Dragon Champion

“I wasn’t raised on the island. I’ve only just joined.”



She pried open a cask of pork with a crowbar. “Pork it is,” she said, lifting the cask with a grunt and setting it on his platform. She threw a joint of mutton on top of it.



“Here are the messages,” AuRon said, passing her three of the cylinders.



She looked at the labeling.



“They’re correct. I can read Parl.”



“I see,” she said. “Welcome to my tower.”



“It’s remarkable,” AuRon said, noticing the emphasis she gave the word my. Sometimes with humans how they said a word was as important as what the word was. “Do you know how long it took to build?”



“Do I? A dozen years of labor, and that’s after the materials had been collected. I drew the plans myself. It’s not finished yet, even now we’re working on some catacombs beneath. I selected this spot because of the caves nearby.”



“The Wyrmmaster is wise to have you.”



“He gives opportunities to those denied them elsewhere. A woman on this coast who wants to make anything but babies isn’t thought much of. In girlhood I’d designed a round barn for my father, with a winch in the center, like this but on a smaller scale. It was a curiosity, people came to see it from all around, and then clap my brothers on the back and congratulate them on the fine work. In Juutfod I went to one of the councils he and Praskall held. They’re building a new world for men, and I joined to make sure they built it for women, too.”



The next morning AuRon continued on his journey east, following the river. This part of the coast was a network of lakes and rivers, the constant rain and melt from mountain glaciers fed innumerable rivers and streams, and marshlands in between. It looked a poor land for anything but fishing or falconing waterfoul. He wondered if somewhere below wolves still howled the tale of Blackhard and Firelong.



The river was his route into the mountains. He followed the northern fork—the southern led toward the former delvings of the Wheel of Fire dwarves—and came upon a riverbank town. Maganar was a strange sort of town: it was more of collection of settlements in the valley on both sides of the river, with smallholdings on every hillside. With winter on the way, the fields were clear of crops, though he saw boys out with slings. They hunted for migrating birds that had stopped for a meal in the fields. The smallholders were shifting timber closer to their homes and making repairs to roof and window for the coming winter.



AuRon had been told to look near the riverbank for a clearing with six huge poles, where a tent was put up for festivals and gatherings. He saw the open area, and the tree-trunk-size poles, and alighted within.



Children ran to get their parents, out of excitement rather than fear. AuRon waited and pulled out the last bronze message-bottle from his bandolier. A boat crossed from the other side of the river and a group of men got out. They were dressed in soft deerskin, and many wore black, furry hats with flaps of pelt that hung down the sides. More men emerged from the buildings on the clearing side of the river. Only a few bore weapons.



They reminded AuRon of birds, gathering and gathering until they all decided to do something. When the men adjudged enough of their numbers present, one stepped forward from the chattering throng. He had a braided blond beard.



“Well, dragon, if it’s Thunderarm you seek, he’s away with your master, and his living son’s not old enough to speak for his house.”



“My name is NooShoahk. If he hadn’t returned yet,” AuRon said, “I was to give this message to someone named Urlan Ironmonger.”



“That would be me, gray dragon,” a man said, stepping forward. He had a twisted left arm; it had been broken and set badly. He took the cylinder in his good hand and opened it. “Where’s Wickman? I need this read to me.”



A thin man came to the front of the crowd, walking slowly with the aid of a cane. Something about his scarecrow frame seemed out of place among these burly barbarians. Then AuRon realized what it was. He was looking into the face of the man he had once known as Hross. And Hross was looking at his shortened tail.



The people of Maganar were hospitable. They slaughtered a stringy old milk cow for him, and chickens besides. Hross showed no sign of recognizing him after the first appraising glance, and took the cylinder off to his riverbank home to read it to the man with the crippled arm.



AuRon watched the town shut down for the night. He was used to seeing young people out on the Isle of Ice after the elders had gone to sleep, talking and singing and courting. There were young women, bringing cattle into barns and working the wells, but not many young men.



“Do men ride you into battle?” a boy asked. His Parl was thickly accented, and slowly enunciated, but intelligible enough.



