A shudder went through Fyrid, and he swallowed. How long had the dragon been watching them? Had he seen Payk’s bow, arrow notched and aimed at their camp? He glanced at his direwolves; they were staring up at the massive reptile, mesmerized. Why hadn’t they warned him that—that thought stopped short. The female direwolf had growled, and he had cuffed her.
“Well, what shall we do now?” the dragon pondered.
“We never would have harmed you…Sir Dragon,” said Fyrid stoutly.
“My name is Larek, of the Ceshon Aerie. And you are—?”
Fyrid gave their names, then gave the dragon a polite nod as all the while, he warily dug his elbow into his uncle’s thick side, not sure what the elder man would do, but unable to stomach how he was just standing there, like a weakling! A wet, pee-stinking weakling.
And abruptly, remorse replaced Fyrid’s anger. He had no right to that ire. His knowledge of Payk’s experience with dragons was limited to what the young man had gained listening in secret to adult conversations. But Fyrid did know it was Payk’s greatest secret and deepest fear, despite any bravery he might have previously shown. Years earlier, Payk had nearly died while trying to save his elder brother—Fyrid’s father, Heyr—from the dragons of another Aerie. That day, a dragon’s talons had deeply scored Payk’s back and shoulder, and scarred his face. Another had taken Heyr’s leg, while two other of the massive beasts killed and ate two men of the Sorst Clan.
Fyrid stole a quick glance at Payk; his uncle was still rigid, staring at the dragon.
“Th-that day, Uncle—” Fyrid leaned over to look into Payk’s slack face. To his horror, a line of spittle was hanging from Payk’s bottom lip. “Payk, listen!” the young man whispered frantically. “Those dragons—the ones that hurt my father and you—they weren’t of the Ceshon Aerie.” Fyrid raised his voice. “Uncle, look! These are good dragons!”
The gold dragon lowered his head and stared directly into Payk’s frozen face. The expression on the beast’s horned face had again changed; Fyrid prayed that earlier, he had indeed determined the dragon had been amusing himself with their fear. And that now, the enormous, scaled face was grim—even concerned.
“You are of the Sorst Clan?” the dragon asked, his leathery lips delicately forming the words.
“Y-Yes, we are,” Fyrid replied.
“Ahh, that changes things, doesn’t it?” Larek said thoughtfully. “How fortuitous, and yet, ill-timed for the two of you, young Phailite. I believe Gaulte will have many questions to ask of you. You would be wise to answer honestly. I believe it is much less painful that way.”
Larek eyed both men and animals again, then he gestured toward his back with his head. “Our Clan isn’t yet ready to have all know our Aerie males have returned to the Valley. Get on my back. I shall not let you fall. There is a thin membrane of muscle that runs between from the joint where my shoulder and wing join, to the claw atop my wing.”
Fyrid reached out a tentative, but steady hand and touched a knob of thick skin at the edge of the dragon’s wing near his wing-claw. The dragon’s warmth startled him.
“Yes, that is it,” Larek said. “It is strong; we use it to carry our young. You may hold on to it. The direwolves can climb atop me, but you will have to hold the beasts alongside you. Again, that membrane will help.” The dragon hesitated and tried to keep pity from his voice as he added, “I fear you must contend with your kin on your own.”
Fyrid’s heart took a leap as he realized what the dragon was saying. Fyrid af’Heyr was going to ride a dragon! He would be—
Payk mumbled, then his voice rose. And that incoherent noise swiftly became a wail. By the gods, the man was falling apart before Fyrid’s eyes! Payk’s dark eyes were darting back and forth between Fyrid and the dragon. Suddenly, Payk flailed his arms as though he planned to attack, and—
Fyrid jumped back as the dragon lifted a talon-tipped appendage, curved an enormous claw, and tapped his uncle on the head. Payk crumbled to the ground.
Fyrid stared down at the fallen man for a heartbeat before he gave an inarticulate scream and yanked a long knife from the sheath on his thigh. He rushed toward his uncle; the dragon’s talons, closing around his body stopped him almost at once.
“I didn’t harm him,” Larek said patiently, “merely did this—”
The young human went limp within the dragon’s two hands. Larek shook his head and made his tsking noise again. What did the child think he would do with that little poker?
