by E. E. Knight
“The mountains to the east?”
“That way,” the dragon said, pointing with its snout toward the Red Mountains.
AuRon marked new men entering the landing-cavern. Men in dragon-scale armor. “Yes, I come from the other side of them.”
“Is good hunting there?”
“Very good.”
“Fighting stock or breeding stock?”
“Neither. I’ve only just arrived.”
The dragon looked him up and down for a minute. “You not fighting stock, no scales. Not breeding stock, no scales—old man not want soft hatchlings. I think you laughingstock.”
“Your wit is as quick as your tongue.”
“Is like joke?”
AuRon didn’t know what to make of that, so he just snorted. “Is like joke.” It couldn’t hurt to agree. An odd sort of exchange with another male, neither a challenge nor a gesture of accommodation.
The men with the younger dragon began to swear. Their charge was flapping its wings furiously, forcing the men on the wing-lines to lie flat.
“Good trials, then, laughingstock. We see each other a’morrow.”
“Thank you.”
AuRon waited and watched the men get their dragon under control, and then begin the “lean right, lean left, tip forward, tip back” routine again. It struck him as odd that men, creatures without wings, should be giving lessons to dragons, creatures who took to the sky like seals to water.
“So you’ve come to join us?” a flat voice said. The sound reminded AuRon of the slow rumble of the wheels on the dwarves’ traveling towers.
AuRon shifted his neck at the words, instinctively covering his vitals.
The newcomer was a man, one of those diamond-shaped men whose power seemed to come from their bellies. He had gray hair still flecked with black, close cropped, but no beard. His face was strangely immobile, as if he wore a mask, though he showed a full set of white teeth with his smile. He wore a shimmering short-sleeved tunic, cut deep and revealing black-flecked hair on his chest and powerful arms in thick leather wrist-guards. Pants, stitched at the outer seam like elvish riding breeches with leather pads sewn in, disappeared into soft leather knee-boots. AuRon recognized dragon scale at the tips of his boots, and on the leather at his wrists.
Beside the older man was a youth, hardly out of his teens. AuRon did not know his face, but startled when he took in the man’s array of armor and weapons: the silver helm, with the swan’s wings sweeping up to meet above, the sword with the hilt fashioned like a gaping dragon’s mouth, the polished black armor of dragon-scales. The spear was gone. The Dragonblade’s armor had been modified to fit his slighter body. The spiked face-plate was up. It revealed a cruel, scarred face, as if something had taken a handful of flesh from the cheek and cut it away with a knife. Fissured pink tissue covered his cheek, but not thickly enough so that AuRon couldn’t make out the bone beneath. One eye—the center of a scar—was gone; in its place a red ruby glittered.
“It’s just a gray,” the young man in the Dragonblade’s armor sneered. “No use to us.”
The older man held up a hand. “Tell me, dragon, you’ve heard of us and come to join?”
“The whole world is hearing of you. You should be more surprised if I hadn’t. Do I speak to the Wizard of the Isle of Ice?”
“If by Wizard do you mean sorcerer, no, I don’t possess that gift. If you mean am I part of a movement that will change the world, well, I do my part. Of late, the Varvar, the Quiol, and the Endiko have been calling me the Wyrmmaster.”
“Or his Supremacy?” AuRon said.
“Win a few battles for your people, and you’ll find yourself called all sorts of ridiculous titles, O Good Dragon NooShoahk. They tell me that you name NooMoahk in your song. If so, I bow in recognition of your great line.”
Which he did.
AuRon bowed in return.
“Why do you wish to join us, NooShoahk?” the Wyrmmaster asked.
“Vengeance.”
“Go on,” the Wyrmmaster said.
AuRon kept his words to a minimum until he had a better feel for the man. “You kill elves. You kill dwarves.”
The Wyrmmaster and the younger version of the Dragonblade exchanged a look. “This has happened before, Eliam. Coloklurt came out of the East to join us . . . what was it, eight years ago. Poor, half-starved wretch when he arrived, and now he’s one of our sleekest fighters on the elven coast.”
The man wearing the Dragonblade’s armor gave a strange twitch of his shoulders. “He’s got a wary look in his eye. Like he’s bracing for a fight.”
