Manjucatus wiped the blood off his scaly cheek. His dragon healing sealed the cut where his father had struck him. What about the cut to his heart?
The young dragon flapped his leathery wings, speeding up as he flew through grey rain clouds. What hurt most was seeing his mother, Asoria, lay there on her cushions, just watching. Indifferent to her son’s pain. No, too lazy to move. “Darling, act more like a dragon; don’t flinch at practice. Then your father won’t get so angry. Do like the other dragonlings.”
Salty tears and cold, drizzling rain blurred his vision. Manjucatus wiped them away. That’s better. Forget about them. He flew closer, scanning the granite mountainside. His secret entrance was coming up around this rock fall.
A piercing scream echoed off the mountain. The dragonling glided downward to study the ground below him. That cry sounded like a human. Keen dragon eyes searched the foothills. A flash of metal drew him closer to the open moor. He flew just out of arrow reach even though his scales would protect him from most human weapons.
Light sparkled up ahead. It came from a giant, undulating, wormlike monster which slithered after a limping man.
The human must be hurt. It was easy to outrun a metaleater. The man struggled to carry a large sack, slowing himself down. Why didn’t he drop it and escape? The bag must hold some metal that the worm was after.
Manjucatus studied the man’s faded black robe. He didn’t look rich or like a warrior. A tinker, maybe? Is a bag of pots and pans worth your life, human? The dragonling soared above the scene, watching in amusement as the worm opened its gigantic maw. It would swallow the man as well as the bag—lazy worm.
The man’s dark, bearded face looked over his shoulder, mouth wide in a silent scream.
He needs help. Gran would have helped. “Mercy is stronger than brute strength,” she used to say. Father would scoff, “Mercy never won treasure.” He’d be furious if he saw his son helping a human instead of roasting him and stealing his bag. That’s what Father would do. Manjucatus’s lips twisted into a sneer. But I’m not him.
Plummeting from the sky, the dragonling inhaled. He spewed a stream of fire from his mouth, aiming at the worm’s tail. The scattered metal scales on the creature protected most of its back from fatal damage, but the dragon fire still burned. The worm shrieked and curled its body into a coil, hiding its soft, pink underbelly from the flames. Copper and silver scales glittered in the sunlight. A few precious gold scales were scattered along its back.
He landed between the creature and the cowering man. “Go find your metal somewhere else, worm,” he roared. Well, tried to roar. His voice rose in pitch and cracked.
The metaleater raised its snout. It had no eyes—just a pointed nose with two razor-sharp tusks. He could hear it snuffling, its powerful sense of smell searching out this new threat. The worm drew back at the sharp scent of brimstone and spices.
With a grunt, it rose, swaying in the air, then dove headfirst into the ground. Sharp tusks ripped the sod, gouging a hole in the soil. Mud flew. Manjucatus backed up and watched the metaleater burrow deep into the earth.
“Spare me, oh noble and merciful dragon. I’m a holy man. Dragons don’t eat holy men.” The human cowered, trapped against a large boulder. He dragged his right leg. A rip in his black woolen robe showed a bloody wound running up the man’s calf. The metaleater must have gored him with his tusks.
Dropping his sack, the man held up a simple wooden cross. “See, just a poor lost brother trying to return to my abbey.”
Sitting back on his hind legs, the dragon studied the man. “I won’t hurt you, but there’s no churches or abbeys around here. This is dragon territory.” He squinted at the man and pointed. “What’s in the bag?”
The monk shoved the bag behind his back. “This? Nothing but clothes and food for my journey. I’m headed north to the monastery on Sheepshead Island.”
“Then how come the metaleater came after you?” He crossed his front legs and glared.
The monk’s bushy black eyebrows came together in a dark slash on his forehead. “That monster, it’s called a metaleater?”
“They eat metal to make scales to protect their soft hide.” Manjucatus leaned forward. “They live underground and are blind but can feel it when someone walks above them. And they smell metal, especially silver and gold. They usually eat dirt or dead leaves, but they’ll swallow you whole if you’ve pots and pans on you.”
“Ah yes, my copper cooking pans.” The monk smirked. “I can see you are as wise as they say dragons are. I’ve seen a few flying overhead since I came to the highlands. Most are bigger than you, however.”
Manjucatus blushed dark green. “I’m not fully grown yet. I’m just a dragonling still.” He bowed. “I’m Manjucatus, son of Invinctus the Roarer. Everyone calls me Manny. Who are you?”
He bowed his head. Short black hairs poked through his once-shaved tonsure. “I am Brother Cassius of the Linfarne Monastery, on a mission to deliver messages to our northern brothers. I was—” The color drained from his face. He closed his eyes and swayed.
Manjucatus jumped back as the human slumped to the ground. He crept forward. “Brother Cassius?” He poked the body, but it did not move. Blood stained a nearby puddle of rainwater. Gingerly pinching the black robe, Manny pulled it back and saw the blood-soaked leg. He had to get the monk somewhere safe. Somewhere dry. Somewhere secret.
Coming next month, part 2 of The Treasure Of Manjucatus.
