Dragon Strike

The men looked as though they were nerving themselves for a charge, and the dwarf sidestepped down the side of the dining hall, keeping stone to back and pointed shield to dragon.

“Perhaps if you told me what you seek?” AuRon asked.

AuRon dashed across the back of the dining hall, spreading a curtain of fire. It pooled and burned, even on the floor slippery with muck.

“The wyrm’s emptied his fire,” the dwarf called. “We’ve got it!”

“Now we’ve the advantage,” the man with the black teeth said, leaping between two puddles of flame with silvered sword whirling elegantly.

“Would somebody restrain him before he hurts himself?” AuRon said, backing toward the entrance arch.

“Ghastmath!” the elf called. “Let’s hear the dragon out.”

Ghastmath, the black-toothed man, ignored her, but the dwarf had more to say: “Tell that to my dead uncles, after our good king Fangbreaker listened to Wistala the Oracle—”

AuRon froze in shock.

“She mazed him into folly,” the dwarf continued. “Don’t listen!”

“Repeat what you said, dwarf,” AuRon said, rounding on the little carbuncle of shield and helm.

The warrior Ghastmath, fire reflecting on his blade and cutting red shadows into his face, lunged forward with a cry. The point of his blade pierced AuRon’s breast—

AuRon whipped his head down in riposte, hooking the human under his shoulder plate with the tiny spur on his nose—an egg-breaker that most dragons lose within a week of hatching—and hurling him across the room. The blade clattered to the floor, smelling of dragonblood.

Kung!

A projectile like a small boat-anchor shot out of the dwarf’s shield, trailing a line. AuRon hugged the floor.

“Beast moves like old Gan himself.” The dwarf added a few curses that AuRon remembered from the push-pull dwarves in the traveling towers.

The line fell across his back. He reached up with a saa and grabbed it. The dwarf fumbled with gear behind his shield.

AuRon yanked the line hard and the dwarf flew across the dining hall and landed at his feet. AuRon had not yet grown to a size where he could easily carry a metal-clad dwarf in a single sii, especially if the dwarf decided to struggle, so he settled for perching both sii on his back.

AuRon heard joints popping.

The dwarf grunted and almost succeeded in rising. Dwarves were counted the strongest of the hominids, but this one must have the thews of an ox.

“Can we stop this nonsense?” AuRon asked, ducking under another arrow coming for his eye.

“Ssssst!” the elf-archer cursed.

The man Ghastmath rolled over, cradling his side. “What’s holding you back?” Whether he spoke to AuRon or to his wary men, sheltering behind pillars, AuRon couldn’t decide.

The dwarf produced a short blade. AuRon bore down until he dropped it with a gasp.

“ ’Tis AuRon the Gray at that, he that killed the Wyrmmaster, the Wizard of the Isle of Ice,” the raven chattered in the elf’s ear. “He’ll keep a bargain. The Iwensi Gap dwarves once trusted him to guard their caravan-coin.”

“Yes, dragon, let’s talk,” the elf with the raven said. “Sheathe weapons! Put down that bow, Cattail.”

“And get Fyerbin out of this reeking hole!” called the voice from the shaft.

The elf stepped forward, and her raven fluttered warily to the ceiling. “My name is Halfmoon. I’ve no tokens of parley, but I’m willing to share anything we find with you.”

“Uninvited guests to our island could set things right with an apology.”

The elf went down on one knee and spread her arms, bowing. “The birds told us no dragons inhabited these caves,” she said, as the others helped Ghastmath to his feet. “We hoped our presence on the island would pass unnoticed.”

“What are you after?” AuRon asked, letting the dwarf rise. “Gold? The produce of the old Thortian mines? The jewels of Krakenoor, taken in the great sack?”

The men stirred and glanced at the elf. The dwarf, whose left arm hung funny, struck it hard against a pillar and sent it home with an audible click.

“Pogt,” the dwarf grunted. “The creature’s fouling the very air. I want out of this dragon-reek.”

“Little of the gold came here,” AuRon continued, licking the wound in his breast clean. “The old Wizard Wyrmmaster wasn’t after fortune or glory. He spent much of what he stole buying allies or building those dragontowers. Dragons have nosed all through these caves, despite the evil memories of our bondage. Nothing like a mouthful of gold to keep the scale healthy, you know.”

