Dragon Champion

Auron saw eyes glittering from behind the mask.



“You say you want to go east?” the dwarf asked.



“Yes.”



“Every year a trade Caravan goes east, from the gap in the south of these mountains across the steppes, crossing the realm of the Ironriders. The great east is a land of spices, timbers, fabrics, and metals that can’t be found around the Inland Sea. It’s the backbone of the Chartered Company, that Caravan. How would you like to travel it with me?”



He pulled the sausages off the pan with a fork and tossed one to Auron. It burned his unsheathed tongue but was admirably tasty, better even than a fire-roasted horse Father brought home.



“You go every year on this trip?” Auron asked.



“Ach, no—I’m not important enough. But if I could bring a dragon along, well, they’d take me, sure and certain.”



“How would a dragon help?”



Auron thought he saw a glow from behind the mask as the dwarf pulled his beard. “Remember what I said about money? We pay our way east, rather than fight through the Ironriders. Bribes. Hiring guards. There’s a money wagon that we pay expenses out of. Usually we guard it with strong warriors, men hired at great cost. Funny how trustworthiness costs more than muscle. A dragon would be better. Ideal for you. You’d have nothing to do but ride with the treasure and look fearsome whenever we open it to pay the Steppe Kings. You’d eat rich and travel in style. What say you, Auron?” Djer finished a sausage and tossed Auron another.



“Answer me a question first,” Auron said.



“No trade secrets.”



“I don’t think so. Why do dwarves hide their faces?”



The dwarf chuckled. “Part custom among strangers. But there is sense to it aboveground.” Djer turned away from the fire, took off his cap, and reached behind his head. He peeled away the mask and turned to Auron. Great limpid eyes like that of an owl regarded him half-hidden by a heavy brow thick with hair. A scraggly beard . . . Auron widened his eyes and looked again. The dwarf’s beard shone, faintly, rather like the moss in his parents’ cavern. Tiny flecks of copper dust sparked in his beard.



“Your beard . . . it glows.”



“It’s sort of a moss. Most dwarves cultivate it in their whiskers with a morning sprinkling of sweetwater. Weathier men than I add silver, gold, or even jewels to enhance the glow. Useful when you’re in a dark hole. Sunlight kills it. And hurts the peepers, in the by. So what do you say, dragon? Help me earn a dusting of gold for my young whiskers?” Djer tossed him another sausage hot from the pan.



“Tell me,” Auron finally said. “On this trip, will there be a lot of sausages?”



Auron rode in the back of Djer’s cart curled up on the floor, stomach full of food, out of the wind and rain. If this was all he had to do to make his way east, he’d be happy to sit atop the dwarves’ bags of gold.



Auron had decided to take the road east after long thought. For all he knew, the Dragonblade was hunting the lands between mountains and coast for him, and if he lingered, he’d be found again.



He wanted to travel to NooMoahk, and learn the great weakness of dragons. Perhaps by exploiting it, the hominids were killing them off; his father had spoken darkly of the dragons vanishing from the earth. How many times had the scene with his family been repeated up and down the mountains, he wondered? How many dragons had been slaughtered in their caves? If Hazeleye had uncovered some weakness that allowed assassins an edge, he wanted to know it, so other dragon families wouldn’t suffer the fate of his. NooMoakh lived somewhere where dragons reached maturity and old age, perhaps in a land far from assassins in the empty plains. At the very least, he might find safety, other dragons living and hunting in peace.



“We’re coming to a village,” Djer said. “Stay quiet back there. I won’t open the cart unless no one is around. I might have to do a little tinkering; having you along means the meat’ll run short soon.”



“A village of men?”



“What else? They breed like rabbits, and roam like wolves.”



Auron pushed under some tenting and curled his shortened tail beneath him. The little house-on-wheels bounced on its springs as it neared the village and crossed more ruts in the road.



“What ho!” a man’s slow voice called from the road. “If it isn’t the wandering dwarf.”



“Still trying to get new money for old hides, Djer Highboots?” another said in a more friendly tone.



