| SORCEROUS SIGNALS |
| Written by Christine Lucas / Artwork by Marge Simon |
| Make a donation to this writer |
| The Runt of the Litter |
“What do you mean, Shaman? My son has no fire magic?” Iskadeera glared at Ogo. She raised her chin, forked
tongue lashing out. “I am the Matriarch of the Red Dragon Clan. Of course he has fire magic. You are mistaken,
human.”
Ogo gulped; the blood drained from his face. He had suspected her summons meant only trouble. “So you are,
Matriarch, but perhaps your son has taken after his father. A green dragon, if I remember correctly?”
“So he has water magic?”
He shook his head, avoiding eye contact. “I don’t know, my lady. I have not sensed water magic either.”
“You are not suggesting that my son is without magic? A runt?” Her roar echoed through the caves and the ground
trembled. The stench of fire and brimstone filled the area.
He fell to his knees and hid his head under his arms. “No, great lady! I’d never suggest that!” He dared a glimpse and
met her amber, lidless eyes, her radiating heat too close. “He has magic, this much I can tell. But I cannot sense its
nature.”
Iskadeera snorted. “So much for human magic.” She waved to another dragon, a guard at the entrance of the
Iridescent Hall. “Escort … this to my son’s lair. The human will stay with us until he has determined the nature of
Nimolath’s magic.” She leaned forward, huge nostrils flaring, until her muzzle was an arm’s length away from Ogo’s
face. “Or until I’m bored with him and feed him to the hatchlings.”
Ogo’s throat hurt, dry and burning from the sulfuric fumes. This couldn’t end well.
###
Ogo settled in a corner in Nimolath’s cave. The dragons had provided straw for his bedding, and showed him where
he could find fresh water. There was an endless supply of roasted meat and fish, even ale from shipwrecks, but Ogo
only wanted to go home. He missed his bed, his cat, his nightly mug of ale by the fireplace. But he wouldn’t risk
displeasing the Matriarch. Ancient pacts aside, her fiery temperament was notorious along the Dragonbone Coast.
She had burned down fishing villages for lesser offences.
Nimolath hopped to Ogo’s corner, carrying a half-eaten moonfish in his jaws. He let it down before Ogo.
“Would you like a bite? It’s good. I just caught it.” Yellow eyes, full of hope, fixed on Ogo’s face.
Ogo’s gaze darted from the dragon’s face to the pink, quivering fish and back. His stomach revolted and he tasted
bile. “Thanks, Master Nimolath, I’ve just eaten.”
The young dragon’s shoulders slumped. “Fine. And call me Nim. Only my mother calls me Nimolath.” His voice softened
to a whisper. “I hate it.” He grabbed the fish and retreated a few paces.
“Of course, Nim.”
Ogo watched the young dragon eat. Only three months old, Nim was already twice a horse’s size. He’d grow to be
bigger than his mother. His scales sparkled in the dim light; mostly green, but streaks of blue and purple crossed the
length of his massive body. So unlike any dragon Ogo had ever seen—not that he’d seen many. He’d be a glorious
beast one day—as long as he had some kind of magic. Dragon runts were not welcome in clans, and were sent into
exile. They rarely survived.
If Ogo failed, or if Nim proved to be a runt, Ogo would follow him in exile. Unless Iskadeera fed him to the hatchlings,
as she had threatened. But even the Matriarch wouldn’t dare break the ancient treaties. Or would she?
Dragons were born with magic in their blood—fire, water, illusion and summoning, or a combination of those.
Divination was not one of their skills, a skill common among the shamans of the Dragonbone Coast. Sages of old had
argued that the dragondust, the remains of dead dragons, had imbued everything along the coast with shards of
magic—especially shamans. Whatever the cause was, the bond between shamans and dragons was too deep to
deny.
The Red Dragon Clan had come to their aid many a time: during the Pirate Wars many lifetimes ago, against the
raiders from the northern steppes, even against the ungodly, monstrous beasts the underwater volcano had spewed
out. So when the Matriarch had summoned him, Ogo had obeyed.
