by E. E. Knight
“Men. First it’ll be dragons, then it’ll be your kind, Blackhard.”
“Our kind,” Blackhard corrected with a gentle nip at Auron’s crest. “Let a starving wolf pack take even one sick sheep in the dead of winter . . . Good thing they kill each other off, else the world would be covered with them like moss on a fallen tree.”
The rock-tree looked to Auron more like a rock-mushroom. It was made of a dun-colored stone, narrow layer topped with layer, some slightly darker, some lighter. At the top it widened into an overhang; the overhang narrowed gradually to the crown, which had a tree sprouting out of it like a feather in the hat of an elf.
Long ago, a piece had cracked off the mushroom crown and fallen to the base, and as the moon rose, a black wolf with snow-white ears and muzzle jumped atop the pedestal. It took in the gathered wolves, sitting or lying in the darkness, even unto the cliffs surrounding the rock-tree. Auron waited, in between the fallen piece and the rock-tree in deep shadows. The other wolves avoided him.
“Bitter-Bite Coat-White heeeeeeere!” it howled; the other wolves took up the call of heeeeeeeeeeeere!
“Some of you know me, for this is my second Thing,” the white-tipped wolf began. “One or two of you even knew my father, Low-Ear Moon-Breath, leader of the Wind Song Pack.”
A few gaunt, elderly wolves in the front ranks thumped their tails against the dry bedrock of the empty river in acknowledgment.
“We’ve had fights today, matings, divisions, and aggregations. Such is the nature of Thing. Even Wind Song has lost daughters to other packs, and we gained a new son. Broad-Back Short-Whiskers challenged me for my place on Speaking Rock of Thing, and I emerged victorious. Being a good wolf, he returned to his place.”
Snufflings of appreciation rose from the assembly.
“Our first concern is the news that Hard-Legs Black-Bristle, last of the Dawn Roarers, has taken into the pack he now leads an Outsider. Such an event is not unknown to us. All of you know stories of we-people in our mercy raising orphaned elves, or humans even, teaching them to be wolves so that they might carry back to their kind wisdom and understanding. But Hard-Legs Black-Bristle has taken not a baby to be raised, but a mature entity into his pack. A young dragon, no less.”
“Hear! Heeeeeeeaaaaaaar!” the audience howled together. “Let us hear how this came about.”
“Will the leader of the Dawn Roarers tell this tale?” the white-tipped wolf asked of Blackhard.
“I will.”
“Then join me on Speaking Rock.”
Blackhard jumped up on the rock, but Auron saw that he took care to keep his head lower than Bitter-Bite’s. He told the story of their meeting, battle, and outcome in a few short phrases, admitting that had he fought Auron to the end, the Dawn Roarers would have ceased to exist.
“The life of the pack is more important than the outcome of the fight,” the white-tipped wolf observed, and the elders nearest the rock nodded agreement.
“Let us see this young dragon,” one of the audience said, and others took up the call.
“Auron, step in front of the Speaking Rock,” Blackhard said.
Auron crept forward, taking care to keep his head low to the ground. The wolves looked interested, but on a wolf it was hard to distinguish interested from about-to-spring. There were a few growls, a few whines—mostly from those wolves downwind—and a laugh or two.
“Why it’s just a baby.”
“It’s so small. Hardly bigger than one of our-people. It’s all neck and tail.”
“Where are the wings? Don’t dragons have wings? Is that really a dragon?”
“The Dawn Roarers must not have been much if they let that lizard take them.”
Auron heard Blackhard growl above and touched the honorable but still tender scars left by the lead-wolf’s death grip on his neck.
He raised his head, extended his griff from his crest, and spat fire at the base of the Speaking Rock.
“Can a lizard do that?” Auron asked the assembled Thing. The wolves backed away from the flame, tails between legs.
“Calm down,” the white-tipped wolf barked. He sniffed at the flames. “That’s no woodsmoke from lightning. We can take it as proved that he’s a young dragon. But let’s go on to the more important question: Is he welcome in our lands as a wolf?”