Larek swept his gaze over the fur-covered humans and shook his head. How strange that while the larger human had remained frozen in fear, the younger one had handled his fear with true boldness. The gold dragon chuckled. The two direwolves could have passed for pups for all their concern about the dragon.
Larek sighed long and turned to direct the direwolves—who had ultimately turned out to be the more intelligent of the group of spies—to climb on his back. Larek winced as their sharp, heavy claws scraped along his hide. Finally, they settled down, burying their noses in their long, furry tails.
Carefully, using the tips of his talons, Larek lifted the unconscious men and arranged them in the middle of his back, alongside the muscular tendons of his wings.
The dragon would have to go vigilantly. The capture of two Phailites—albeit from the peaceable Sorst Clan—promised to be far too valuable for him to drop.
Chapter Five
Ceshon Pass
Day three of the First Moon of Wynter
Gaulte returned to the camp last. Mayra and Wolfe, instead of setting up their camp as the others were, stood huddled together, bent over something in her arms.
The black dragon craned its neck to see what they were doing. His head jerked back as his eyes widened, he gave a disgusted snarl, and Mayra looked up at him in surprise.
“A filthy little wyrm!” said the dragon scornfully. “By the Great White Dragon, Mayra, where did you find that thing? Kill it now, ere it turns on you, and gives you a frightful pox.”
“No!” Mayra cried, holding the animal next to her. “It is a youngling, Gaulte.”
“It is an adult forest dragonlet,” said Talft, a glimmering blue dragon, who gazed down at the little creature with a pronounced sneer. “They are a primitive beast from Auter. That is an island to the west that lies directly between the warm lands and the icy ones. They have excellent eyesight and hearing, but they can barely think, let alone speak or communicate. They are also lazy and eat more than their worth of anything.”
Gaulte huffed. Wait. His mind-speak betrayed his edginess. If it is young enough—perhaps it will imprint upon you, Mayra. Turn the creature over, slowly, and cradle it in your arms, as a human babe.
Mayra obeyed Gaulte at once, wondering what the dragon was doing. The little dragonlet whined and tried to turn back over. Gaulte peered down over Mayra’s shoulder for a long moment, then shook his head.
“Well, he shall not be easy for us to live with,” said Gaulte sourly, “as he dislikes your holding him in that controlling manner. However, you can tell from here the beast is a male and that he is quite happy to be with you, little witching.”
Mayra blushed scarlet. She allowed the struggling dragon to turn back over.
“You can see no such thing,” muttered Wolfe under his breath. He gave Gaulte an irritated glance, and they heard the rough, rumbling sound of the black dragon’s laughter.
Wolfe shook his head at Gaulte’s humor, then looked up at the dragon questioningly. “Is the dragonlet still a young one?”
“It seems tolerably young. Perhaps it will learn manners and be less annoying to everyone, though I doubt it shall grow any larger.”
“I wonder how he got here,” Mayra mused, as she hefted the dragonlet up onto her shoulder and started back to their camp.
Before she’d taken a complete step, she stopped short and tickled the dragonlet under the chin. It nestled next to her, and a word popped into her head.
Smok.
Mayra l
aughed. “He says his name is Smok.”
Gaulte turned his head to look back at her. He glared at the dragonlet for a moment, probing for a sign of communication. Nothing. How had the little beast given his name? Such dragonlets did not communicate as did Gaulte’s kind, they weren’t intelligent enough to. He lowered his head toward the two, to peer more closely at the repulsive little creature, and received a tiny snort and growl. Gaulte pulled back; his own growl was much more intimidating, but the dragonlet turned away and burrowed itself farther into the fur of Mayra’s over-tunic.
Fauler and Wolfe observed this in silence.
“Trouble?” Wolfe muttered softly.
“I predict so,” returned the green dragon. “I fear it came to her deliberately, friend Wolfe, though I do not know why. But I also feel that at least it will protect her, tiny though it is.”
