Moments later, they were facing one another on the ground. Out of habit, Abrial stood a little lower than the visitor (when reporting to Gallen, he was expected to look up). ‘Tell me of Rogan. Is he still at the mine?’
Graymere bent his claws around the remnant, a bony piece of wing, shrivelled and blackened by the heat of the Veng. He kept it out of sight as he spoke. ‘I am Graymere. I ran the mine,’ he said. But that was as far as their dialogue went. Suddenly both dragons snapped to attention as they heard the sound of a fast-beating heart and smelt the scent of a Hom approaching. Abrial was swift to react. He turned, stood tall and spread his wings – a passive gesture taught by Gallen to scare off anything from small animals to Hom.
But the boy kept coming, using both hands to pull himself up the slope. He was deep inside the scorch line and not stopping. Abrial snarled and filled his fire sacs. He directed a flame above the boy’s head. The pressure knocked the Hom a short way down the hill. The boy cried out, more in anger than in fright, but picked himself up and came at them again, shouting something in his feeble Hom voice.
‘He’s wounded,’ muttered Graymere. Wounded and limping. The boy was stained on his arms and chest with the strange red blood that leaked from his kind.
‘Why doesn’t he stop?’ Abrial said anxiously. By now, his battle stigs were fully extended. ‘He must go back. He must know I could kill him?’
‘This will send him back,’ said Graymere. And he pushed his head forward and bellowed a warning, setting off cries of alarm in every animal to the far horizon.
The boy screamed and clutched his ears. He fell to his knees, writhing and clawing at the sides of his head. Blood ran in trickles through his fingers.
‘Nudge him over the line,’ said Graymere. ‘And make sure he sees your fangs.’
But as Abrial prepared to step forward, the boy spoke a sound that both dragons thought they’d misheard at first. Then he spoke it again, in a slur, before collapsing face down onto the ground.
Abrial felt his claws contracting. He looked at Graymere and Graymere at him. The boy had just mimicked the speech of a dragon. It was thin of tone, but unmistakeably a word.
‘Tada?’ Abrial said.
The De:allus nodded and whispered the translation.
Tada: father.
Part Four
Ned
19
The Kaal settlement, two days earlier.
Knowing it might be several days before Targen the Old would awaken from his dreams, the body of Utal Stonehand was stripped and washed by the women of the Kaal. He was dressed in a white robe ready for burning, or for taking to the darkeyes’ cave. His fate now rested with the wisdom of the Fathers.
By the end of day one, with nothing better to occupy his thoughts, Ned Whitehair began to wonder why he had not heard sound of his son for a while. He asked the boy’s mother – Mell – this question as she was walking to the river to wash. ‘Seen Ren?’
Mell laughed and shook her tangles of hair. ‘Perhaps the growlers have got him at last.’ For Ren liked to climb trees and he liked to taunt growlers.
But that was before the skalers had come.
Then Mell stroked Ned’s cheek and said, ‘I’ll be thanking you later for that flower, Ned Whitehair.’
‘Flower?’ said Ned.
And Mell just smiled and walked on toward the river, wiggling her fingers high in the air as if she knew of something Ned had forgotten.
Ned shook his bemusement aside and continued his search. He spoke with the men. ‘My lad, Ren. Seen him lately, makin’ bother?’
‘No,’ said the men, each one.
Mystified, Ned returned to his shelter. He untied the reins on Wind, his white whinney, planning to take his search into the woods. It was while he was swinging his leg across her back that a quiet voice said, ‘I knows where Ren Whitehair might’n be.’
Ned looked down. The voice belonged to the girl, Pine Onetooth. A strange child by anyone’s measure. She seemed to waft around the settlement like a leaf on the breeze. He stroked Wind’s mane. ‘Say your piece, girl.’
She pushed her tongue into her lip and pointed at the mountains.
A deep sigh escaped Ned’s chest. Skalers. The boy was obsessed with them. ‘When?’
The girl broke a reed of grass in two. ‘A night back. See’d him runnin’ in the shadows o’ the moon.’
A night back? Now the mountains drew a long gaze out of Ned, their snow-tipped peaks mostly hidden in cloud. He thought on Pine’s words and began to connect them with something Ren had said at the meeting, something about dung and using it to hide from skalers. ‘Sweet mercy of our Fathers,’ he said below his breath. He glanced down at Pine again. The girl smiled back as best she could. Ned said, ‘Do you watch my boy always?’