He reached into his bag and took out his pouch of knuckles. Whenever one of his fellow villagers died, Ogo cut off
their thumbs and burned them separately from the rest of the body. So tradition dictated, as an offering to the Lords
of Between, for safe passage to the Afterlife. Then he’d gather some of those knuckles and keep them as divination
tools before throwing the rest of the bones into the Bottomless Bay. He tossed the knuckles and sighed.
For yet another time, they formed the symbol of the Blood Torc: the symbol of the bards. Ogo sighed. What did that
mean? Perhaps a bard, with his own, peculiar magic, was needed to solve the mystery?
Nim, having finished his lunch, hopped back to Ogo’s corner. “What do you see?” His voice quivered with excitement.
Ogo waved over the knuckles forming a crooked semicircle.
“Again?” Disappointment edged Nim’s voice. His breath reeked of raw fish. “You haven’t found anything yet. Have
you?”
Ogo shook his head.
“Mother said she’d wait until the dark of the moon. After that…” His voice trailed off, deep concern coloring the
guttural sound.
“I know.” All his sixty years weighed double on his shoulders. He traced circles in the straw bed, and looked at Nim
with the edge of his vision—the fairy way. The magic was there. It danced in bright sparkles of silver and gold. Flames
danced alongside snowflakes, translucent butterflies flew on the wings of the wind between the worlds. But its
nature, whimsical and playful, still evaded Ogo’s grasp. He sighed. “Let’s try this again.”
“If you think it will change anything…”
Ogo clenched his jaw. The dark of the moon was just a week away. He wouldn’t give up. He couldn’t. “Is there any
firewood left?”
“I’ll go check.” Nim stretched his wings and flew to the far side of the cave. He returned with a thin willow trunk. “Will
that do?”
“We’ll see.” He stepped back. “Try to breathe fire on it.”
Nim’s golden gaze darted from Ogo to the trunk and back. He sighed, and a strange smell filled the air. Not sulfur, like
his mother’s fiery breath, but the scent of fresh grass mixed with the stench of raw fish.
“Please, Nim.”
“Fine.” Nim drew in a deep breath and exhaled with all the strength of his great chest.
A red dragon would have breathed out fire unlike any of human origin: flames crimson and purple and gold,
unquenched by water, so hot that steel melted and rock crumbled. A green dragon would have breathed out steam:
steam so thick no human eye could see through it, snuffing out all lights, its tendrils crawling into nostrils and lungs,
drowning its victims on dry land.
Nim coughed out a pebble.
Ogo hung his head. He was never going to see his village again. He wiped the sweat from his brow and turned to
Nim, hoping his voice wouldn’t show his weariness. “Try with steam now.”
This time, Nim coughed out a handful of pebbles.
Ogo hid his face in his palms.
###
Five days and several buckets of pebbles later, Ogo was none the wiser regarding Nim’s magic. Every time Nim
coughed up pebbles, Ogo looked at him out of the corner of his eye. Magic swirled around him, tongues of azure and
green, blending with streaks of honey brown. Notes of a strange song danced around the young dragon but, alas,
Ogo was deaf to its tune.
The knuckles had formed the Blood Torc each and every time. Was Nim’s gift akin to bard magic? Ogo knew little of
the affairs of bards, and liked it this way. He had never trusted their silver-tongued lot. But perhaps telling the
Matriarch of this connection would buy both of them some time.
Deep in his heart, Ogo doubted that. He’d never see his home again. Who would take care of his cat?
“Master Ogo!”
Nim’s voice pulled him out of his grim thoughts. His cat was a scarred tomcat with a deep hatred for everything that
flew or crawled. He’d manage.
“Yes, Nim?”
“I’ve brought you dinner.” Nim hopped closer with a ray in his fangs. One of its fins lacked a chunk the shape and size
of a dragon’s jaws.
Ogo looked away, the taste of bile strong in his mouth. “No, thanks, Nim.”
Nim put the ray down. “You haven’t eaten anything in days.” Concern colored his voice. “You only drink…that.” He
pointed at the empty keg.
“Ale is good for my aging heart. I’ll eat in the morning.”
Nim hopped closer. “You have given up.”
“Go eat your catch, Nim.”
“Why have you given up? If you tell Mother about the bard connection, perhaps she will let you go and summon a
bard.”
