air feels thicker. There’s greater pressure the lower you descend. Higher up, the air becomes thinner and even a Dragon can suffer from lack of oxygen. A good Dragon Rider watches out for signs of oxygen deprivation–slowed reactions, headaches, nausea–”
“And those scale mites you were talking about.”
“All in good time, Rider,” he reproved her. “My mites have travelled with me many a league. They will last a few more.”
Zardon flew on until the night was well advanced, the sixteen hours of daylight yielding to the eleven hours of night. Dragon eyesight could pierce the darkness easily. But when the Blue and White moons rose, Pip was also able to discern the ridge they flew over. The Dragon brought them down beside a round crater lake, where Pip once more extricated Hunagu from his net.
The Oraial yawned mightily. “Pip good-good?”
“Pip tired. Hunagu safe in net?”
“Ape not made to fly. But Dragon good. Hunagu mighty-big hungry.”
“Hunagu always hungry,” Pip grinned. “Nice bushes here. Go eat.”
The Oraial ambled off, his belly rumbling in anticipation of grazing on a sprawling patch of berry bushes nearby. Pip hoped he was alright. Hunagu did not sound happy. Had she done wrong, bringing him? Or by not insisting that Zardon take him directly to the Crescent Islands?
Rather than chew over what she could not change, Pip poked her head inside Zardon’s mouth. Riders were supposed to look after their Dragons’ fangs. “Show me again where it hurts.”
Zardon pointed with his claw. Pip could not see very well in the gloom, but it seemed that he had a bone stuck right in the base of his jaw between the last two fangs. The sharp end jabbed into the flesh of his cheek.
“It’s a bone, wedged between your teeth,” she said.
“Probably some luckless ralti sheep. Can you reach it?”
“Not without climbing inside your mouth.”
“Ah, doth the mighty Pygmy warrior tremble?”
That was how Pip ended up inside Zardon’s mouth, clambering over the rough bulge of his tongue toward the back of his throat. She tried to ignore thoughts of what might happen if she tickled him enough to trigger his swallow-reflex. Dragons’ food-stomachs were extremely acidic, able to digest most things, even bone. He’d make short work of a Pygmy, warrior or none.
“Somehow, my Dragon fire never burned that bone out,” he said.
“It’s below the tongue’s surface,” said Pip, trying to grapple with the slimy bone. “Perhaps you shape the fire with your tongue as it comes out?”
An ominous rumble sounded somewhere down that dark passageway. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about fire right now,” said Zardon.
Pip suppressed a violent urge to shout something rude and most likely regrettable down his throat. She said, “Tell me, Zardon, what am I supposed to be doing in Jeradia?”
“Going to school.”
“School? Oh, Zardon, you’re the best!”
With that, Pip heaved the bone free. She stumbled backward, catching herself on the back of his throat. Zardon coughed, spluttered, heaved for air, and wheezed, “Get out, get out …”
She bolted for the front of his mouth, but his tongue caught up and slapped her legs out from under her. Zardon spat Pip fifty feet through the air. Flames blossomed along the path she had taken, coming within inches of roasting her rump. Pip splashed down hard, but she had barely begun to kick for the surface when a paw snatched her up again.
“I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”
Pip wiped the water streaming down her face. All she could think of to say was, “See, Pygmies can fly.”
The Dragon’s apologies were drowned out in the thunder of his laughter.
Dragon care was not what Pip had imagined, particularly not when she had to shove her arm up to the armpit into his ear canal to dig out a lump of ear wax he could not reach. Dragons had three ear canals either side of their skull, pointing forward, upward and sideways. The passages were easily large
“And those scale mites you were talking about.”
“All in good time, Rider,” he reproved her. “My mites have travelled with me many a league. They will last a few more.”
Zardon flew on until the night was well advanced, the sixteen hours of daylight yielding to the eleven hours of night. Dragon eyesight could pierce the darkness easily. But when the Blue and White moons rose, Pip was also able to discern the ridge they flew over. The Dragon brought them down beside a round crater lake, where Pip once more extricated Hunagu from his net.
The Oraial yawned mightily. “Pip good-good?”
“Pip tired. Hunagu safe in net?”
“Ape not made to fly. But Dragon good. Hunagu mighty-big hungry.”
“Hunagu always hungry,” Pip grinned. “Nice bushes here. Go eat.”
The Oraial ambled off, his belly rumbling in anticipation of grazing on a sprawling patch of berry bushes nearby. Pip hoped he was alright. Hunagu did not sound happy. Had she done wrong, bringing him? Or by not insisting that Zardon take him directly to the Crescent Islands?
Rather than chew over what she could not change, Pip poked her head inside Zardon’s mouth. Riders were supposed to look after their Dragons’ fangs. “Show me again where it hurts.”
Zardon pointed with his claw. Pip could not see very well in the gloom, but it seemed that he had a bone stuck right in the base of his jaw between the last two fangs. The sharp end jabbed into the flesh of his cheek.
“It’s a bone, wedged between your teeth,” she said.
“Probably some luckless ralti sheep. Can you reach it?”
“Not without climbing inside your mouth.”
“Ah, doth the mighty Pygmy warrior tremble?”
That was how Pip ended up inside Zardon’s mouth, clambering over the rough bulge of his tongue toward the back of his throat. She tried to ignore thoughts of what might happen if she tickled him enough to trigger his swallow-reflex. Dragons’ food-stomachs were extremely acidic, able to digest most things, even bone. He’d make short work of a Pygmy, warrior or none.
“Somehow, my Dragon fire never burned that bone out,” he said.
“It’s below the tongue’s surface,” said Pip, trying to grapple with the slimy bone. “Perhaps you shape the fire with your tongue as it comes out?”
An ominous rumble sounded somewhere down that dark passageway. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about fire right now,” said Zardon.
Pip suppressed a violent urge to shout something rude and most likely regrettable down his throat. She said, “Tell me, Zardon, what am I supposed to be doing in Jeradia?”
“Going to school.”
“School? Oh, Zardon, you’re the best!”
With that, Pip heaved the bone free. She stumbled backward, catching herself on the back of his throat. Zardon coughed, spluttered, heaved for air, and wheezed, “Get out, get out …”
She bolted for the front of his mouth, but his tongue caught up and slapped her legs out from under her. Zardon spat Pip fifty feet through the air. Flames blossomed along the path she had taken, coming within inches of roasting her rump. Pip splashed down hard, but she had barely begun to kick for the surface when a paw snatched her up again.
“I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”
Pip wiped the water streaming down her face. All she could think of to say was, “See, Pygmies can fly.”
The Dragon’s apologies were drowned out in the thunder of his laughter.
Dragon care was not what Pip had imagined, particularly not when she had to shove her arm up to the armpit into his ear canal to dig out a lump of ear wax he could not reach. Dragons had three ear canals either side of their skull, pointing forward, upward and sideways. The passages were easily large
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