‘Some,’ said Pine, sniffing a flower.
Ned nodded to himself. ‘If he should return, you may marry him one day.’
‘Mebbe,’ said Pine, swaying to the thought.
Ned shook Wind’s reins. He made to kick her belly, but stopped. Those words Mell had spoken about the flower itched as badly as the nibblers in his robe. Back when they had courted, he’d given flowers then, often riding high into the steepest mountains to find the pretty blue petals she liked. But he hadn’t picked a flower for many a moon, so…?
He climbed down off Wind and strode into the shelter. Sure enough, there was a flower on the skins where Mell laid her head. A chilling fear crept over Ned then. He began to throw the heavy skins aside, looking for something he hoped would be there – but wasn’t.
The boy had taken the darkeye horn.
Leaving skins everywhere, Ned ran to Wind and leapt onto her back. The whinney took off as much out of shock as from the smack Ned gave her. He heard voices as he rode – ‘Ned, what’s the bother?’ But Ned put his head low and galloped. He rode Wind all the way to the scorch line, to the place where the hunting party, Ren included, had watched Utal burn.
‘REN WHITEHAIR!’ he thundered into the mountains. Wind reared above the blackened grass. ‘REN WHITEHAIR! I KNOW YOU’RE OUT THERE, BOY! YOU COME BACK TO ME NOW, YOU HEAR!’ The words faded into gentle echoes. Ned turned the whinney and trotted her along the right side of the line. ‘REN WHITEHAIR, SON OF NED! CALL LOUD TO YOUR FATHER AND YOU WON’T GET A BEATING!’
Nothing. Ned cursed and gritted his teeth. In truth, he had never once beaten Ren, but crushing him with relief might not be out of the question this day. He turned the whinney and trotted her the other way. ‘REN! WHITE! HAIR!’ No response. Ned looked at the skies. Empty. The same could not be said of his gut, which felt as though it were lined with stone. ‘Mell, forgive me,’ he whispered, and galloped Wind across the line.
As he rode, many thoughts screamed through his mind. There was no point trying to track the boy. If Ren had done as he’d boasted and used the dung to cover his scent, Ned could be searching until he grew old; the plains were covered in skaler waste. Most likely the lad had made for the sleeping mountain, where the skalers liked to settle, and anyone familiar with these hills could find hiding places. But why had he taken the darkeye horn? What was the stupid boy planning to do?
Whatever the answers to these questions might be, Ned was not about to learn them then. Suddenly the way ahead filled with shadow and a roar like the crack of stone split the sky. Wind pulled herself up and reared. Ned fought to hold her but was thrown before he could steady her head. She fled, leaving him to face the skaler alone. His first instinct was to roll into a ball. But if he was going to die, he would die standing up, though the skaler had its own ideas about that. The first time Ned tried to get to his feet, the beast swooped over so fast and so low that the pressure of air knocked him onto his back. Shielding his face, he looked for the thing. It was gliding in a circle, wings as blue as the cloudless sky, tail flicking to give it mome
ntum. Breathing hard, Ned managed to rise. He spread his arms wide, palms fully open.
‘LOOK AT ME, SKALER! I HAVE NO SPEAR! I HAVE NO FIRE! ALL I WANT IS MY PRECIOUS BOY!’ He turned with it as it circled again. ‘MY BOY!’ Ned screamed. He levelled one hand to the height of Ren’s head.
But the skaler showed no sign of understanding. It swooped again, quicker than Ned could judge, and out of its mouth came a ball of flame that seemed to consume every morsel of air. Ned reeled back clutching his throat, gagging as the suffocating heat swept over him. It pulled at his robe and sucked at his innards. The centres of his eyeballs felt like they could boil. ‘My boy,’ he managed to say once more, but the fight had gone out of him now and his brain was thumping with two clear choices: raise a fist and lose an arm like Utal, or retreat, rethink, and live to fight again.
He chose the second option.
The skaler watched him all the way to the scorch line, firing out another harsh ball of flame when Ned stumbled wearily across it.