“Perhaps.” Nim did not know bards were tricksters. More often than not, the sign of the Blood Torc meant mischief. By
now, Ogo suspected Nim’s condition was the result of a cosmic prank. Bards had some sort of earth magic, as far as
he recalled. That would explain the pebbles. But there was little love and much mischief between bards and dragons.
What had Iskadeera done? Burned down a sacred grove to the God of Bards, or one of their holy vineyards?
Yes, telling the Matriarch she needs a bard’s help will go well. So very well.
Ogo hung his head.
Nim’s scaly muzzle nudged his side. “Would you like to come and sit with me atop the cliff? The dolphins have
returned.”
Ogo sighed. “Perhaps fresh air will clear my head.” But he doubted it could ease his heart.
###
The view from the cliff always left Ogo breathless. Nim had carried him to a ledge high above the sea. The crimson
moon shone above, its light reflecting a thousandfold on the waves and the dolphins’ silver backs. No dragon would
ever harm a dolphin, but Ogo knew not why. All his attempts to find out had led to cryptic answers, even from Nim.
Dolphins never came out at night. But this one night every year, they’d gather in the Bottomless Bay and dance under
the sickle moon. They leaped over the water, swirled, chirped in their own, playful tongue, and celebrated Gods knew
what. A victory, a holy day, or just Life?
Despite the glorious sight, Ogo shifted uncomfortably in his place. He shouldn’t have drunk all that ale. He had to
relieve himself, but could never do it in front of Nim. He glanced around. A steep path led to another ledge lower from
where they were sitting. It shouldn’t be hard to reach it. He stood, his hand grasping the slippery rock as tightly as
possible.
“Um, Nim, I need to be alone for a moment. Nature calls.”
“As you wish.” Nim chuckled and hacked another pebble.
Ogo rolled his eyes. What sort of magic was this?
“Would you like me to fly you to a safer place?”
Ogo’s face burned. “I think I can manage.” He took a first tentative step downwards, and found out he couldn’t. He
slipped and fell over the edge, flapping his arms.
I’m dead. Oh Gods, I’m dead.
His body crashed on a narrow ledge part way down, and a sharp pain in his calf made his eyes blur. His fingers tried
to grab at something solid, but failed.
Better drown than end up exiled and dishonored.
The thought had hardly left his mind when taloned hands caught him and carried him upwards.
Bless you, Nim, with your pebble magic.
###
Nim carried him back to their cave. Ogo gazed at his left leg, the knee twisted at an odd angle. A broken bone jutted
out of his torn skin. He had grown used to the pain now. It would soon end, anyway. He could never decipher Nim’s
mystery in such condition. Nor could he follow him in exile—he’d never walk anywhere again. The Matriarch would put
him out of his misery, for sure. Dinner for the clan’s hatchings.
“Does it hurt?” Nim leaned over the injured leg.
“What do you think?” Ogo glared at him.
Nim leaned closer, his muzzle almost touching the torn flesh.
Does the smell of blood tempt him to a bite?
Then Nim recoiled and exhaled over Ogo’s leg. A thin mist sprang from his nostrils—a luminous mist. The scent of
honeysuckle and lemon balm filled the air around them. The mist swirled, forming radiant spheres that changed to
snowflakes and back to spheres, dancing all around them. One by one, they soared over Ogo’s broken leg. With each
ethereal kiss, the bones snapped in place, the blood dried, the skin mended. They dissolved to the breeze, and the
pain left his knee, leaving only a white scar and a sweet sense of numbness.
Ogo blinked. He bent and stretched his knee, over and over. “Nim? Did you do that?” Of course he did, old goat. The
magic of mending: the bards’ magic. How had he forgotten that?
Nim raised his chin. “I did.” Pride colored his voice. “Is this my magic?”
Ogo nodded. Now it made sense; the magic of mending, of Earth, with all its soil and stones and pebbles.
“Will Mother be pleased?”
Ogo grinned, for the first time in days. “Yes, Nim, she will.” He glanced at the young dragon who marveled in his new-
found magic. Nim—no, Nimolath would one day be a great dragon, the first of a new tribe.
A Patriarch.
