Lord Logenburt Part Seven
By Anna Kaling
The Lord Logenburts
past were responsible for the dragon problem, at least in some
abstract way, and Lord Logenburt present could put an end to it.
He decided on
several courses of action at once, and his body twitched as it tried
to move in all directions. Half of him reached for the crumpled
leathery creature, with vague ideas of strangling it before it
started baying for blood. The other half turned to crush the
remaining eggs before he had to learn the collective noun for baby
dragons. The third half—the part that was terrible at maths—headed
for the door to get help.
He unbalanced, and
performed an ungainly pirouette to right himself. He scolded himself
to think things through and act logically.
But then the dragon
lurched onto all fours and started crawling rapidly towards him, so
he decided on a new option: run away and let somebody else deal with
the problem.
He turned, wincing
as his knee creaked in protest, and found the sneering Baron blocking
his path. He’d acquired a dagger from somewhere; a vicious tapered
blade that glinted in the candlelight like a wink. Frederic
swallowed.
The Baron opened his
mouth but, before he could speak, another voice interrupted.
High-pitched, with a background hiss like a balloon being deflated.
“Mama.”
Frederic whipped
around. The dragon had stopped a few feet away, staring at him with
large yellow eyes.
He must have
misheard. It was imp—
“Mama.”
This time, he saw
the thing’s lips move as it spoke.
He raised a shaky
hand and pointed to his chest. “Me?”
It nodded, then
resumed crawling. Frederic backed away. It occured to him that the
Baron was in that direction—and, more pertinently, the dagger—which
brought him to a halt. Death behind, death ahead.
Courage, or perhaps
desperation, made him blurt out, “Go away!”
The dragon stopped,
and flopped onto its bottom with a dull thud. The little face
crumpled, and Frederic felt a bizarre stab of guilt.
“I’m not your
mama,” he said.
The dragon blinked,
then frowned. It clenched its little fists, and a curl of smoke
drifted out of one nostril. “Mama.” There was a steely note in
its tone that made Frederic swallow again. He recalled, as he often
did in stressful situations, a passage from a book.
Dragons make
excellent parents. The dragoness will guard her eggs fiercely for
several months until they hatch. During this time, her mate will
bring regular meals, even he keeping a wary distance from the
precious clutch. Upon hatching, the dragonling will imprint on the
first face it sees: that of its doting mother.
The
dragon continued to stare, the hissing growing louder until a blue
jet of fire blasted from its black nose.
Frederic
clutched the sleeves of his jacket. “Oh... well... I suppose, in a
way... I mean... yes, okay. Mama.”
“Mama,”
the dragon confirmed, and smiled toothily. It launched itself
forward, tail wagging, and spread its wings. Before Frederic could
move, the creature grasped his trouser leg with sharp claws and
climbed up his body. It sat down on his pot belly, and sniffed at his
jumper.
“Oh
dear lord.” Frederic’s breath exploded. “You don’t want a
nipple, do you?”
It
blinked up at him, expression blank.
“You!”
came a splutter from the Baron. With all the other horrific things
happening, Frederic had blocked out his existence. He was reminded
sharply with the tip of the dagger in his face. His eyes crossed to
keep it in focus. “How dare you! Look here, Dragon, I’m your
mama.”
The
yellow eyes turned their gaze to him. There was a pause, and then the
dragon said, “Bad man.” It stared hard at the Baron, then at the
woman lying pale and still on the slab, and then back. “Bad man
hurt Papa.”
The
Baron’s lips thinned. “Time for you later.” He tightened his
grip on the dagger and took a step closer to Frederic, whose back hit
the wall in less than two seconds.
“You
won’t steal my dragons, Logenburt!” He sprang, slashing with the
dagger. Frederic pressed himself against the wall, trapped, and only
escaped the blade because the Baron withdrew it. He had to, because a
whirl of black jumped from Frederic’s stomach to his face and sank
its teeth in is neck.
The
Baron dropped the knife, and screamed in a surprisingly high pitch.
He rained blows on the little black body clinging to his flesh, but
the dragon didn’t seem to feel them. It flapped its wings, making
the Baron turn away and close his eyes. Blindly, he clamped his hands
around its back and tried to pull it off his neck. Those teeth were
tenacious. The Baron let go, momentum sending him stumbling
backwards, and Frederic felt it in his teeth when skull hit stone.
The
Baron’s eyes stayed closed, and he stopped moving.
Silence.
The
dragon sat on the Baron’s chest, licked its lips with a forked
tongue, and made an unhappy face. Then it morphed into a pink-cheeked
human baby—Frederic noted that it was a girl dragon-baby-thing—took
another tentative lick, and smiled. “Mm.”
It
licked the blood off its face with relish, and then followed the
trail to the puncture wounds in the Baron’s neck. Frederick
strongly considered running away while the thing was distracted, but
he couldn’t leave the Baron like that, no matter what he had done.
“Stop
that!” he said, trying for the tone that his own mother had used to
great effect.
The
baby stopped.
Frederic
leant over the Baron and felt for a pulse. Slow, but strong. The
wound wasn’t bleeding too heavily. He’d have a stonking headache
when he woke up, but unless that crack to the head had caused
internal bleeding, he would survive.
He
turned a stern gaze on the baby. “That was very naughty. Very.”
Its
blue eyes brightened with tears, and its chin wobbled. “Bad man
hurt Papa. Bad man?”
Frederic
hesitated, then admitted, “Well, yes. I suppose. Bad man.”
The
baby smiled and waved chubby fists. “Move Papa? Away from bad man.”
And
that’s how he found himself at the Baron’s door twenty minutes
later, with a dragon stuffed down his jumper and a half-dead woman
propped on his shoulder, trying to edge past the servant who’d
showed him in.
“Are
you sure I can’t arrange a carriage for you, Lord Logenburt? Your
companion looks... tired. Are you quite sure she was with you when
you came in?”
“Yes,”
said Frederic, at the same time she said, “Blergon,” - rather
unhelpfully, he thought. She slumped further onto Frederic’s
shoulder.
Her
skin was milky white, and there were makeshift bandages around her
arms, courtesy of the Baron’s shirt. It’d taken much
ear-splitting wailing from the dragon-baby before her eyelids even
fluttered.
“She’s
Swedish,” he said, as if that explained everything, and pushed past
the servant.
“Bye
bye!” said a muffled voice from his jumper. He shushed her.
This
was going to be difficult to explain to Tubs.