* * *
Mayra slowed as they joined the others at the fire-ring and looked up at Wolfe. “Wolfe, how will Poppie—”
He laughed and inclined his head toward their makeshift bed. The tiny black cat was sitting amid her humans’ bedding, staring at the miniature dragon, her eyes alive with angry blue sparks. The other witches were moving about, setting out pallets, quilts, and fur skins. Two of the women—witch-warrior Jannia and her sister, the Healer, Shaura—were the first to see the tiny dragon, and both squealed like children as they ran to Mayra’s side.
Smok whined.
No. No, must not go with us.
Gaulte froze in mid-step and looked back and forth at the humans. He had never heard the high-pitched “voice” before, could not detect its origin. He turned his fierce, starburst eyes back on the dragonlet. Could it truly use mind-speak; was the little creature talking to the huge dragon?
He could detect nothing from the dragonlet, not even the sense of hunger that Mayra was insisting the creature was feeling.
“He smells the meat,” Wolfe said, and as Mayra disliked even handling raw meat, he offered to feed the beast. Mayra shook her head. She scratched the little animal’s rough head and stared into his beautiful blue eyes for a long moment, then set him on his feet and nudged him toward the dragons.
Almost at once, he was replaced by Poppie; the little black cat jumped gracefully into Mayra’s arms and moved around to settle herself. Gaulte huffed; the familiar belonged there, not some nasty—
“I want Smok to get used to all of us. I—oh—” Mayra broke off, sputtering, as Poppie’s elegant plume of a tail slid across her nose and ticked her lips.
“He might be a good guard for us if we are his Clan,” Wolfe added, grinning as his cat continued to move around in Mayra’s arms, butting her furry head against Mayra’s chin.
“Poppie, sit down!” Mayra finally said, exasperated. “Gaulte, will one of you give Smok some small pieces of meat? He’s starving; I don’t want him choking his silly self while eating too fast.”
Before Gaulte could even begin an indignant refusal, a call from Fauler filled their heads: Look yonder, Larek returns!
Fauler’s message sent those in the camp looking out over the largest ravine. Across the closing gap, most of them saw immediately that the gold dragon carried two huge canines, a moment later, they could also see the two blue humans. Fauler, nearest the edge of the plateau, was on his feet at once, searching to shield both Gaulte and Mayra until someone could warn them of the presence of Phailites.
Larek! The green dragon sent an angry message out. Why didn’t you warn me you found Phailites?
Mayra paused as she felt something both stunned and ominous wash over her. But before she could move, she heard Poppie growling. The Ring-Witch tried to turn to see what had caused the cat such consternation, but the familiar caught Mayra’s braid tugged on it with all her might, pulling Mayra’s head toward Wolfe.
* * *
Wolfe started to grin as he saw Mayra’s grimace and her frantic waves for him to pull Poppie out of her now-loose hair. But at the same moment, he saw what laid upon Larek’s back.
He saw the two huge direwolves first, gazing around like the foolish beasts they were, with their tongues hanging out, looking as though they were enjoying themselves immensely. As Larek grew closer, Wolfe was stunned to see two humans—two blue humans—one lying flat on the dragon’s back and the other hunched over him.
By the gods, was that what was wrong with his little cat? Wolfe stepped up to the two females in his life—one evidently trying to prevent a shock to the other—and motioned Poppie up onto his shoulder.
“Mayra, stop!” he said softly.
Wolfe caught her shoulders in his large hands and slowly turned her so she could see Larek, drawing ever closer to the plateau. She stiffened. Wolfe slid his arm around her waist and gave her a slight shake.
“Poppie was trying to protect you,” he murmured. He glanced at Gaulte.
The closer the gold dragon drew to Gaulte, the greater Wolfe’s alarm grew. The male Ring-Witch knew that if he could feel the faint, strange sensations that Larek was sending out, there was no doubt Gaulte should have felt them both more quickly and far stronger than did the witches. The black dragon stood frozen, peering out at Larek. But he still did not move to intercept Larek.
Wolfe abruptly realized that from Gaulte’s angle, it had taken a longer time for the dragon to recognize the humans as Phailites. But the dark Ring-Witch felt the dragon’s recognition as soon as it occurred, felt the heated hatred that rushed through the black dragon as it blasted into Mayra, making her scream and clutch at her abdomen.
