Here Be Dragons: Book 1 of the Emergence Series

Pryce fired off a flare into the sky; the red flame burned for about forty seconds before fading away, which should have given Fathom plenty of time to see the signal.

Then he tried to get the ship moving as quickly as he could, but the simple fact of the matter was that the Horizon had a long and complicated start-up process. It was apparently much simpler in design compared to older ships of similar size, but it also wasn't meant to be manned and operated by a single person.

The task was difficult, but it wasn't anything he hadn't done before, and eventually the engines roared to life.

Unbeaching the Horizon was a comparatively simple process; a quick reversal of the propeller pulled the ship free from the shore, allowing it to drift out into the open ocean.

Then came the hard part. He slowly and carefully directed the ship, guiding it up the river that he'd just followed on foot. He was far from a skilled helmsman, but this estuary was on average at least fifty meters wide, giving him considerable room for failure.

Even so, his lack of skill almost resulted in him crashing into the sides of the river…several times. In this manner he barely managed to avoid total disaster, but that wasn't to say that he didn't encounter any problems. The ship would scrape against the rocky riverbed whenever he strayed too close to the shores, as if it were groaning in pain. It could be taking on water for all he knew, but he was stuck manning the wheelhouse – any checks would have to wait until he reached his destination.

Pryce gritted his teeth as he gently corrected the Horizon back on course. He'd known that guiding the ship up the river would be a harrowing task, but the inertia of the Horizon made maneuvering a slow and gradual process. Any correction had to be done well in advance, especially when a short lapse in attention could spell disaster.

The demanding journey dragged on and on in this manner, taxing his already strained nerves. It had taken almost an hour, but he had finally made it back to the base of the mountain.

The ship's approach had scared off all forms of wildlife, including the massive crocodiles that hung around the beach. Pryce slowly allowed the river to kill the ship's momentum, then revved up the engines one last time to embed the flat bow of the ship onto the beach. He dropped the anchors the moment the Horizon ground to a halt, then dashed to the lower levels of the ship to check for damage.

Pryce spent another half hour thoroughly combing the walls for any signs of leakage – fortunately finding none. The hull visibly bulged inwards in several places, but not nearly enough to be at risk of letting in water.

With that critical task accomplished Pryce gathered as many bags of medicine and equipment as he could carry, bringing them to the cargo hold of the ship. As the stern gate opened he made sure to scan the surrounding beach, only stepping outside when he was reasonably certain that the coast was clear.

With the bags slung over his shoulder, he made his way back up the mountain. It was tiring to march upwards while carrying tens of kilograms of equipment, but nothing he couldn't handle. The trees were rather sparse in this area, and it didn't take long for him to see Fathom sitting right outside the entrance to his home. Pryce began to relax as he climbed the last hundred meters or so, but was startled by a loud chuffing noise.

Pryce whipped his head around to see a massive horned creature standing to his right. The animal chuffed again, and he warily backed away, rifle raised. It seemed to be a mountain stag, but the creature was considerably more terrifying than Pryce initially imagined.

The stag seemed unappeased by Pryce's steady retreat, and its hooved feet clomped against the rocky terrain – another sign of aggression. The animal bowed its head one more time, and-

Pryce jumped as a roar tore through the air. The deafening noise startled the stag as well, and it all but leapt down the mountainside to flee with impressive grace.

"Thank you," Pryce gasped as he approached Fathom, having clambered up the rest of the mountain.

"You…not hurt?" Fathom asked, sounding a little winded. The dragon didn't look much better than when Pryce had left, and even now he stood with a stiff, pained posture.

"Yes, I am not hurt," Pryce nodded reassuringly. "Go back inside, I help you heal."

The first thing Pryce did was to prepare a source of sanitized water. Fortunately Fathom kept a trough of fresh water in his home, which Pryce disinfected with a few drops of chlorine.

Pryce knew that timekeeping would be of vital importance, so he'd brought with him one of the ship's spare chronometers, which were an earlier model than his own. It would take half an hour for the water to fully disinfect, and in the meantime he made a few more trips back to the ship to bring all the equipment he would need for the operation.

Upon gathering the necessary tools, Pryce took a moment to consider his next actions. Fathom could tough out the stitches, but Pryce simply couldn't operate on the wing while he was still conscious.

"This medicine is 'anesthetic'," he said, holding up a syringe of thiamylal, a general anesthetic. He went on to explain how the medicine could temporarily put a human into a deep sleep, but he would have to test it on Fathom first in order to know how long it would affect a dragon. Once these tests were complete he would be able to keep Fathom unconscious until he was finished patching him up.

"Not feel pain is very good," Fathom said, laboriously lifting his head off the ground to peer at the syringe. "I drink this medicine now?"

"No, anesthetic need to go into your blood. I need to make tiny wound with this," Pryce explained, pointing to the tip of the needle.

"Oh," Fathom said, looking much less enthused. "...This is medicine for human, how you know is not poison to me?" he asked, warily eyeing the needle.