“You’ve been around our dragons too long—you’ve forgotten what a wild one looks like. I just see a proud young dragon. With a few scars,” the Wyrmmaster said. “Are they souvenirs of battles with the lesser lines?”
“Lesser lines?”
“The line of hominidae, young dragon. There were the blighters, the crude first attempt by the Guiding Hand, and then the failed branches of sylvanline and dwarrowline, before the flowering of man.”
“The blighters I knew kept their place. But I’ve been hunted by elves and dwarves, and all my family is dead at their hands. Men, too, have brought me to bay.” AuRon looked at the scarred youth in defiance, but the single green eye just stared back at him.
“A tragic story, one shared by many others of your kind who were not lucky enough to survive. Someday I’ll tell you the truth behind your suffering, if you wish.”
“Truth is a worthy goal, but I look for revenge, Wyrmmaster.”
“That’s Supremacy to you, gray,” the youth said, stepping forward with hand on sword-hilt.
“We’ll work out the titles later, Eliam,” the Wyrmmaster said, gripping the weapon so that it could not be unsheathed. “NooShoahk looks a little hollow about the eyes. We’re poor hosts to one who has come so far to offer wing, claw, tooth, and fire to our cause. Tell me, is Shadowcatch still the ranking dragon?”
“No, Wyrmmaster,” the hairy-faced man spoke up, “As of the last trial, Starlight outclimbed Shadowcatch. The new order is Starlight, Shadowcatch, and Ramshard.”
“You’re not thinking of giving him a chance at being a breeder,” the young Dragonblade whom the Wyrmmaster had called Eliam said.
“Odd names for dragons,” AuRon opined.
“These dragons were born here. Different land, different traditions,” the Wyrmmaster said easily. “Feed our bright new dragon, and give him a day’s rest. We’ll hold trials on the morning after. We’ll match Ramshard and NooShoahk. We can use a dragon of this gray’s intelligence in the cause. What do you say, NooShoahk? Care to test yourself against one of our best dragons?”
AuRon wondered if he was speaking to the wizard he had come to slay, or some herald. He was in no shape to kill and then fly; he needed rest and a meal. Then there was Wistala. If there were a chance that Tala lived on this island . . .
“A fight?” AuRon asked.
“That’s part of it, but there are strict rules. Flying figures into it as well, laden and unladen. You should do quite well. I’ve read that grays are the fastest dragons in the sky. We could use more of your kind. Pleasant duty.”
“As you say.”
“An ideal way of thinking, NooShoahk. I predict you’ll go far.”
AuRon could never have imagined a barrack for dragons, but that was where the bushy-faced man with the elaborate belt, who AuRon learned was named Varl, led him. It was only a brief walk down through the crudely dug tunnels. They passed a man staircase, and AuRon smelled fresh air coming down from above. Another shaft had lines and guide-rails built into it.
“We bring loads up and down that shaft. It’s counterweighted to make the hauling easier. Clever thing. Some dwarf did it years ago.”
“The dwarves dug these caverns?”
“No one knows who first dug them. It could even have been dragons. I’m certain they lived here. Blighters made new passageways for us. A few of them are still here, they live on the seash
ore on the other side of the island and fish. Not many left now.”
He led AuRon into a labyrinth of caves. Alcoves and passageways smelled everywhere of male dragons. They passed the armored back of a copper dragon curled in a tight ball, sleeping. He glanced at the dragon’s forelegs. It wasn’t his brother.
“This’ll do,” Varl said. “This one has some cracks in the ceiling; you get a bit of air flowing in. It gets thick down here, even for me.”
“The Wyrmmaster said something about food?”
Varl lifted a wooden stick from his belt and went to a tallow dip. “At the opening just before we passed Shieldwall, that copper you sniffed at, they’ll dump meat or fish in a few hours. Plenty for all. We’ve eighteen pairs of wings out south. You’re in the fighting stock stalls for now, and you’ll learn they live for their stomachs.” He lit the thin splinter of wood and touched it to a dip beside AuRon’s alcove.