Ogo stood up and dusted his clothes. “Let’s go find your mother, Nim. You’re not the runt of her litter. You’re a Dragon
Bard.”
That should be fun.
tongue lashing out. “I am the Matriarch of the Red Dragon Clan. Of course he has fire magic. You are mistaken,
human.”
Ogo gulped; the blood drained from his face. He had suspected her summons meant only trouble. “So you are,
Matriarch, but perhaps your son has taken after his father. A green dragon, if I remember correctly?”
“So he has water magic?”
He shook his head, avoiding eye contact. “I don’t know, my lady. I have not sensed water magic either.”
“You are not suggesting that my son is without magic? A runt?” Her roar echoed through the caves and the ground
trembled. The stench of fire and brimstone filled the area.
He fell to his knees and hid his head under his arms. “No, great lady! I’d never suggest that!” He dared a glimpse and
met her amber, lidless eyes, her radiating heat too close. “He has magic, this much I can tell. But I cannot sense its
nature.”
Iskadeera snorted. “So much for human magic.” She waved to another dragon, a guard at the entrance of the
Iridescent Hall. “Escort … this to my son’s lair. The human will stay with us until he has determined the nature of
Nimolath’s magic.” She leaned forward, huge nostrils flaring, until her muzzle was an arm’s length away from Ogo’s
face. “Or until I’m bored with him and feed him to the hatchlings.”
Ogo’s throat hurt, dry and burning from the sulfuric fumes. This couldn’t end well.
###
Ogo settled in a corner in Nimolath’s cave. The dragons had provided straw for his bedding, and showed him where
he could find fresh water. There was an endless supply of roasted meat and fish, even ale from shipwrecks, but Ogo
only wanted to go home. He missed his bed, his cat, his nightly mug of ale by the fireplace. But he wouldn’t risk
displeasing the Matriarch. Ancient pacts aside, her fiery temperament was notorious along the Dragonbone Coast.
She had burned down fishing villages for lesser offences.
Nimolath hopped to Ogo’s corner, carrying a half-eaten moonfish in his jaws. He let it down before Ogo.
“Would you like a bite? It’s good. I just caught it.” Yellow eyes, full of hope, fixed on Ogo’s face.
Ogo’s gaze darted from the dragon’s face to the pink, quivering fish and back. His stomach revolted and he tasted
bile. “Thanks, Master Nimolath, I’ve just eaten.”
The young dragon’s shoulders slumped. “Fine. And call me Nim. Only my mother calls me Nimolath.” His voice softened
to a whisper. “I hate it.” He grabbed the fish and retreated a few paces.
“Of course, Nim.”
Ogo watched the young dragon eat. Only three months old, Nim was already twice a horse’s size. He’d grow to be
bigger than his mother. His scales sparkled in the dim light; mostly green, but streaks of blue and purple crossed the
length of his massive body. So unlike any dragon Ogo had ever seen—not that he’d seen many. He’d be a glorious
beast one day—as long as he had some kind of magic. Dragon runts were not welcome in clans, and were sent into
exile. They rarely survived.
If Ogo failed, or if Nim proved to be a runt, Ogo would follow him in exile. Unless Iskadeera fed him to the hatchlings,
as she had threatened. But even the Matriarch wouldn’t dare break the ancient treaties. Or would she?
Dragons were born with magic in their blood—fire, water, illusion and summoning, or a combination of those.
Divination was not one of their skills, a skill common among the shamans of the Dragonbone Coast. Sages of old had
argued that the dragondust, the remains of dead dragons, had imbued everything along the coast with shards of
magic—especially shamans. Whatever the cause was, the bond between shamans and dragons was too deep to
deny.
The Red Dragon Clan had come to their aid many a time: during the Pirate Wars many lifetimes ago, against the
raiders from the northern steppes, even against the ungodly, monstrous beasts the underwater volcano had spewed
out. So when the Matriarch had summoned him, Ogo had obeyed.
He reached into his bag and took out his pouch of knuckles. Whenever one of his fellow villagers died, Ogo cut off
their thumbs and burned them separately from the rest of the body. So tradition dictated, as an offering to the Lords
of Between, for safe passage to the Afterlife. Then he’d gather some of those knuckles and keep them as divination
tools before throwing the rest of the bones into the Bottomless Bay. He tossed the knuckles and sighed.
