‘No, not that name,’ Grymric said, smoke balls puffing out of his ears.
‘Why not?’
‘Because… Oh, you know your history,’ he spluttered. ‘Why would Grystina burden her drake by calling it “flame of truth”? No one can prove that the Astrian line was closer to Godith than any other dynasty. That argument was settled before I was born, with a great deal of bloodshed, so I was taught. To bring a drake called Gariffred into the Wearle would be a direct snub to Prime Galarhade’s authority. And Elder Givnay would not approve on spiritual grounds, not to mention the fact that his family is long connected to that conflict. Why would Grystina, that most sensible of dragons, wish to cause any hint of controversy? These are tense times, Grendel. Do not speak of this, I beg you. It will only make matters worse. Besides, the drake is dead. Its name is of little consequence now.’
But Grendel wasn’t done, and her next words fell like icy rain around Grymric’s ears. ‘I disagree. I think she’s trying to tell us what happened to her brother.’
‘What?’ the healer exclaimed. Had Grendel lost all grasp of her senses? He had herbs for that kind of malady, he thought – if only he could find them.
‘We must summon the Elders without delay,’ she said.
‘Why don’t you speak to me instead?’
The imposing figure of G’vard had suddenly filled the cave mouth. Despite her surprise, Grendel found herself impressed by his stealth. He had glided silently into the cave and closed his wings without disturbing a single herb. She wondered how much he had heard.
Grymric, who looked grateful for the break in proceedings, said, ‘Ah. Perhaps I should leave you two…three to get better acquaint—’
‘Stay where you are,’ G’vard growled. He looked harshly at Grendel and nodded at the little one. ‘Is it true?’
‘If you mean about the wearmyss, yes.’ She manoeuvred herself to stand over the wearling.
G’vard pushed his thick neck forward, the muscles hardening all along its length. ‘How dare you make an arrangement like this without consulting me or—’
‘I didn’t,’ Grendel cut in fearlessly. ‘It was Gossana’s idea. Show her your impressive teeth, if you must. The future of this wearling is all that matters. You will do as you pledged and protect us.’
‘Her,’ G’vard thundered, stabbing his tail at the terrified youngster. ‘I pledged to protect her. Not you. Not the consort of a traitor.’
‘Gabrial did not harm Grystina,’ she growled.
G’vard whipped his tail back and held it aloft, a sign of his deep displeasure. ‘Listen to her,’ he snorted at Grymric. ‘Hear how she openly defies the Elders.’
‘She is…confused,’ Grymric offered weakly.
But Grendel stood proud. And boldly she said, ‘Gabrial and Grogan are falsely accused. I know. I have proof.’ From the corner of her eye she saw Grymric wince.
‘PROOF? I was there,’ G’vard hit back. ‘The blue caused an eruption; the whole Wearle knows it.’
‘One of the Wearle knows differently,’ said Grendel, ‘and she was closer to Grystina than you.’ She stood aside to reveal the marks on the wall.
For the last time Grymric tried to interrupt. ‘Grendel, in the name of Godith, please let this go.’
‘No,’ said G’vard, flicking out his claws. ‘Let’s hear the female’s “proof”.’
The healer winced again, sipping air through his teeth. This was going from bad to dangerous. To use the term ‘female’ – that is, not to refer to Grendel by name – was a dreadful slur. Even afflicted by anger and grief, it was unlike G’vard to shame another dragon so.
‘Look at the wall,’ Grendel said plainly.
G’vard sharpened his gaze on the figures. ‘Hom. What of it?’
‘She points to them and says her brother’s name.’
Grymric strangled a breath. But Grendel had thankfully not revealed the name.
And G’vard was showing no interest in learning it. He pulled his nostrils tight together, the worst expression of scorn a dragon could make.
‘Don’t you see? It means they were there,’ said Grendel.
‘Who? Where?’ Grymric asked.
‘The Hom were at Vargos,’ Grendel explained. ‘The wearmyss saw them in Grystina’s birth cave. That’s why she points at the figures.’
G’vard snorted and shook his head wildly. ‘If the Hom were at Vargos, Grystina would have burned them, and we would have seen their ash.’
