Free The Pygmy Dragon by Marc Secchia Page B

could do would change her fate one iota.
    “Well, don’t just hide in your shelter,” rumbled the Dragon. “Come out where I can see you, little one.”
    Maybe he wasn’t hungry?
    Pip cleared her throat. She quavered, “I’m q-quite c-comfortable right here.”
    “The sulphurous greetings of the Dragon-kind to you, Pip’úrth’l-iòlall-Yò’oótha.”
    The Dragon chuckled, which made flames curl out of his nostrils. His speaking voice was a low thunder that made her innards wobble most disturbingly. How did he know her name? How did he speak Ancient Southern so perfectly? He was as large as a living, breathing mountain fallen from the sky. And he smelled like a Pygmy barbecue pit, of old smoke and embers and a hint of sweet, roasted wild pig. The smell made her strangely homesick, in the midst of her much more sickening fear.
    He added, “I read your name off your leg, little one. And I must add, it suits you from the heavens above to the Islands below. Though I expected you to be bigger than your average loaf of bread.” At this, he chuckled mightily, ruffling Hunagu’s fur with a brisk breeze. “Come. I have searched for you for months, all these long leagues between the Islands. We are leaving this zoo, tonight.”
    Leaving?
    Pip pushed past Hunagu and out into the open. Summoning her utmost daring, she demanded, “Who are you, Dragon? And why should I go with you?”
    Her voice sounded tiny and pathetic next to his rumbling.
    By way of reply, the Dragon stretched out his forepaw and placed it side-on next to Pip, the three long foreclaws and the two opposing ‘thumbs’ curling in toward her, and said, “I am Zardon, the Red Dragon. Even my paw is wider than you are tall. Is that not reason enough?”
    Pip had to exercise every fibre of her willpower not to give in to the desire to bolt. There was nowhere to run to. The Dragon would trap her as a feline played with a mouse. Although the Dragon was old, she guessed, he still moved with agility and grace. The wall of his forepaw and its sword-length talons did not close about her. Was there a hint of amusement in Zardon’s mesmeric gaze?
    Deliberately, she put her hands on her hips. “So I’m supposed to fly with you to fate unknown, lest you turn me into a Pygmy kebab?”
    Zardon guffawed heartily, his laughter rattling the crysglass windows in their casements. He turned his head so that his fire did not sear her or Hunagu, though it set a thirty-foot strip of grass aflame. “You’re a feisty one.”
    “Would you answer my question–uh, Lord Zardon … please?”
    Pip lowered the finger she had just wagged at him. Islands’ sakes, that was like trying to halt a charging Oraial by waving a blade of grass at it. The Dragon stopped laughing. The eye narrowed, the scaly ridge above it drawing down until she realised he was about to say something important. She caught her breath.
    Without warning, his head snapped sideways. Had he heard something? “They’re listening. They’ve followed me here.”
    “Who’s listening?” Pip whispered.
    “Them. Be still. They have eyes and ears everywhere,” he muttered. “I was careful. But was I careful enough?”
    Pip had first thought back to the Shadow Dragon–with a creeping sensation as though a breath of ice had been breathed into her bones–but she realised that Zardon was talking about people, real living people with eyes and ears.
    The Dragon raised his nose, testing the night air. His wings flared as though he faced an enemy. Pip could sense the strain in his body, the muscles quivering with readiness to fight or flee. His peculiar behaviour made her shiver. Then, without warning, his extended foreclaw slipped beneath her chin like a sword of the finest craftsmanship. He raised her gaze to his.
    Wild of eye, Zardon hissed, “Come with me before they find you.”
    Pip expected him to slit her throat. But before she could do more than utter a wordless squeak, the tension appeared to drain from the