A babble of opinions broke out—some saying that he was taken into a pack, and therefore was; others maintained that Blackhard had been coerced by the shadow of his own death into admitting Auron, and therefore wasn’t.
“Are you calling me a coward?” Blackhard said to the wolf who had raised the last question.
“With your pack lying dead around the prey? I do!”
Blackhard leaped off the Speaking Rock and into the crowd of wolves, snarling. Auron caught a flurry of teeth, bites, and shakes exchanged between the wolves in a blur of dancing fury. The snarls ended as quickly as they began, with Blackhard standing triumphant over his cringing opponent.
“I concede the point as a good wolf,” the loser said.
Blackhard had blood running from his muzzle and saliva matting his fur. “Does anyone else challenge my courage?”
Only the crickets answered from the gorge. The roaring rivers thundered on, oblivious.
“Then hear me, O Wolves. The Dawn Roarers go east when the sun rises. We ask to pass through your lands in peace, as good wolves. We ask for neither help nor hindrance in our journey. Can Thing assent to this drake being named as one of our-people, a good wolf?”
“What say you, wolves? Yea or nay?” the white-tipped wolf asked.
“Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” Thing answered.
“Then we name him Long-Tail Fire-Heart,” Blackhard said. “Though to any who would join the Dawn Roarers, they will call their brother Firelong.”
“We wish the Dawn Roarers luck before they return to their territory, and hope that not too much is claimed in the interim by rival packs,” the white-tipped wolf said, with an eye toward the packs from Blackhard’s part of the forest.
Auron and Blackhard left Thing and wandered back to the river. Blackhard drank deep from the cool water and assented to Auron licking the wounds on his muzzle clean.
“You’re a good wolf, Firelong,” Blackhard said when Auron finished. “Stinky, but a good wolf.”
Firelong-Auron said nothing. He looked to the woods, where two other wolves, slightly smaller than Blackhard, stood sniffing them.
“If the Dawn Roarers are to have pups, it will take more than the two of you,” one said, advancing to the riverbank with her head held in a sidelong manner. “I am Bright-Sight Fey-Bark, and this is my friend, Way-Nose High-Star. We would join such a pack as you lead, and would be good wolves for you.”
The other female joined her, and all three wolves wagged their tails. Blackhard approached them, and they began sniffing each other’s tail-vents. Auron tried to keep from snorting at the sight. He might be an adopted wolf, but some customs . . .
The canines ran and played in circles, Blackhard trotting alongside first the one female, then the other. “Very well, Feybright and Highway. As you are good wolves, and the Dawn Roarers needing pups, you will come with us before dawn to the mountain’s east.” He wandered back to the riverbank and took another drink. He glanced admiringly at the females as they curled up at his feet.
“It’s good to be the lead wolf,” Blackhard said to Firelong-Auron, his feathery-haired tail up and out.
The journey east passed well enough, and the mountains grew ever greater, until they came to the sheep hill. The wolves were born rangers, and they used their boundless energy and long legs to pick an easy path for their slower adopted pack mate. Three young, healthy wolves and one drake learned to hunt together. While Auron was useless at running down prey, he could sometimes ambush a meal by camouflaging himself in a tree if the wind blew strong enough.
They had no brushes with man until the sheep hill. It was a bare meadow rising out of the trees around it. The goats on it a
ppeared unattended, so the wolves brought down a slow-footed nanny and took an easy meal. Auron had sharper eyes than the wolves, and he saw a shepherd boy running from his hiding place behind a rock and into the woods.
“He should be run down and killed,” Auron said. The other wolves put up their ears.
“There aren’t many men in this part of the forest,” Highway said. “We’re safe enough for now, and we’re only passing through.”
“He’s left the others at large,” Feybright added. “Good if wolf take another kill? This goat was stringy. Not much for the four of us, and Firelong does eat a lot.”
“Good wolves, you’ll have to learn to be more careful of men when we return to the lands of the Dawn Roarers,” Blackhard said. “There are men there, and it doesn’t do to kill anything but stray livestock.”
“Strange that he ran,” Feybright said. “The last boy my old pack came across threw stones.”
“This one was young,” Highway said.
