded before him in the depths of Haven's Creek.

Luka had never seen a dragon-- only the most grizzled of Elders ever remembered seeing a corpse here or there that someone had once killed-- and his pounding heart could hardly bear the magnitude of it. His throat shrunk to the circumference of a reed straw; now racing after Ziuta as she charged doggedly across the clearing, silky ribbons of plum-colored curls streaking along behind her, Luka found he could barely keep up. Feet pounding the grass in fury, he scrambled to overtake her before she could endanger them all.

"Ziuta!" he attempted authoritatively. His voice came out in little more than a wheezing croak. "Stay away from the water! If you interfere, those dragons will rip you to shreds!"

Ziuta did not bother to slow or turn around. "Not if I can wring the neck of the beast who dares attack my Water Fly!" came the cavalier response. Luka paused in mid-lope and gaped as the small star-child slipped and slid all the way down the muddy bank, propelled by adrenaline-pumped momentum until her ankles touched the coolness of the creek. Water Fly's corpulent body, half in and half out of the froth, threatened to crush her if she ventured too close-- and yet, Ziuta kept coming. In a blind fury, she thrust herself between the heavy water-draga and its absinthe assailant, which hovered above the din with huge wings spread wide for balance. Thick talons curled, twitching at the primal command to grasp at prey; one of Water Fly's vulnerable front paddles hung in shreds from the formidable Draca's jaws. The water dragon boomed its pain, darting at her attacker and snapping futilely, like a panicked snake.

Luka stood frozen, rooted to the spot as though he were made of cement. The flint blade hung dumbly in one hand as the gruesome panorama unfolded before him; here was he, Luka, the most virile young man from the village of Looks Thrice, and yet he cowered in fear before the two Herculean creatures that threatened to tear each other apart.

Slay them! Dart them! Slash them in the throats! his mind gibbered crazily.

Behind him, muffled shouts turned to frightened hoots. A horde of seven burly, heavily-armed men from Looks Thrice-- among them Malaraq and the stony-faced Toraq-- descended upon the scene laden with cross-bows, truncheons, cudgels, and spike-rimmed bolas. The barrage of excited voices melted into cries and exclamations of bewildered astonishment.

It was just as they had feared: dragons-- two of them-- locked in a vicious battle of acerbic ferocity...and the winner was likely to come after them.

"Luka!" A heavy hand descended upon his shoulder; Luka shook himself from his stupor and turned to find Toraq peering anxiously into his face. The stout young man was red-faced and wheezing. He worked his thick lips frantically for several tense moments before being able to form any words. When he did, small flecks of saliva and foam sprayed Luka's cheeks.

Luka barely noticed.

"You have left your post, you woman-haired delinquent!" he snarled, brandishing his heavy bola before him like a talisman. Luka tensed and glanced down at Toraq's hands; the fat man's fingers gripped his weapon until the palms were ghastly-white. "Now see what your laxness has brought to our village!"

"Toraq, lay aside your weapon!" Luka entreated, stepping toward the agitated man with both hands held up cautiously. "I am not the enemy here! If you would listen--"

"You abandoned your station!" interrupted Malaraq, punctuated by angry cries of affirmation from the rest of the horde, which could not seem to decide whether to stare at the bloody battle before them or cluster round the young man and chitter helplessly.