“I told you it went to Juutfod and Gettel in her damn tower. She’s as rich as the ten kings, I’ll swear,” Ghastmath said, picking up his sword with a wary glance at AuRon.

“The sooner we’re back there safe, the better,” the dwarf grumbled. “This is a run-out mine.”

“Ghastmath, make yourself useful and put some of your wound-salve in the dragon’s injury.”

“Waste it on a dragon?” Ghastmath said, drawing himself up with a hint of a wince.

“Thank you, I’ll attend to my own,” AuRon said.

“If it’s poisoning you fear, Ghastmath will pour some on his tongue.”

Bother the wound.

“Now, if you want my permission to explore these caves and discover lost toilet sinks and old rag-weaving rooms and sidemeat closets and then leave the island in an unburned boat, you’ll have to pay a . . .” What would the Chartered Company dwarves call it again? “. . . A usage fee.”

“May we hear the fee before we accept?”

“Only a piece of information. I would hear a story from the dwarf, regarding a name he used.”

“Done,” Halfmoon said.

The dwarf crossed his arms and broke wind; the echo of it startled the raven off its perch. “That’s the only story a dragon will get from me. Short and nasty.”

AuRon yawned. “Which might describe the rest of your scrounging little lives, should some of the dragonelles learn of your presence. They still bear a grudge for scores of stolen eggs. And they like to hunt in packs. What sort of sport would you make, I wonder?”

Ghastmath shifted as though nerving himself for another strike.

“Raise that sword and I’ll take the arm that wields it,” AuRon warned.

The elf spun, seeming to work her body in two directions at once. Her leg moved up behind Ghastmath’s ankles as a stiff arm flashing the other way caught him across the chest.

Ghastmath struck the dirty floor with a sound like a dropped platter.

“This is a parley, fool,” she said.

“You’re quick,” AuRon said. “Happily, your wits match your reflexes.”

She ignored the compliment. “Ask the dwarf for the story, AuRon son of AuRel.”

AuRon made an effort to look unaffected. “I’d like to hear about this Oracle dragon. I haven’t heard a story of a dragon from anywhere but here in years.”

The elf laughed. “Oh, that’s an easy one. It’s to do with the humbling of the Wheel of Fire dwarves and the barbarian wars. I heard bits of it myself at the Green Dragon Inn at Rainfall’s bridge from the innkeeper himself. He knew Wistala, still does.”

After hearing the tale, bits and bobs that made so little sense that AuRon wondered if the humans had invented a tale to suit themselves, he was so excited that he bade the party a farewell forgotten as soon as the words were voiced and almost walked into the javelin-trap on his way out.

Wistala. His sister.

Alive after all these years. At least he hoped. She’d made powerful enemies, it seemed.

The Isle of Ice could support another dragon. As long as she liked fish and shellflesh. How had she survived so long out among men and dwarves? To hear the tale, she’d humbled both the Wheel of Fire dwarves and the Dragonblade.

Which reminded him. He took up the trap to play with and secured the metal chimes for Natasatch and the hatchlings. They would make a fine treat for dessert after celebrating his daughters’ first hunt.

It would be hard to leave them, even for a little while. He’d have to ask Ouistrela to keep an eye on the cave.

He conditioned himself for another distance flight with a short trip north to Grass Point. He didn’t find a moose for the wolves, but he did manage to snatch up an elk floundering in a spring mire.

Natasatch accepted his decision to leave the island in search of his sister. The first time she’d heard his voice as a full-grown dragon, he’d been calling Wistala’s name in that horrible chicken coop of a prison she’d been chained in.

“A dragonsire always feels the urge to roam far as his hatchlings come aboveground,” she said. “Even if I find your devotion to a memory strange.”

“Perhaps it is because we were separated so young. Had we both matured properly, I may have gone off and left her to her home hunting range. But if she still lives, I must tell her that there is a place where dragons live in safety.”

“And beastly weather,” Natasatch said. “I will welcome her to this little cave, my love. I’m sure she has much she could teach our hatchlings, if she’s survived in the Upper World all these years.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">