“Not yet,” AuRon said.



“I practice on a thudmog, except it’s got a hard shell, not like yours. Neck’s shorter, too.”



“A pony would be more realistic, I think. You want to be a dragonrider someday?”



“Yes. They’re the best. They’re the only ones who came back from the reckoning with the dwarves. I had two brothers, but they were just axmen. The dwarves killed them, my father says. He lost a hand. When I’m grown, I’ll take our wergild from the dwarves. I’ll see to it.”



“You’ll take their place? How can one boy fill two sets of shoes?”



“I’ll fight twice as hard.”



“Listen to a dragon, boy. Stay home and take a wife, and raise two sons to do the same. Could be some dwarf will come to this village looking for wergild for his brother some day, and if that happens, they’ll need all of you here.”



The next morning Urlan Ironmonger and the other men came, again bearing the message-tube.



“Give this to no one but the Wyrmmaster,” Ironmonger said. “Tell him we’ve all put our mark to Wickman’s words. We’ll be true to them.”



“You’ve put your mark to Wickman’s words, and will be true to them. I’ll tell him myself.”



AuRon spread his wings, and the men backed up. He launched himself into the air, and climbed away, already wondering about the contents of the tube. If his memory wasn’t playing him tricks, he’d come close to a man who had known he had traveled with dwarves. He was younger then, but Hross had definitely looked at his tail. What was in the message tube about his neck?



It was sealed, so he didn’t dare open it. Losing it was out of the question—the harness was well made, and he had been told to bring back the reply. Was he bearing his own death sentence back to the Wyrmmaster?



He only just remembered to call at the Juutfod tower, so preoccupied was he with what he might do to escape the situation. There was another message to bear back to the Isle of Ice, so he added the tube to his bandolier. As he headed out to sea from Juutfod, he paused, circling. It would be safest to just fly back south, tell Naf all he could, and help his friends prepare for the storm gathering as little flags in the mapcase. But that would leave Natasatch and who knows how many eggs in the hands of a murderous madman. He wavered, tilting his wings first south, then northwest. South, northwest . . . south, northwest . . . Naf, Natasatch.



He chose Natasatch.



He decided to deliver the messages immediately upon landing, and wait until the Wyrmmaster had read them to take action. Perhaps Hross assumed that in the intervening years AuRon had fallen in with the Wyrmmaster, and forgotten their old feud.



AuRon landed at the lodge, exhausted from worry and flight, on a final warm afternoon of autumn. A few of the men lounged about the place, enjoying the sunshine’s glow, and they came in to see what news he bore.



The Wyrmmaster took the bandolier with his disarming good humor. “A quick trip, my good friend. In a boat that journey would take weeks, with fair weather.”



“I didn’t want to miss my turn in the breeding cave,” AuRon said, to general guffaws. Even Eliam laughed with the rest.



The Wyrmmaster examined the tubes, and looked at the seals to see which was which. He read the one from Juutfod first.



“They’ve burned another fishing fleet at Rerok Isles,” the Wyrmmaster said. “There’ll be hunger in Hypat this winter, with no traffic in smoked fish up the Falnges.” He opened the second, and read it. He pursed his lips, and read it again.



“Will the men of Maganar stand with us?” Eliam asked. “Or does that ungrateful cur have more friends?”



The Wyrmmaster handed the message to the Dragonblade.



“You can go and rest now, AuRon,” he said.



AuRon shifted his weight and caught himself. “NooShoahk, you mean, Your Supremacy.”



“You mean your name isn’t AuRon? Never has been?”



“I’ve heard the name, yes, but never used it. Why should I? I’m proud of NooMoahk; he fought alongside humans just as I would. No, my name’s not AuRon.”



“There’s a man who says that you are a gray dragon named AuRon, and that you’re a friend of the dwarves.”



“What man? I talked to a woman at Juutfod, and the guard only at night.”



“In Maganar. He wrote a note, asking if I knew your history. Come to think of it, I don’t know much about your origins.”