"I use small amount. If you okay, I use more." Pryce hated to use such a reckless method, but he didn't have any other choice.

"...Okay," Fathom grunted, and reluctantly allowed Pryce scour his body for a good vein, a task which proved to be an unexpected roadblock. The dragon's hide was far thicker than human skin, and it was impossible to find any arteries, let alone any veins.

Fathom's wounds had all long since stopped bleeding, but Pryce noticed that one particular shoulder wound appeared to have bled more than the others. Using this information he probed Fathom's other shoulder in the same spot, sliding the needle underneath the scales until he was able to draw blood up the syringe, indicating that he'd hit a vein.

"Okay, done," Pryce said, withdrawing the needle. This particular dosage made the large assumption that the dragon was equivalent to a 226 kilogram human – one who was twice as sensitive as the average person. As such, Pryce didn't expect it to put Fathom to sleep – no, this was more of a test to see how the dragon would react to thiamylal.

With the anesthetic delivered, Pryce began to lay out and organize his array of medical tools. None of the equipment was designed for use on a dragon, obviously, but most of Fathom's wounds were flesh wounds, which would be simple enough to treat with stitches.

The real area of concern was his broken wing, which Pryce wasn't quite sure how to treat. A standard procedure simply didn't exist for fixing a dragon's broken bones, so the best he could do was to treat it like any other, and to hold it in place with titanium rods, nails, and screws.

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"How you fix wounds?" Fathom asked, peering warily at the various tools that Pryce had laid out on a tarp.

"I use needle and thread, make wounds not open," Pryce said, pointing at the tools in question. "String and needle go through body, make small wound. String keep wound from opening," he reluctantly explained. It was an unpleasant process, but it wouldn't do any good to lie about it now. "I take away string when wound heal," he added, before Fathom could ask the obvious question.

"You…do this for all human wounds?" Fathom asked hesitantly.

"For big wounds, yes. Needle and thread is very safe, and is very good for healing," Pryce reassured. "Do you feel different?" he asked, noticing that several minutes had passed since the injection. The thiamylal should be taking effect already, but Fathom still seemed quite conscious.

"Some?" Fathom mumbled, flexing a foreclaw uncertainly. "Body feel strange…like I sit on leg or tail bad."

"That is normal, is good," Pryce nodded, relieved that the drug was working. "I give you more anesthetic now. When you go to sleep, I will try to fix your wounds and your wing."

"Wait," Fathom said, leaning away from the needle. "...How you try to fix my wing?"

"I use tools, make bones stay together," Pryce said, adjusting his glasses. "I will try. I fix human bones before, but…I do not know if I can fix your wing."

"Understand…You try. Thank you," Fathom said, arduously lifting his head to nod his thanks.

"Thanks not needed," Pryce replied, gently injecting another dose into Fathom's shoulder. "You will wake up soon after you go to sleep. Tell me when you are awake, and I will give you more anesthetic."

"Okay," Fathom nodded wearily, his eyelids drooping as he laid down to rest. "It is normal for dragon with wounds…to sleep very deep," he murmured. "Sleep help heal…is good…"

The dragon trailed off as consciousness slipped away, and soon his breathing slowed to a light snore.

The water still needed another twenty minutes to be fully sanitized, but Fathom's wounds had been left untreated for long enough. Pryce wetted a piece of gauze with water and alcohol, then used it to wipe down the dragon's injuries. Fortunately Fathom didn't so much as twitch throughout the entire cleaning process, and it seemed that he was well and truly asleep. Unfortunately Pryce could only reach so many wounds; with Fathom lying on his right, any injuries on that side of the torso would have to be treated later.

Twelve minutes had elapsed by the time Pryce had finished cleaning the dragon's wounds, and by then Fathom had begun to stir.

"Are you awake?" Pryce asked, kneeling down by Fathom's head.

"...Yes…wounds…hurt more," Fathom murmured weakly, his words slurred and inarticulate.

"I use alcohol to clean wounds. Is painful, but it kills bacteria," Pryce said, placing his palm against the dragon's neck in an attempt to calm him – any excessive movement could cause him to start bleeding again. "I give you anesthetic, then you sleep for long time, okay?"

"...Okay," Fathom muttered, his eyes sliding shut as he allowed Pryce to administer another dose of thiamylal. Over the course of the next minute Fathom's breathing slowed once more, proving that the modified dosage was indeed effective.

With this Pryce now knew how to keep Fathom indefinitely sedated. He would have to dose the dragon every ten or twelve minutes – ten to be safe. Thankfully, he had more than enough thiamylal to last the duration of the operation.

Now the treatment could begin in earnest.

Pryce began by stitching the wounds, which was a more difficult task than he initially anticipated. The scales were practically impossible to pierce with a needle, and so he was forced to work around the integuments to pierce the comparatively softer hide beneath. Unfortunately this resulted in irregular placement of the stitches, but it got the job done.