For yet another time, they formed the symbol of the Blood Torc: the symbol of the bards. Ogo sighed. What did that
mean? Perhaps a bard, with his own, peculiar magic, was needed to solve the mystery?
Nim, having finished his lunch, hopped back to Ogo’s corner. “What do you see?” His voice quivered with excitement.
Ogo waved over the knuckles forming a crooked semicircle.
“Again?” Disappointment edged Nim’s voice. His breath reeked of raw fish. “You haven’t found anything yet. Have
you?”
Ogo shook his head.
“Mother said she’d wait until the dark of the moon. After that…” His voice trailed off, deep concern coloring the
guttural sound.
“I know.” All his sixty years weighed double on his shoulders. He traced circles in the straw bed, and looked at Nim
with the edge of his vision—the fairy way. The magic was there. It danced in bright sparkles of silver and gold. Flames
danced alongside snowflakes, translucent butterflies flew on the wings of the wind between the worlds. But its
nature, whimsical and playful, still evaded Ogo’s grasp. He sighed. “Let’s try this again.”
“If you think it will change anything…”
Ogo clenched his jaw. The dark of the moon was just a week away. He wouldn’t give up. He couldn’t. “Is there any
firewood left?”
“I’ll go check.” Nim stretched his wings and flew to the far side of the cave. He returned with a thin willow trunk. “Will
that do?”
“We’ll see.” He stepped back. “Try to breathe fire on it.”
Nim’s golden gaze darted from Ogo to the trunk and back. He sighed, and a strange smell filled the air. Not sulfur, like
his mother’s fiery breath, but the scent of fresh grass mixed with the stench of raw fish.
“Please, Nim.”
“Fine.” Nim drew in a deep breath and exhaled with all the strength of his great chest.
A red dragon would have breathed out fire unlike any of human origin: flames crimson and purple and gold,
unquenched by water, so hot that steel melted and rock crumbled. A green dragon would have breathed out steam:
steam so thick no human eye could see through it, snuffing out all lights, its tendrils crawling into nostrils and lungs,
drowning its victims on dry land.
Nim coughed out a pebble.
Ogo hung his head. He was never going to see his village again. He wiped the sweat from his brow and turned to
Nim, hoping his voice wouldn’t show his weariness. “Try with steam now.”
This time, Nim coughed out a handful of pebbles.
Ogo hid his face in his palms.
###
Five days and several buckets of pebbles later, Ogo was none the wiser regarding Nim’s magic. Every time Nim
coughed up pebbles, Ogo looked at him out of the corner of his eye. Magic swirled around him, tongues of azure and
green, blending with streaks of honey brown. Notes of a strange song danced around the young dragon but, alas,
Ogo was deaf to its tune.
The knuckles had formed the Blood Torc each and every time. Was Nim’s gift akin to bard magic? Ogo knew little of
the affairs of bards, and liked it this way. He had never trusted their silver-tongued lot. But perhaps telling the
Matriarch of this connection would buy both of them some time.
Deep in his heart, Ogo doubted that. He’d never see his home again. Who would take care of his cat?
“Master Ogo!”
Nim’s voice pulled him out of his grim thoughts. His cat was a scarred tomcat with a deep hatred for everything that
flew or crawled. He’d manage.
“Yes, Nim?”
“I’ve brought you dinner.” Nim hopped closer with a ray in his fangs. One of its fins lacked a chunk the shape and size
of a dragon’s jaws.
Ogo looked away, the taste of bile strong in his mouth. “No, thanks, Nim.”
Nim put the ray down. “You haven’t eaten anything in days.” Concern colored his voice. “You only drink…that.” He
pointed at the empty keg.
“Ale is good for my aging heart. I’ll eat in the morning.”
Nim hopped closer. “You have given up.”
“Go eat your catch, Nim.”
“Why have you given up? If you tell Mother about the bard connection, perhaps she will let you go and summon a
bard.”