‘Well, perhaps just one of them,’ Grendel snapped back, floundering around her theory a little. ‘A young one. A smaller one, that might hide in a crevice.’
‘And not be scented? They are Hom. They stink!’
‘We must tell the Elders,’ Grendel insisted.
‘Grendel, listen to me,’ Grymric cut in. His tone was firm; he had heard enough. ‘The Elders will not believe a wearling’s babble, and nothing will bring Grystina back.’
‘But—?’
‘No, plentyn. Hear me out. Even if the Hom had escaped our patrols, how could they have caused the eruption we saw? They do not have the power to i:mage such a thing.’
‘At last, some words of sense,’ said G’vard. He moved closer to Grendel, until they were almost snout to snout. ‘I am flying to Galarhade right away to withdraw my offer of guardianship. I would rather return to Ki:mera in shame than be an unwilling ally to that idiot blue.’
And with that he gave a formal bow and backed out of the cave.
Grymric, glad now to see him go, let out a weighty sigh. ‘In the name of all that is noble and good, how can we suffer such dreadful wretchedness? It’s this planet, there’s something odd about it, something that blights a dragon’s soul. Did you see G’vard’s eyes? Did they seem in any way dull to you? There was something ailing him, I’m sure. And I don’t just mean Grystina’s death. His condition was akin to a worker I saw at the fhosforent mine this morning. Dullness of eye; quick to anger. When his fire has simmered I must go to him and offer assistance. In the meantime, I pray to Godith to bring down the night before any other vile misfortunes befall us.’
These words were spoken with heartfelt concern, but Grendel was about to land one more blow. Stroking the wearmyss again, she said, ‘If I leave her with you, can you feed her, Grymric?’
‘I – sorry? Leave her? Here? With me?’
‘Just until morning,’ Grendel begged. ‘Make some i:mages for her. She’ll like that.’ She produced one, quickly. A star that popped when the little one touched her snout to it.
‘But…where are you going?’ Grymric asked.
‘For help.’
‘Help?’
‘If my guardian deserts me, I must seek out another.’ Grendel bent her head low and spoke softly to the wearling, then raised her head to the healer once more. ‘I name her Gayl, after her mother’s mother.’
‘Yes, yes. Very apt. But where are you going?’
‘To the edge of the domayne,’ Grendel gulped. ‘Where the sweepers fly.’
And before Grymric could protest, she had backed up to the cave edge, spread her wings and flown.
14
Halfway across the valley, Grendel could still hear Grymric’s cries for her return. But her mind was set. She would follow her second heart and seek out Gabrial. He would believe her if no other dragon would.
The problem was where to look for him. Although she was old enough to roam freely, the mountain domayne was vast and her knowledge of it limited. She had spent most of her Erth time aiding Grystina, seeking out suitable birth locations. It was Grendel, in fact, who’d discovered the opening that led to the cavern in Mount Vargos (a thought that still made her sleep uneasy) and though between them they’d explored large sweeps of the mountains, they had never flown far beyond sight of the sea. She had therefore n
ever seen the fabled scorch line that was supposed to keep the Hom at bay.
But she knew a mapping dragon that had.
It was dark when she landed at the fhosforent mine, but the lytes on her underwings never dimmed and she barely had time to fold down her wings before she was spotted by one of the Veng. It came to her like a long, thin dart, landing so close that she almost lost her footing on one of the sharp gradients that marked the outlying hills around Vargos. She had never thought herself afraid of the Veng, but she had never been challenged by one before. Stilling her primary heart, she raised her head and announced herself.
‘I am Grendel, from the line of—’
‘I know who you are,’ the Veng said bluntly. ‘What are you doing here?’
Grendel readjusted her optical triggers. Despite her enhanced night vision, the Veng was little more than a pointed head with dull red eyes, the remainder of its body a wedge of obscurity against the sullen backdrop of the mountain range. ‘I am free to go where I please,’ she said, doing her best to mask a tremor. She caught herself glancing at the Veng’s harsh claws. ‘If you stand in my way, Prime Galarhade will know about it.’