“You’re forgetting Firelong,” Blackhard said. “A drake is a rare sight in these parts.”
“Yes, with the Dragonblade at work.” Feybright agreed.
“What’s that?” Auron asked.
“The Dragonblade?” Feybright said, and stood silent for a moment with eyes closed. Her ears turned this way and that as if listening to voices only she could hear. “That’s what his dog pack calls him, anyway. A great man-warrior. He has slain six of your kind, Firelong. Some fully grown dragons. He has a terrible spear, and a great sword. They had frightful names I’ve forgotten; the story was howled only once that I heard. The dogs claim he has forefathers human, elf, dwarf, and blighter, and took the best parts from each. But dogs always talk up their masters. Oh, they say he has cleared the dragons from the western face of the mountains from the hard-frost in the north to the warmlands in the south. More dog-brag, I suspect.”
“He wouldn’t work with a group of dwarves called the Wheel of Fire, would he?” Auron asked.
“The dogs didn’t mention that. Others have seen them. Fierce men, with knotted beards and bearskin vests. Though this Dragonblade wears armor of shining dragon scales. Or so the dogs say.”
“Bite the dogs, we’d best move on,” Blackhard growled, looking in the direction of the vanished boy.
That night, the howling chain called them, their foothill cadences strange to the ears of the deep-woods wolves.
“Black-Snout Hill-Chaser heeeeeere! Men under torchlight in the stone-man-mountain gatheeeeeer. Many horses they riiiiiide. Hunters the hills waaaaaalk.”
“All this for a goat?” Highway asked.
“No,” Auron said. “I suspect it is me. They mean to track me down. As you said, dragons are rare around here. I hope they don’t become rarer.”
“We are near the mountains. There are no man-roads there,” Feybright said. “What do you mean to do there?”
“Cross them. I’ve seen the east side of the mountains. It looks over flat, empty lands. There are beasts to hunt. Not as much water, but I can get by.”
“Can you get over them?” Blackhard asked.
Auron sniffed the ground, a gesture he picked up from the wolves to show indecision. “I climb better than I run. There are roads under as well as over, of which you people of the Upper World are unaware. One way or another, I’ll find my way through.”
Blackhard took his howling position and acknowledged the calls of the foothill wolves. He stared at the moonlit march of mountains ahead. “We will travel with you one more day. I want to see you clear of these men. Then the Dawn Roarers turn for home.”
“Thank you, Blackhard,” Auron said.
“Just doing as a lead wolf would for one of his good wolves. So those are high mountains. They look a poor sort of place for wolves.”
“Wolves don’t have wings. Dragons do.”
Blackhard wagged his tail. “That they do. When you have yours, you fly back to the forest. My great-grandkits will be on the lookout for you, Firelong.”
“As a good wolf, I will.”
The next day they climbed an endless slope until trees gave way to green meadows in clearings left by winter avalanches. When Auron saw Blackhard looking west into the forests stretched out under them, and the two females panting and crossing back and forth behind him, he knew it was time to say good-bye.
“Are you thinking of your home?” Auron asked.
Blackhard sniffed Auron, and he gave the drake’s nose a playful nip. “No. I’m worried about you. The wind carries the sound of hooves. They are hunting you.”
Auron couldn’t hear anything but the wind, but he took the wolf’s word for it. “They’re too late, unless they’re planning on tracking me with mountain goats.”
“We’ve left a trail. Those sheep we took—”
“They must have been wild,” Auron said. “There wasn’t so much as a barn to be seen for hours.”
“Then it is time to say good hunting. Highway, Feybright, say your farewells to your pack mate.”
The females sniffed and licked at Auron. “Good hunting, Firelong. May your new pack run far,” Feybright said, giving the traditional farewell to males off to seek new horizons.
“This story will be howled for generations,” Highway said. “Starting with our cubs.”
“Dragons don’t have packs, Feybright. The Dawn Roarers will be my only pack. I’ll miss you.”
“A strange act of fate, our meeting,” Blackhard said. “Somehow I think your name will come up more than mine generations hence, but I’ll be a wolf in the howled tales for many summers. I’m the leader of the pack and a well-traveled wolf, thanks to you.”