“Perhaps.” Nim did not know bards were tricksters. More often than not, the sign of the Blood Torc meant mischief. By
now, Ogo suspected Nim’s condition was the result of a cosmic prank. Bards had some sort of earth magic, as far as
he recalled. That would explain the pebbles. But there was little love and much mischief between bards and dragons.
What had Iskadeera done? Burned down a sacred grove to the God of Bards, or one of their holy vineyards?
Yes, telling the Matriarch she needs a bard’s help will go well. So very well.
Ogo hung his head.
Nim’s scaly muzzle nudged his side. “Would you like to come and sit with me atop the cliff? The dolphins have
returned.”
Ogo sighed. “Perhaps fresh air will clear my head.” But he doubted it could ease his heart.
###
The view from the cliff always left Ogo breathless. Nim had carried him to a ledge high above the sea. The crimson
moon shone above, its light reflecting a thousandfold on the waves and the dolphins’ silver backs. No dragon would
ever harm a dolphin, but Ogo knew not why. All his attempts to find out had led to cryptic answers, even from Nim.
Dolphins never came out at night. But this one night every year, they’d gather in the Bottomless Bay and dance under
the sickle moon. They leaped over the water, swirled, chirped in their own, playful tongue, and celebrated Gods knew
what. A victory, a holy day, or just Life?
Despite the glorious sight, Ogo shifted uncomfortably in his place. He shouldn’t have drunk all that ale. He had to
relieve himself, but could never do it in front of Nim. He glanced around. A steep path led to another ledge lower from
where they were sitting. It shouldn’t be hard to reach it. He stood, his hand grasping the slippery rock as tightly as
possible.
“Um, Nim, I need to be alone for a moment. Nature calls.”
“As you wish.” Nim chuckled and hacked another pebble.
Ogo rolled his eyes. What sort of magic was this?
“Would you like me to fly you to a safer place?”
Ogo’s face burned. “I think I can manage.” He took a first tentative step downwards, and found out he couldn’t. He
slipped and fell over the edge, flapping his arms.
I’m dead. Oh Gods, I’m dead.
His body crashed on a narrow ledge part way down, and a sharp pain in his calf made his eyes blur. His fingers tried
to grab at something solid, but failed.
Better drown than end up exiled and dishonored.
The thought had hardly left his mind when taloned hands caught him and carried him upwards.
Bless you, Nim, with your pebble magic.
###
Nim carried him back to their cave. Ogo gazed at his left leg, the knee twisted at an odd angle. A broken bone jutted
out of his torn skin. He had grown used to the pain now. It would soon end, anyway. He could never decipher Nim’s
mystery in such condition. Nor could he follow him in exile—he’d never walk anywhere again. The Matriarch would put
him out of his misery, for sure. Dinner for the clan’s hatchings.
“Does it hurt?” Nim leaned over the injured leg.
“What do you think?” Ogo glared at him.
Nim leaned closer, his muzzle almost touching the torn flesh.
Does the smell of blood tempt him to a bite?
Then Nim recoiled and exhaled over Ogo’s leg. A thin mist sprang from his nostrils—a luminous mist. The scent of
honeysuckle and lemon balm filled the air around them. The mist swirled, forming radiant spheres that changed to
snowflakes and back to spheres, dancing all around them. One by one, they soared over Ogo’s broken leg. With each
ethereal kiss, the bones snapped in place, the blood dried, the skin mended. They dissolved to the breeze, and the
pain left his knee, leaving only a white scar and a sweet sense of numbness.
Ogo blinked. He bent and stretched his knee, over and over. “Nim? Did you do that?” Of course he did, old goat. The
magic of mending: the bards’ magic. How had he forgotten that?
Nim raised his chin. “I did.” Pride colored his voice. “Is this my magic?”
Ogo nodded. Now it made sense; the magic of mending, of Earth, with all its soil and stones and pebbles.
“Will Mother be pleased?”
Ogo grinned, for the first time in days. “Yes, Nim, she will.” He glanced at the young dragon who marveled in his new-
found magic. Nim—no, Nimolath would one day be a great dragon, the first of a new tribe.
A Patriarch.
Ogo stood up and dusted his clothes. “Let’s go find your mother, Nim. You’re not the runt of her litter. You’re a Dragon
Bard.”
That should be fun.
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