(I originally wrote this story for a contest. This picture is what I had to work from as a prompt.)

The iridescent blue dragon took three running strides before extending its wings and gliding with an effortless elegance over the edge of the cliff and out toward the valley. Ivar stood helpless, watching the dragon as it soared away from him.

Ivar usually loved watching this dragon fly and would have done so now, except for the man that held his head in a vise-like grip, with a knife at his throat. And if Ivar's dragon, who typically had his back, front, head, feet and everything in between as his first priority, had not been flying in the direct opposite direction as himself.

The dragon, Bayard, belonged to Ivar, although most days the young man had to admit it felt the other way around. Ivar was a Dragon Master, descending from an ancient line of Dragon Masters. His entire family was, in fact, Dragon Masters in one capacity or another. And while there had been a time when the Dragon Masters were looked up to, yes, even revered on some level, that was no longer so.

Now instead of esteemed, his family was disrespected and scorned. Once in a shameful encounter that Ivar would never forget, his uncle, to the boy's mortification and humiliation, had even been spit upon. 

Not just a little ptooey either but a huge, disgusting hocker sucked up somewhere from the bowels of the man's throat and blown out at a high rate of velocity. 

Ivar had to admit, he would have been quite impressed by the feat had the huge gob of spit not just narrowly missed his own face to hit his uncle. Yes, things had been going quite badly for him and his family these past few years, and it wasn't even their fault.

The problem was this, and everyone forgets about it until they can't, is that a dragon likes to eat. Dragons eat a number of small animals, but their favorite is sheep, especially the tiny ones. And while a roasted tiny sheep, also known as lamb, sounds very tasty to a large, hungry dragon, it does not go over very well with the general populace.

Sheep owners want those sheep for their own dinner tables, women like the wool to make clothing, and children, especially girl children, well, they just cry when a dragon eats a little lamb, particularly when it is right in front of them.

"I understand it, I really do," the young man had thought. "But, you know, a dragon it needs to, well, eat." 

So even though dragons had provided safety and protection from any number of invaders coming from all over the continent, from their grandfather's grandfather's time until this very day, people could no longer abide the dragons or their masters and so they, well, they spit.

And while none of this helped the boy's predicament, it did explain it, because the man who held the Ivar's head in a viselike grip with a sharp blade to his neck was a sheepherder. 

"So he claimed," thought the young man, and the sheepherder also claimed that he had seen the aforementioned blue iridescent dragon hovering over his meadow full of tender little baby sheep. "So he claimed." The sheepherder had said that he had been sure his baby sheep count was ten less coming back in than going out.

Ivar thought this was a bunch of horse-pucky. "Really, exactly ten sheep?" It wasn't as though the dragon could count and thought he should polish off one or two more just to make it a nice round, even number. 

Ivar himself had never seen Bayard eat more than eight at one setting with his own eyes, so he doubted very much that he had eaten so many of the sheepherder's little lambs unless they were very little indeed. Ivar rather thought that the sheepherder had padded the number a bit hoping for a little extra reimbursement. "Joke is on him. Like I have the money to pay for even one sheep, little or big," the young man laughed to himself.

As if the man knew Ivar's thoughts, he tightened his already taut grip on the boy's head until Ivar felt his head may indeed mash in like a rotten apple, as the man had threatened to do more than once in the last five minutes. The boy rolled his eyes back and to the right until he could just see the man out of the corner of his eye.

"And look at him, look at how he's dressed. Sheepherder, my left butt cheek! Maybe. If he offers murder for hire on the side."

Ivar, realizing his salvation now depended solely on himself, as he saw not even a dot on the horizon indicating that Bayard was returning to be his savior yet again, patiently waited for a slight loosening of the grip and then took matters into his own hands... or rather head.

A firm headbutt backward had both man and boy reeling but, as Ivar had hoped, he was the first to recover, and like a shot, he ran for the nearest door. 

Which just so happened to be the door to the kitchen that baked his most favorite meat pie and the baker that stalked him.

While the young man loved the meat pies, in fact, could not devour enough of them, he did not love the baker. Oh, she was a fair enough woman, blond, blue-eyed and buxom, most men's dream really. And more than that, she loved him or said she did, often and insistently. 

Yes, she was one of the very few fans still left of the Dragon Masters, and what an unrelenting fan she was. The young man was surprised she hadn't started some sort of Dragon Master Fan Club. What Ivar neglected to realize, or perhaps tried to ignore was that the fan club she wanted to start was the Ivar Fan Club.

Holding one hand to his aching head, the young man shot through the bakery door, and almost landed in the arms of the baker. 

The young woman's face normally lit at the mere sight of him, and on seeing what she thought was him making a beeline for her arms, it fairly glowed. 

In a fluster, she quickly looked, in vain, for a place to set the huge and undeniably heavy tray of pies so she could wrap her apparently strong arms around him, Ivar was through the kitchen and out the front of the building.

Looking back, he thought, "That's right lady, I'm not buying what you are selling unless it is a meat pie or maybe two or three. Or, umm, maybe the apple and the cherry. They aren't bad, actually quite good now that I am thinking about it." Ivar turned for a final glance at the bakery, a sorrowful look crossing his face over the lack of time he had for meat pies or in fact, the eating any food at this moment.

                                                                                          ***

The lovely baker, standing forlornly at the open door of the bakery, sunlight falling onto her golden tresses, herself had a desolate look on her face. However, that changed when she saw the sad look on Ivar's face as he looked back to the bakery. 