The Veng was unimpressed. ‘You’re not a queen yet,’ it snarled, tilting its head as though it wanted to sink its teeth into her throat. ‘So I’ll ask you again, what are you doing here?’
Now its stigs were bending back as its lip curled clear of its upper fangs. Attack mode. Why? What had she done to incense it so? Yes, the Wearle needed security, but weren’t the Veng here to make her feel safe? A dragon of this class should be bowing to her, not drawing her into a petty conflict. Grendel blew a wisp of smoke, being careful not to trail it across the Veng’s face. All the while, she could feel her third heart shrinking. That tiny compass of spiritual devotion that kept all dragons on the path to Godith was reacting badly to this encounter. Something was wrong here. Something that filled her with a strange sense of dread.
Before she could determine the root of her fear or even start to answer the Veng’s question, a second dragon landed beside her. She recognised him as Graymere, one of the De:allus breed, sent to oversee the extraction of the fhosforent. The De:allus were quick of mind and good at solving problems. Some rose to be Elders later in life, though many shied away from that position, preferring instead to devote their lives to the science of interpreting the physical wonders of Godith’s universe. Graymere was larger than the Veng and had a striking purple hue throughout. Like all De:allus he had bright yellow eyes, a feature associated with high intelligence. De:allus normally kept their eyes half lidded, because at close range the yellow glare was off-putting. Graymere’s lids were fully raised tonight, which meant Grendel could see the Veng clearly in the darkness. Was it her imagination or was it less green than it ought to be?
‘Fanon Grendel,’ Graymere said, exuding a little air from his spiracles. He spread his wings and bent the tips up. This was a sign of deep respect, probably a little more than Grendel deserved. But she was still, technically, in a laying cycle and any male, even one as committed to his work as Graymere, was entitled to consider himself eligible for courtship. She blushed, the green pallor just visible, thanks to his eyes. It pleased her to hear him use the term fanon, a word from the old tongue meaning ‘a female yet to have young’.
‘De:allus Graymere,’ she said, tipping her snout.
He folded his wings. ‘May I ask what brings you here?’
Only the slightest portion of his tone carried any hope that she was inviting courtship, though Grendel was certain if she took off now he might decide to chase her round the mountains. The De:allus needed to further their lines as much as any other class of dragon – and there was no denying that Graymere was handsome.
‘I already asked her,’ the Veng said tetchily, its eye ridges narrowing by half.
Grendel raised her head and made another wisp of smoke. ‘Does a dragon in my position need to give a reason for exploring the domayne?’ She thought this sounded a little lofty, but Graymere’s reply was perfectly polite.
‘Of course not,’ he said.
‘Then I would like to see the work you do here.’
He seemed surprised, but bowed nonetheless. ‘It would be my pleasure,’ he said. The stigs on the back of his head were bristling. ‘In fact, this is the perfect moment. We are currently in a resting phase. The workers have retired to their settles – it’s a splendid time to see the fhosforent seams. Veng Gazz has no objection, I assume?’
The Veng snapped his wings open, almost slashing Grendel with the fine-toothed spikes that ran along their edge. ‘I have better things to do than watch a fawning De:allus embarrass himself in front of a female.’ With a whump that pulled in a raft of cold rain, he banked sideways and slipped away into the darkness.
‘My apologies,’ Graymere said, when Gazz was gone. ‘I am forced by Elder Grynt to employ the Veng’s services. No dragon is comfortable around them, I assure you.’
‘Is he well?’ asked Grendel. ‘Only, his scales seemed dull. And he was hostile, even for one of their class.’
Graymere peered after Gazz, into the darkness. Choosing his words with care, he said, ‘You must keep this to yourself, but I would not be surprised if Gazz was taking a supply of fhosforent, and possibly encouraging other Veng to do the same.’
‘Taking? You mean stealing?’ Grendel said.
The De:allus rustled his wings, a gesture that suggested she should keep her voice low.
She apologised and leant a little nearer to him. ‘Have you reported this to Elder Grynt?’
