Excerpt: Draft

The High Priestess murmured an incantation. Her clawed forelegs, surprisingly dextrous, waved in tune to her words. She spoke draconic, of course, so I couldn’t understand her, but I knew whatever she said, it was bad for me. Why had I thought I could sneak into the dragon stronghold without being noticed?

She lifted her head and green-golden eyes seared into mine, as if she’d heard my thoughts. Her incantation never paused, and oddly I thought how good she must be at multi-tasking. Funny how often people in near-death circumstances think of truly mundane things. I once knew... but there was no time for stories, was there? I needed to find a way out of this.

From a wooden chest next to her, the dragon High Priestess took a sword. Gems encrusted its hilt and it had no doubt once been some knight’s priceless heirloom. I wondered where the knight was now, briefly, before I realized he had no doubt shared the fate planned for me.

She raised the sword, calling out in draconic in a loud voice. The few dragons gathered echoed her ... I guess they were words ... and the small valley resounded with dragon voices. It must have been a call of some kind, because shortly (she hadn’t even lowered the sword) other dragons began to arrive. Blue, green, silver, black, brown, bronze, even grey dragons swooped in from all directions, gliding up and landing soundlessly in front of their Priestess.

Each bowed, gracefully and quietly, and then moved off to join the ranks of those already present. It appeared the roasting of a human was quite a ceremony and no one wanted to miss it. Surely there wasn’t enough flesh on my admittedly overweight body to appease such a crowd?

It felt like eternity, but was probably closer to ten minutes, before no new dragons flew in. All who were coming were in attendance. The High Priestess snorted, a very un-Priestess sound, and the thing in front of her lit with dragon’s fire.

I hadn’t noticed it before, but now I did and my blood ran cold. (No doubt the dragons could heat it up again when they dined.) A very large pot sat upon a stack of twisted tree limbs. I had no doubts now about my fate; I was to be vischiswa.

Flames licked at the base of the pot, flames started by the no doubt holy breath of the High Priestess. A blue dragon lugged water over and dumped it in. The splash told me water already stood within the pot; apparently the blue thought I needed more fluids to simmer properly.

The High Priestess thrust the sword at the pot, and then at me, speaking to the crowd of watching dragons. A green and a brown, smaller than most, came forward. Were these to be my chefs? They looked young, not more than a century old, barely out of their dragon “teens.” Surely they wouldn’t yet have the fortitude or skill to properly prepare something that comes along so seldom? Good cooking requires practice.