Realizing that the other rude man, who had nearly knocked her over was chasing the man of her dreams, and that he couldn't stop for any kind of nourishment, be it for the belly or the heart, she immediately felt an intense lightening of her emotions. She instantly offered him the most radiant smile she could as she brought her hand to her mouth and blew him a kiss. 

At which, Ivar's sorrowful face became a confused then panicked one, as he turned and ran even faster.

                                                                                         ***

The baker was a lovely woman, and she offered quite the skill in feeding a man throughout his entire lifetime in a manner that was surely not to be scoffed at, but Ivar had higher dreams than being the husband of a baker. 

No, what the boy was saving himself for was a princess.

A princess may seem like a tall order for a downtrodden, relative of the spit upon, almost being murdered at this very minute, Dragon Master. But Ivar had his reasons for holding out for one of the fairly hard-to-get lovely ladies. 

Once, when dragons and their masters were all the rage, princesses were regularly and freely given, out of thankfulness and gratefulness that everyone was still, you know, alive. So he thought, why shouldn't it be like that again? 

All that was needed was for dragons to be forgiven for their admittedly disgusting eating habits, and to become at least fashionable again, though what the young man was really hoping for was adoration, if not actual lionization. (Yes, I know it is an odd word, but hey, we are living in at least medieval times. Maybe even a different planet or dimension altogether. I'm not really sure. Anyway, I am just a narrator repeating the words, odd or not, that I hear.)

Ivar raced down the street and into an alley. Up another street. Through a ditch. Still, the man continued to give chase. 

"Oh give up already!" the boy hollered. His eyes raked the streets, frantically searching for a place to run next in the dismally small town.

To his right, Ivar spied a small, though brilliant flash of blue, through the trees. He changed direction making that his immediate goal. 

Getting closer, he saw that it was his beloved, though seriously in trouble, dragon. The mode of escape that could take the boy high into the sky where he could look down on the sheepherder/murderer-for-hire in safety and, well, derision, downright mockery even.

The young man cut through the final stand of trees coming face to face with the dragon. "Bayard," he called out, "where have you been?" 

To which Bayard gave his usual dragon look, which Ivar, though he had known this dragon his entire life, had, in fact, grown up alongside him, had yet to ever decipher.

The sheepherder/murder-for-hire man had caught up to Ivar and the boy could practically feel his breath on his neck. The man gave an ear-splitting yell then took a vast desperate leap toward Ivar. 

At the same time, Ivar swatted the nose of Bayard and took his own substantial desperate leap onto the dragon's back.

                                                                                        ***

The dragon, who'd had enough of this nonsense, especially the swat on the nose which he did not like at all, knew there were more important matters at hand. 

He turned his head toward the man and gave a loud growl or roar or whatever you call the sound that a dragon makes, causing the man to fall trembling to the ground. He then took the three running strides that lifted him up off the ground and started a graceful arc in the sky.

                                                                                            ***

Ivar, enormously relieved to be away from the murdering man, laid back on Bayard to catch his breath while enjoying the lovely peaceful blue of the sky. Enjoyed it that is, until he could feel the dragon circling.

Ivar sat up to see why Bayard was going around and around, as that was usually for hunting, as in hunting and eating little sheep. After what the young man had been through, he wanted no part of that kind of business. 

"I mean I know that he has to eat, but I don't have to sit here and watch him," Ivar reasoned. Especially because he was fairly sure this was the property the murderer had claimed was his.

When Ivar looked down, however, he did not see little lambs, being readied for the slaughter. 

Well, maybe one little lamb but not the dragon's kind. 

An elegant carriage bedecked with colorful banners sat below them, and it was in trouble. It was, in truth, surrounded by a number of bandits. 

"Just the type of thing that can help us get our good reputation back," Ivar thought joyfully. He patted Bayard, thanking him for finding this disaster of which they could be the heroes.

As the dragon descended, the bandits scattered, which was often the case. Only the very brave stood their ground against the several ton, fire-breathing animal, and why Ivar could usually rely on the mere presence of Bayard to ward off any deadly advances. Usually. (Obviously not this morning, hence the story.)

Bayard lightly came to rest on the ground with just one small hop. Figuring that his part of the job was done, he turned away, distracted by what he thought was the barest hint of the scent of small sheep wafting through the air.

From a distance, Ivar heard an older man happily yelling out, and waving to Ivar his appreciation at the rescue, as he made his way over to him.

Fleet of foot, a young woman, pink gown whipping out behind her, and long dark hair flying, ran around the older man, not stopping until she reached the young man. 

Ivar's eyes widened as they took in not one but two flashing ankles on her speedy course across the lawn. "I don't think they teach that at Ladies Academy," he thought shocked and yet exhilarated at the sight. 

It took quite a bit of internal dialogue to be the gentleman and drag his reluctant eyes up to her face, after which a slow smile started to curve his mouth.

Upon reaching Ivar, the girl smiled, what the boy thought, was assuredly the most beautiful, magnificent smile he had ever seen. Then she kissed him tenderly on the cheek in joyful appreciation of being saved, as a lady should, and gave him a one-armed hug. 

With one hand coming to rest just where the nape of his neck met his broad shoulders, while her other hand was at her glorious head of curly brunette hair, steadying her gleaming, golden crown.

This book, including its plot, places, and characters, has been created exclusively by me. This book, in whole or in part, may not be translated or copied electronically, on paper or by any other means available without my permission. This book may not be translated into any other language and then copied without my permission. © MAIRA DAWN ALL RIGHTS RESERVED