Graymere fanged his lip – something he seemed to make a habit of, judging by the scrapes and scars around his mouth. He too did not look in the best of health. But any dragon tasked with managing the mine and dealing with the angry attentions of the Veng could be forgiven a few skin lesions, Grendel thought.
He said, ‘Fhosforent begins to degrade almost as soon as it’s removed from the rocks. It’s hard to keep a record of how much we’ve mined. I would need to be certain a crime had been committed before I dared inform Elder Grynt of my suspicions. The consequence of falsely accusing a Veng is too alarming a prospect to consider.’
‘Then how will you ever prove his guilt?’
‘You saw him,’ Graymere whispered. ‘If he’s stealing the ore, he’s eating it.’
‘But wouldn’t that strengthen him? I thought fhosforent improved our fire?’
‘In small amounts, yes,’ Graymere agreed. ‘But it’s hard to know how much Gazz has eaten. The darkening of his scales is deeply puzzling – even Veng Commander Gallen has commented on it. But it’s not his loss of colour that concerns me, more the change in his temperament.’
‘Fhosforent affects his mood?’ said Grendel.
The De:allus nodded. ‘Most of the combustible minerals we ingest improve our fire through chemical reactions, a mechanism that has evolved over countless generations – forgive me if I sound like I’m tutoring you.’
‘No, please, go on,’ Grendel said.
‘Fhosforent works by expanding the fire sacs, giving us the power to eject more flame, more quickly. To be safe from harm, the strength of flame we’re able to discharge must never overwhelm the tissues that protect the lining of the throat. The heat of a fhosforent flame can quickly wear those tissues down, thus exposing the organs of the brain to a pressure they would not normally accommodate.’
Grendel blinked her soft blue eyes. ‘You mean, it’s driving him mad?’
Graymere fanged his lip again. ‘Too early to say. But if Gazz’s behaviour becomes any more erratic, he will be his own ruin.’
Grendel nodded. Now she understood where that sense of dread in her third heart was coming from. She looked at Graymere and felt sorry for him. No one could blame him for not wanting to speak to the Elders about Gazz. But why was this even happening? Dragons steali
ng? On Ki:mera, such a thing would be unthinkable.
‘So, the mine,’ the De:allus said, raising his neck to show off his fine array of purple shades. ‘It’s not only fhosforent we dig for, of course. One of the benefits of being on this world is that it offers many interesting rock forms to graze.’
‘Really?’ Grendel said doubtfully. ‘What I take from the gravel heaps all tastes the same.’ She was referring to the piles of loose stone that were stored in places close to the eyries. These days, it was considered distasteful to see Elders gnawing at a rock face for the essential minerals all dragons needed. On Erth, the mine supplied stone chips for all.
‘Most of it is,’ Graymere said, nodding. ‘A basic grit is all that’s required to aid the digestion of raw food and give us what supplements we need. If you’re interested, I could show you a range of the different substrates we’ve mined and talk you through their properties?’
‘I think I’d prefer to see the fhosforent,’ said Grendel, trying to sound as graceful as she could. She admired Graymere’s passion for his work, but one rock was much like any other to her.
He angled himself toward the mountains. ‘The best are on the external slopes. Why don’t I chase— I mean, fly you over our latest find? It will be lit by the moon. It’s quite impressive.’
‘I’d like that,’ Grendel said. ‘The workers – you said they were resting now?’
‘Yes, until morning – well, except one.’
Grendel lifted an eye ridge.
‘Rogan,’ he said.
Grendel steadied her breathing. Rogan was the real reason she was here. ‘He works in the night?’
‘His own choice,’ sighed Graymere. ‘The Veng push him hard, but he is allowed rest time – he simply will not take it.’
‘But…he’s old. He must be exhausted?’
Graymere nodded, clearly not at ease with the situation. ‘Dying of exhaustion, I’d say. He speaks in strange sentences, a never-ending babble of incoherence. He’s an excellent worker. He has already uncovered two promising seams, but is always keen to dig harder and deeper; his talons, I’m told, are worn to nothing. He is a poor sight, Grendel. Have no fear, I will make sure we fly well clear of him.’
The Erth Dragons Book 1: The Wearle Page 9