The smell of the burning fat awakened AuRon’s appetite. “What’ll happen at these trials?” AuRon asked, getting his mind off his hunger.
“A challenge between sets of dragons. The Wyrmmaster uses it to judge what job each dragon has. Who can fly with the heaviest burden, who is the fastest on the wing. The best get their choice of females.”
“And the worst?”
Varl’s beard changed shape, so AuRon guessed he was smiling. “They become fighting stock. Just do your best—the reward’s worth it.”
AuRon had never imagined dragons could be so cooperative. When the meal cart came, pulled by a pony that didn’t mind being underground or the smell of dragons, three other young dragons emerged and joined AuRon in sniffing over the joints. AuRon guessed they were a few years younger than he. He tried to speak using his mind—it had been so long—but he just got back a blurry image or confused emotion. The Wyrmmaster’s training had done what nature couldn’t: put dragons together without fighting. Whatever else might be said about his Supremacy, he was a genius with dragons.
“Mutton again. I want cattle,” one said.
“Cattle for the fighting dragons. You still learn flight, Sharpclaw. I trade you your ore-lump for next ration of cattle.”
“Agreed. Unless it is gold.”
“Done. Urrrrr! Sore from flying today.”
“As I, Hawkhit.”
“You flew quick at trials, Hawkhit,” the third said. “They let you fly free-ear, I say.”
“What does free-ear mean?” AuRon asked. “No man on your back?”
“New one not know free-ear,” Sharpclaw said. “You learn soon enough. They make you fly message, fly scout, I say.”
“Fine with me, I say,” AuRon agreed.
“You do trial?” Hawkhit asked.
“Tomorrow, I’m told,” AuRon said.
“Try best, then not end up in stalls, sore and sleepy. With females, if you win, yes? You still want?”
“Where are they? I haven’t smelled a dragonelle in years.”
“Maybe you see. Maybe you not see, end up back here, Laughingstock.” Sharpclaw said.
“The name is . . . NooShoahk.”
Hawkhit lifted his head to help a haunch down his throat. After it made its bulging progress down his muscle-wrapped neck, the dragon shot out his tongue in disdain. “That old name. You get new name after trials. Carry with honor. Carry men with honor. Take war to enemy, make Old Man proud.”
“On foot, to wing , Aloft!” Varl shouted.
AuRon rose into the sky, on a beautiful day marred only by a few wandering clouds. Ramshard, more used to the cadence than AuRon or the other dragon at the trials, was in the air first. AuRon shot upward like an arrow, passing first the young blue dragon, then the golden Ramshard. The race was from the smooth-stoned strand up a cliff, then to the tower above the dragon caves. AuRon won handily, and had time to circle the watchpost twice before Ramshard caught up.
He won at all the flying contests, save the burdened one. The heavier dragons both outflew him as they raced, laden with boulders in baskets across their backs along the length of the fjord leading to the port town and back. AuRon’s wings tired almost as soon as he got aloft, and it was all he could do to finish the race.
The blue dragon was eliminated when the flying tests were done. The contests paused while humans and dragons enjoyed a festive meal, then resumed again in the open field on the long slope under the watchtower.
“NooShoahk, the rules are easy,” Varl said as the dragons came to the center of the sheep field. “First dragon on his back loses. You can also lose by being pushed beyond the wall, or off the cliff, I suppose. No biting, no clawing, no fire, no flying. Do you understand?”
“I do if the gold does,” AuRon said. Ramshard must enjoy its position as breeding stock. The gold glared at AuRon, tail thrashing, fans extended down from its crest, every scale rippling, nostrils opening and shutting at the odor of another dragon. He had seen that look before, in the eyes of his brother dragons the day he came out of the egg, or when the aged NooMoahk forgot himself.
Varl ran for the tower, where the Wyrmmaster sat in the shade of the first platform. Eliam raised his sword when Varl was inside, and brought it down.
Ramshard and AuRon both sidestepped up the slope, each looking to gain the advantage of height. One of AuRon’s rear feet slipped against a rock slippery with moss, and before AuRon could brace himself with his tail, he was on his side. Ramshard might have gotten his name from his fighting style, for that’s what he did. The gold dragon-dashed forward, head lowered to smash his crest into AuRon and roll him the rest of the way over.