Over the course of the next hour Pryce slowly but steadily stitched up the wounds scattered across Fathom's body. He'd just managed to finish bandaging the most serious injuries when Fathom abruptly began to stir. Pryce hurriedly checked the ship's chronometer, and saw that there were two minutes left until his next scheduled injection of anesthetic.

"Lun…kah…" Fathom murmured, his eyes glossy and unfocused. "Gharrum?" The dragon turned his head to look back on himself, his eyes widening as he gawked at his half-stitched wounds.

"Don't-" Pryce warned, but his words went unheeded as Fathom immediately tried to push himself up, scrambling in a half-lucid panic.

"Hey! It's okay! Fixing is good!" Pryce urgently reassured, and swiftly laid a hand on Fathom's neck again in hopes of placating him. "Remember I tell you? I use needle and thread to make wounds not open, help heal?"

"...Oh," Fathom said faintly, his eyes blank and uncomprehending. "Kah rahn…wan?"

Pryce blinked, not understanding those words at all. Fathom seemed to be more than a little out of it, which wasn't terribly surprising considering his drugged state. "Your wounds are not fixed. I give you more anesthetic, go back to sleep, okay?"

"S…leep," Fathom murmured, his eyes sliding shut as he laid his head back upon the ground.

Pryce wasn't sure if he was actually understood or not, but Fathom did not react upon being given another dose of anesthetic, and soon he was once again properly sedated.

Pryce sighed in relief as Fathom quietly snored away. He didn't know why the dragon had suddenly awoken earlier than he should have, but he didn't have time to think about that now. He swiftly inspected Fathom's wounds, worried that the dragon's panic could have torn some of the stitches.

Fortunately they hadn't torn, and Pryce could now treat other cuts that had been exposed by Fathom's stirring.

This time Pryce made sure to redose Fathom in eight minute intervals, and this seemed to do the trick. After an hour's work, he had finally finished treating all of Fathom's wounds…save for one.

Pryce gulped as he examined the broken wing. The bone was about as thick as a human humerus or femur, and it had cleanly snapped in half at the site of the malunion where the bone was the weakest. It seemed like a clean enough break, but would he be able to fix it with the tools on hand?

Pryce took a deep breath. Only one way to find out.

The circular saw fell silent as Pryce examined his work.

The state of the bones was…acceptable. The osteotomy had gone better than he had feared, but not as well as he'd hoped. The injury itself was awfully awkward to work on, as it was attached to the rest of Fathom's wings, and the bones in question were incredibly durable – not enough to stand up to power tools, but it certainly made things more difficult.

It took over an hour of work, but he eventually managed to fit the two broken pieces of bone back together. He knew this was as good as he was going to get it, and now came the second part of the operation – securing the bones in place so that they would heal in the proper position.

The titanium plates and screws were obviously intended for use on human bones; fortunately the break had occurred in a relatively straight segment of bone, allowing him to hold the broken halves together with a femur plate. The incredibly tough bones made the pilot holes difficult to drill, but Pryce made slow and steady progress until he had clean holes for the screws to bite into.

And that was it. With the bone securely held in place all that was left to do was to shift the muscles and tendons back into place, and to stitch the wound back up. Pryce had checked and measured the same bone on Fathom's other wing to make sure that his work was as symmetrical as could be. He was reasonably certain that the operation had gone about as well as he could have hoped; the rest was up to Fathom's own healing ability now.

With everything sewn and bandaged up, Pryce used a length of rope to tie Fathom's broken wing shut. It was no cast, but it was the best he could do; hopefully the dragon wouldn't accidentally hurt himself when he finally awoke.

Pryce took a sip of water and glanced about the dimly lit cave. It was a mess, with bloody rags and tools all over the place, but it was pitch black outside and any cleaning would have to be done tomorrow. He rubbed his burning eyes as a wave of exhaustion struck him, and he only barely managed to make it to his bags before collapsing into unconsciousness.

Ighen panted as he painfully dragged himself into a shallow cave. His limbs gave out as he collapsed on the old pile of furs, and an involuntary keen escaped his throat as pain seared through his body.

The red dragon's dull sides rose and fell with his shallow, pained breaths. He didn't know why he thought this time would be any different. He'd lost all the same, regardless of how hard he tried.

No, not quite the same. Hironh had broken his wing again. Ighen did not feel as though he'd fought better than before, but today Hironh seemed oddly…off. It didn't properly register to him during their fight, but in retrospect something was definitely strange. Was that father of a bastard* underestimating him? No, that didn't explain things at all. It was almost as if Hironh was restricting himself, but…that just didn't make sense at all.

He would have to think about it later. Ighen was so drained that even keeping his eyes open seemed a monumental task.

In this small damp cave the wounded dragon slowly slid his eyes shut, his pained breaths gradually slowing as consciousness slipped away.

*TL Note: the insult used here refers to "one who begets an unearned egg". Therefore the least awkward and most accurate translation of this Draconic insult would be 'father of a bastard'.