“I got to the mountains alive, thanks to you,” Auron said. “Our days as a pack will go into my song, and it’ll be taught to my hatchlings, if I ever take a mate. I’ll pass along my memories. You’ll be a wolf renowned among dragons and wolves, Hard-Legs Black-Bristle, leader of the Dawn Roarers.”
The females exchanged proud glances. “Our pack in a dragon’s howls. Imagine that!” Highway said.
Blackhard smiled and wagged his tail. “That is many tomorrows away. Be careful until you are well away, Auron. I don’t like the idea of men hunting you.”
“All the more reason for me to go. Good hunting, Blackhard.”
“Good hunting, Firelong.”
Auron couldn’t watch the wolves leave. He already missed the nightly sound of wolves calling each other across the hills. A return to the solitude of a wandering young drake. He turned for the mountains, and walked away without looking back.
“Hard-Legs Black-Bristle, leader of the Dawn Roarers heeeeeere!” Auron heard wailed from behind. “Beware, men in the mountains, for a good wolf comes to you in dragon skin. Let those who would hunt him fear the Dawn Roarers, so says the leader of the pack.”
Chapter 11
Auron soon had company, but not the kind he desired. Some kind of great dog, a shaggy thing that looked to be the product of wizardly mating between bear and wolf, watched him from a sky-framed meadow above. It began to bark.
Worse, its warning was also echoed by men’s voices: they hooted to each other from mountainside to mountainside in musical calls.
Worse still, the dog seemed content to bay at him from its vantage, giving Auron three choices. He could continue to climb the hill until he reached the dog’s meadow. Though he felt sure he could kill it and continue on up, a dog meant men were near. The mountain had two other spurs, pointed out like an eagle’s toes with forested valleys between. He could descend to the right or left and try another way up, or go back into the forests and attempt the crossing at a different mountain pass. He wished he had a mind-picture from his father of these mountains, but they were only vague memories this north of his normal range. From what he could see, to the south, the slopes were not so rugged, and therefore were more likely to have men on them. The north held steeper climbs, and one flat-topped mountain with a near-vertical face. Unlike its taller fellows, the flat-top was not snowcappe
d.
The barking from above grew more vigorous. The dog looked over its shoulder and began to caper, signaling the presence of men. It advanced a few paces down the hill toward the drake. Auron had learned from the wolves that dogs grew braver as their men grew closer. Forced into action, he dragon-dashed down the hill into some short-needled bushes. He would take the more difficult northern route.
His run gave the dog heart; it descended the steep hill to come after him.
Auron heard a horn sound, then a second blast. He looked up toward the dog. Another dog, lighter-furred and smaller by the weight of a lamb or two, joined it. Three men followed behind: thick fur boots ending in hairy legs showed between the boot-bindings and their loincloths. They wore padded jackets sewn with wide leather thongs. High fur hats made them seem tall. Auron took a second look at the strange headgear: the hats looked as if an animal slept on their heads with hind legs dangling over their ears. They carried walking sticks topped with double-sided claws and some kind of short spears gripped in the hand opposite the one carrying the stick.
He could get the dogs, at least, and then the men would be at a disadvantage, relying on only their weak senses. He pressed himself flat to the ground and crept out from under the bushes, slowly enough for his color to change as he shifted positions. The lead dog showed no sign of seeing him. It continued to bound down the hill, with the other a few lengths behind. The three men spread out as they came down the hill.
The dog smelled him; he could hide his outline but not his odor, even amid the fragrant mountainside flowers and berries. It slowed down, bearlike head held to the ground and wary eyes looking at the spreading, thorny bushes.
The dog gave a querulous whimper.
Auron launched himself forward, exploding out of the grass and into the dog’s face. He bit, getting only a mouthful of fur as the dog pivoted to the side with more speed than an animal of its bulk should have. Auron whipped around to face it, keeping his open mouth between the dog and his flanks using his long neck.
He felt a bite on his far rear leg. The second dog danced away as Auron spun to face it. He dashed toward it, and it turned tail and ran, giving the other canine the opportunity to leap on him from behind.