AuRon turned the fall into a roll. He turned a full circle, wings tight against his spine, to be on his feet again just as Ramshard’s head gouged a furrow where AuRon had been lying. AuRon turned quickly, and used the advantage of the slope to come down on Ramshard.
Even though his rear legs were upslope, AuRon could no more push the gold over than he could move a mountain. His heavier opponent hugged the ground with legs braced out to either side. Ramshard thrust its head under his arm, and AuRon had to scuttle away to keep from being flipped.
The dragons circled, both tails thrashing. Ramshard made a lunge, then a second, and both times AuRon backed away toward the wall. When AuRon felt his tail brush the stones, he faked another fall, but Ramshard was too canny to dash forward. Instead the gold moved upslope yet again, trying to come to grips with AuRon in a way that its body weight would force AuRon over.
Ramshard lunged again, and AuRon mirrored the move, throwing his weight forward, as well. Their shoulders came together with a crash as their necks dueled, each trying to push the other’s neck to the ground.
AuRon strained as hard as he could, but he felt his neck being forced downward. His vision began to go spotty, and the gold got a sii on his shoulder. AuRon felt himself tipping . . .
He shifted his tail to balance himself and turned the motion into a whip-crack to Ramshard’s head, catching the gold solidly across the snout from an unexpected direction. Ramshard backed off, wincing in pain, armored fans rattling loudly over the morning breeze. AuRon swung his hindquarter around, and rained tail-blow after tail-blow on his enemy. The gold backed up, unable to parry the blows with his own tail, indeed unable to ward off AuRon’s strikes with anything but his head and neck. AuRon’s remarkably flexible tail lashed out again and again, and all Ramshard could do was keep backing up—
Right over the cliff. Suddenly the gold’s hindquarters were falling, and Ramshard dug in with its front claws, scrabbling for a grip. AuRon lowered his crest and drove it into Ramshard’s shoulder until the gold lost its grip.
But the dragon came up again, still with fans extended, flying now. It spat its fire, not a deadly stream of flame, more of a contemptuous burst, then turned tail and flew off to the south.
The gathered humans cheered. Varl came out and thumped AuRon heartily on the shoulder.
“Fine a fight as I’ve ever seen, NooShoahk. As fine a fight, I say.”
“Cursed renegade,”
the Wyrmmaster said, breathing hard after his climb down the tower. “He’s been warned about flying off before. Eliam, that’s another one for you to go after. Take Starlight.”
The younger Dragonblade bowed and hurried into the tower.
“He’ll be dead by tomorrow’s sunrise,” the Wyrmmaster said. “Dooms, what a loss. But it’s to be expected. He didn’t want to be a loser at the trials, not after his years as breeding stock.”
“Is being demoted to the fighting stock stalls so bad?” AuRon asked.
“It’s not so much that, it’s what goes with it, my new breeder,” the Wyrmmaster continued. “Being warrior stock means being around other male dragons, side by side, living or fighting. You can no more do it with dragons than you can with stallions.”
“You mean—,” AuRon asked.
“That’s right,” Varl said. “We castrate the losers.”
Chapter 23
Breeding stock lived under different conditions from the fighting stock. In some ways it was restrictive, but there were advantages.
There was the smell of females. AuRon’s alcove was dim and cozy, off a tunnel that led to the main entry cavern in one direction and to the quarters of the females in the other. To avoid fights among the four members of the breeding stock, each male was allowed to mix with the females for seven days; then the next in order took over. Each had a separate tunnel leading to his sleeping cave. Gates with bars separated the males from the females otherwise, but the bars did not prevent the enticing smell of female dragons from traveling up the corridors. It was like Mother’s, in that it was a rich, satisfying smell that soothed him; but it was also more exciting in a way that was new, like the smell of human females, only a hundred times more powerful.
There was the solitude. AuRon was grateful for the time alone to think. His task was greater than just killing the Wyrmmaster, it seemed. This was no sorcerer casting spells, who could be knocked from his tall tower and forgotten as soon as his magic faded. This wizard had constructed a system, a society, and one murder wouldn’t bring it down.