Auron heard Djer lift himself in the seat, and he could picture the dwarf taking off his hat. “Afternoon, my men, afternoon. I see the manner of the men of Irr-on-Slackwater is as welcoming as always. Why the spear, Gule the Younger?”



“A dragon’s been tracked on this road, north of three-arch bridge. Drakossozh himself seeks the beast. Oddly enough, he seeks you, too. Seems his armor took fire in battle with a dragon.”



“Ahh, a beautiful bit of workmanship. I remember it. Well, well, well, if it were any other time, I’d wait a month for him, but I have a Caravan to meet.”



“The thane has bade us give you food, fuel, and fodder while you wait for him. You’re the only dwarf hereabouts.”



“And whose fault is that? The thane himself and his ‘men’s money for men’s goods’ decrees; your priests railing against dwarves bringing in liquor and wine, and that dryhole wizard’s emblem on the lintel of every shop meaning I’ll get my head knocked in if I darken the doorstep. The great Chartered Company’d have a crafts-dwarf in your village, if only you’d patronize them. You’re getting as bad as the barbarians. I’ve been up north since the snow melted, and what do I have to show for it? Six ponies’ load.”



“Dwarves never tire of blaming others for their troubles,” the slow voice said, as though it were speaking words of a foreign tongue.



“Ach,” Djer said. “You go about your business, and let me do mine.”



“You’ll wait here for the Dragonblade, if you want the thane’s goodwill.”



“The thane will let me pass, if he wants the goodwill of the Diadems. I’m driving on.”



Auron felt the cart lurch into motion. Djer set his horses to a trot, and the bouncing stopped only after an hour’s hard travel. A panel behind the driver’s seat slid open, and for the first time, Auron saw a weapon, a stout mace, taken from a box beneath the little window.



“Trouble?” Auron said. “Did they ride after you?”



“Not from behind. Ahead. Take a peek.”



Auron looked over Djer’s shoulder. He saw a line of dirty-clothed men, interspersed with gangly boys, trudging in a tight line up the road. A man walking his horse led them. The leader carried a shield and sword, but the men had only clubs, staves, and hoes. Auron had seen a column like it before, farther north along the road.



“Beeyah, dwarf! Off the road,” the leader shouted in Parl. He halted his file with a sweep of his shield. “There’s good men afoot, and some riding dwarf bastard isn’t going to push us off.”



Djer said nothing, but clucked his tongue and shifted his horse to give them room to pass. He snapped the panel shut, cutting off Auron’s view.



“There’s room to share the road,” Djer said. “Space for both of us.”



“Go to the other side. That side’s upwind of us.”



Auron felt the cart lurch to a halt, setting the hung tools inside swinging on their hooks.



“This is as far as I go,” Djer said. “If you wish to pass upwind, you go to the other side and do so. I’ll not move.”



There was a quiet pause.



“Take my advice, dwarf. Keep heading south, and don’t come back. Your kind aren’t much liked up here. We don’t care for dwarvish settlers. This is man-ground.”



“That’ll be news to my cousins in the mountains. They were here before Hypat laid the first paving stone.”



“Don’t answer back to an officer, dwarf,” an unfamiliar voice yelled in Parl.



“Let’s tip his cart!” another shouted.



“Beeyah! Beeyah!” voices chorused.



Auron heard stamping feet, and Djer shouting. The cart heaved, spilling Auron and the goods inside everywhere. He crashed to the side of the cart under a rain of tools.



“Away from those ponies!” Djer shouted. “I’ll kneecap you, you filthy dogs!”



Auron heard laughter and fading footfalls.



“Barbarians,” Auron heard Djer mutter. “Are you well, drake?”



“I’m fine. Your cart is a mess.”



Djer opened the door, and Auron hopped out and stretched neck and tail. The ponies still stood in their traces, nosing the grass. Djer grunted, and heaved the cart back on his wheels. Auron marveled at the strength in his compact body.



“At least they didn’t rob you.”



“They tried. The knots on the ponies’ lines were beyond them, ignorant hurks, and the wire core in the rope turned their blades. One of them filched a fine pair of boots, though, may the feet that stole them suffer of toeworm.”