Ned turned and pointed a shaky finger, making sure the blue beast saw him. ‘I will remember you,’ he panted, ‘and in the name of my Fathers and the tribe of the Kaal, I will kill you first if my son has been harmed.’
The beast snorted and swept overhead.
And Ned, his pale skin reddened and blistered, turned and began the walk back to the settlement, two thoughts ringing clear in his mind:
Find the darkeyes.
Kill the skalers.
20
Halfway home Ned was met by two friends: Oak Longarm, younger brother of Utal, and Waylen Treader, a farming man. Both were on their whinneys. Waylen was holding tight to Wind.
Oak dismounted and ran to Ned, catching him in his powerful arms. ‘Ned, rest steady. It’s me, Oak. We found Wind runnin’ free. What’s happened?’ He clamped Ned’s face and raised it up. The skin was peeling in several places. That told Oak what he needed to know, but he asked the question anyway. ‘Skalers?’
Ned closed his eyes and nodded.
Oak Longarm shuddered, thinking of his brother laid out in white on a raft thick with spiker branches. ‘Water,’ he said to Waylen.
Waylen slid off his whinney and took a pouch from a rope at his hip. He spilled cool water over Ned’s face. Ned gripped the pouch and drank in great gulps.
‘You crossed the line?’ asked Oak.
‘Aye,’ Ned said, his white hair dripping.
‘We see’d you take off on Wind,’ said Waylen. He took back the water pouch and drank from it too. ‘Why, Ned? What’s the bother?’
So Ned told all – about Ren, the flower, the horn, the blue skaler.
Oak Longarm stared at the mountains.
‘We must gather the men and search,’ said Ned.
Waylen spluttered with laughter, spilling water down his robe. He wiped a hand across his mouth to dry it. ‘I fear the beast has nipped you, Ned. How shall we take men across the line? That way brings death on us all.’
‘He’s my son,’ said Ned.
‘Aye, an’ I have two right similar. Both good lads. Would you send their father to dance in flames ’cos Ren were dull enough to cross the line?’
Ned raged at him for that, but Oak Longarm stood between them, strong.
‘Ned, this ain’t the way,’ he said.
‘I’ll have his tongue on a stick and his spit to sauce it!’
‘If you want yer arms broke, you might try,’ said Waylen. He was a big man with a jaw like rock. The lines of his face were nearly as rough as the fields he ploughed. He shook a flutterfly off his shaggy black hair.
Oak pushed Ned back. He was leaner of face than both his companions and as handsome again as his brother was plain. ‘Ned, you know that Waylen speaks fair. Crossin’ the black line ain’t the way.’
‘Then Varl has it right – we must wake the darkeyes.’
‘What?’ said Oak, pulling back a little.
‘If the beasts have killed my boy, let us punish them for Ren and your brother as one.’
‘Ned…’ Oak sighed and looked away.
Waylen stabbed the toe of his boot into the erth.
Ned threw up his hands. ‘Speak loud, friends. I would hear you on this.’
‘Targen has given his ruling,’ said Oak. ‘Utal burns on the water, tomorrow. We are not to seek vengeance against the skalers.’
‘No,’ Ned wailed, staggering back. He ran his hands through his scorched white hair.
‘I like it as little as you,’ said Oak. ‘But the Fathers have spoken. We cannot go against them.’
‘Am I not a father?’ Ned beat his chest. ‘And you a brother?’ He strode forward again and struck Oak’s arm with the back of his hand. ‘Are we to do nothing to free ourselves from the curse of these beasts?’
‘Ned, you must think straight,’ Oak said. ‘Wait another day. Ren may yet walk clear of these hills, unmarked. We all know he has the luck of the stars upon him. As for my brother, I will weep for him as he flies to the Fathers and that will be enough.’
‘For you, aye,’ Ned said, coming close. ‘But what would Utal have wanted?’
Oak gulped and turned his face away. For all his wise and mindful talk, his eyes were suddenly soft with tears. On gritted teeth he said, ‘We cannot slight Targen. My brother has been prepared for burning. We cannot steal him away to the caves.’
Ned nodded. ‘I hear you true. But what is to stop us going there without him?’
Waylen pinched his eyes into a frown.