“Gaulte!” shouted Wolfe. “Stop! You’re hurting Mayra!”
* * *
Gaulte had felt an odd sensation emanating from Fauler and had then watched as Larek drew nearer to the campsite. He didn’t seem to immediately realize that Larek was not alone, but once the gold dragon dropped lower, Gaulte caught sight of the two humans. Rage exploded through the black dragon, and he had no intention of controlling it. He dropped to an attack crouch, his great wings unfurling, preparing to launch himself.
Kill the cursed Phailites!
Gaulte’s mind-speak was as close to a scream as any dragon had ever heard and the lucid side of Gaulte watched as dragons and humans around him rose in alarm. His next cry—Drop them now! Kill them!—had his Clan preparing to battle. But he was beyond being rational, even if he brought harm to his kin. Even if he, himself, wounded Mayra.
* * *
“Gaulte, stop!” Fauler’s shouted warning bellowed across the canyon, ensuring Larek heard.
Wolfe ran toward Gaulte, half-carrying the stumbling Mayra alongside him, trying to intercept the black dragon. He felt the connection between Mayra and Gaulte abruptly sever. He was once again able to feel her; her confusion and pain were fading. She regained her footing and Wolfe breathed a sigh of relief. They stopped running. Mayra continued to grasp Wolfe’s hand as he gazed out at the approaching dragon.
The two men on Larek’s back had spied the black dragon, opening himself up and preparing to attack. Wolfe knew—the dragon’s bared teeth, the sudden roar, left little doubt—they weren’t welcome!
The Phailites struggled, and it took a moment for Wolfe to realize one of the blue humans, a shorter, though more substantial man, with a bushy white beard, was fighting and thrashing about, all the while attempting to hoist himself to standing, though to what end? It was all the younger, smooth-faced one could do to keep the bearded man down, close to Larek’s back.
Larek had slowed his flight, hanging in midair, as he seemed to be trying to settle the men upon his back. He turned his head and spat words toward them. The young man grew still, but the other, bearded one fought harder. The humans on the plateau could see Larek grimacing as the man struggled against the thin membrane that ran between Larek’s two wing-claws, obviously all that was holding the men safely against the dragon.
Wolfe slipped a protective arm around his unpredictable mate’s waist; she watched in horror as the struggle on Larek’s back intensified, until Wolfe gave h
er a slight shake and she released the breath she’d been holding.
Both men suddenly ceased their erratic movements. The larger man dropped to Larek’s back, breathing heavily. Wolfe also relaxed. The Phailites were safe for the moment—
The bearded man jumped to his feet with a long scream and resumed flinging himself about, shrieking inarticulately.
“Dear gods,” Mayra whispered, clutching at Wolfe’s arm. “What’s wrong with him? He will cause both of them to fall and die!”
Wolfe glanced down at her, then nodded. “It seems to be what the elder man wants,” he murmured.
* * *
Wolfe’s words spurred Mayra to action. She whirled toward Gaulte, shouting at him until at last, he heard her. At last! She had cut off his plan to attack, and he was slowing down. She ducked under his head and around to his side. “Gaulte, we have to help them! Bend down! I can ride you as they are, without a saddle! If they see me, perhaps they will be still until Larek can land!”
She knew Gaulte could hear and feel her words in his head, for he was shaking his head, as though trying to dislodge her voice. But he dropped to his belly. As soon as she touched him, she sent a soothing, calm sense flowing through him.
Mayra struggled to climb onto his back without the aid of the saddle. Suddenly, a thick arm around closed around her waist and she was shoved up and up. Wolfe, his arm tight around her, stuck his boot between two of the dense scales that protected Gaulte’s flanks and shoulders, and pulled himself up behind his mate. Both grabbed onto the thick horns that ran down the back of Gaulte’s neck and his massive wings spread wide open.
She drew the sword she still wore and heard Wolfe’s startled, “What the f—” as the blade whipped past his face.
She interrupted him with a grim, “If I have to push that Phailite back onto Larek, so be it. A small cut in this cold might bring him to his senses.”
* * *
A huge gust of wind swept over Larek as the gold dragon turned toward the plateau where Fyrid could see the other dragons and humans.
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