‘We three,’ Ned said, looking at the farmer. ‘Let the darkeyes see my face and know their enemy flies again. Let it be us who claims these mountains back for the Kaal.’
A cool breeze swept between them. Waylen’s whinney ruffled its mane. Oak snapped a twig beneath his boot and said, ‘The old ones are saying it would be a poor ride. In their chatter they ask why the darkeyes have not yet stirred or how the skalers have failed to find them. What if the darkeyes are gone, Ned? Or fallen dead in their cave? What are two against a host of skalers, anyway?’
Ned stroked Wind’s ear and swung onto her back. ‘Old men chatter like farts in the wind. If the darkeyes take only one beast down, we will have smiled on your brother’s spirit. Now, will you ride with me, or will you sit here and chew on your memories?’
Oak and Waylen exchanged a glance.
‘My fields are sown,’ said Waylen. ‘’Tis a dreary day waiting for corn to poke through.’
‘For my brother, then,’ said Oak, getting onto his whinney. ‘My brother and the Kaal.’
And they gripped hands, these three brave men, and turned away from the sleeping mountain toward the valley where the darkeyes lay.
21
They rode long and into the night, stopping where the river narrowed to a pinch to rest a while and water the whinneys. Oak put an arrow through a careless hopper and cooked it over an open fire. The three spoke little and slept until morning, woken by the patter of rain on their camp.
They crossed the river with Waylen leading. On the far bank, the ground rose steeply away from the water and continued to rise before levelling out to a run of green hills, spotted with trees and bald patches of rock. Waylen pointed to the far horizon, where the only hill of substance, a thick-set tor thinning to brown over most of its surface, stood at the end of a shallow dale.
‘When the battles were done, that’s where the darkeyes were tracked to,’ he said. He stroked the
ears of his whinney as if he sensed it warming to the coming danger.
Ned patted Wind’s neck. ‘Then that’s where we go.’
‘Ned, wait,’ said Oak, taking hold of his reins. ‘My fury for vengeance has brought me this far, but my wits are begging me to stop now and speak.’
‘Then say what you will,’ Ned replied fairly.
&n
bsp; Oak sat high and stared at the hill, pressed from above by grey clouds dark with the threat of rain. ‘How are we to raise these creatures? And more so, how will we chase them into battle? We will be their foe the moment they see us. I would rather die in the flames of a skaler than see myself rot from a darkeye’s spittle.’
Waylen slanted his gaze Ned’s way.
Calmer for his sleep, Ned looked to the skies as if hoping for a sign. And right away, there it was. He pointed to a skaler, some way off. ‘We bring a skaler down – as near to the cave as we can.’
‘How?’ asked Waylen.
Ned laughed. ‘By being Kaal. Even this side of the line, the beasts won’t bear our taunts for long. The first fire will bring the darkeyes out. Then we have a battle, do we not?’
‘Aye,’ breathed Oak, as he walked his whinney on. ‘And we three best pray to the Fathers we are not caught in the midst of it.’
By midsun they were at the foot of the hill, on the crumbling bank of a near-parched stream still alive with a shimmy or two. Ned fancied he would see the ground strewn with bones or hear the scrubland hissing in pain where the darkeyes had left their poisonous bile. But all was quiet and disturbingly plain. The only animals Ned could see were going about their lives, untroubled.
‘Where is it?’ said Oak, meaning the cave.
Waylen pointed to a chin of rock. ‘On the far side of that.’
Ned scanned the slope they would need to climb. It was stonier than it had looked from a distance, and where grass grew it was heavily tufted. An easy task for a mountain man, but difficult for their rides. He slid off Wind’s back. ‘We’ll leave the whinneys here. They won’t find foot on ground so ill. And if we run them on it, we’ll likely be thrown. Is there cover, Waylen?’
The farmer leant sideways and spat. ‘No.’
Oak dismounted and passed him the reins. ‘Wait here, by the water.’
The sun was on Waylen Treader’s face, but no words of warmth flowed out of his mouth. ‘Don’t slight me, friend. I dint make this ride for the pleasure.’ He showed Oak the hilt of a knife, tucked firmly into his waist. Like most Kaal, Waylen was a skilful hunter. He could skin a hopper quicker than any man.
The Erth Dragons Book 1: The Wearle Page 12
