The Erth Dragons Book 1: The Wearle (10 page)

17

Words. They had never seemed so strange or so difficult before. Every time Grendel tried to converse, her sentences trailed away into the rain. Graymere’s, likewise, when he spoke to her. All that made sense in their first few moments were the hurrs and grunts of the wearmyss, Gayl, destined now to be the focus of their lives.

Shortly after being dismissed by the Elders, Grendel had retrieved Gayl from Grymric’s cave and flown her directly to Graymere’s settle, an open crag just behind the mines. Despite the range and scope of the mountains, there were few available caves around Vargos, certainly none that could shelter three dragons. The rain was
of no concern to an adult; they enjoyed the pulse of it on their wings, and a concentrated fall of water would wash out the parasites that lodged between their scales. But a youngster could become severely wet. And though Gayl was unlikely to die of exposure, it was nevertheless preferable to keep her dry until her first layer of scales came through.

So Graymere found himself saying, ‘I should roam. Find shelter. For her, for…us. She cannot sit under you all the time. I have heard there are caves further out. Shall I…?’

‘Yes,’ Grendel said, knowing they would be better apart for a while. ‘Go to the mine as well. There must be arrangements you need to make?’

He nodded and bumbled through a reply. ‘The mine. Yes. Arrangements. Yes.’ He tented his wings and prepared to fly. ‘Grendel?’

‘Later,’ she said, her voice full of kindness, ‘when you’ve found shelter for us.’

He fanged his lip. ‘I will…care for you,’ he said. He looked down at Gayl, curled up in a ball between Grendel’s legs. ‘Both of you.’

‘
Hurr
,’ went the youngster, tucking her snout under her skinny tail.

‘And we for you,’ said Grendel, meeting his gaze. Even half lidded, his eyes were so sad. ‘Go. We will wait until you summon us.’

He nodded again, and bowed. ‘Keep her safe,’ he said, and flew.

There was no activity at the mine, though Graymere had been expecting that. Heavy rain could dilute the freshly-exposed ore or simply wash it out of the seams. The workers would be on their settles, resting. It hurt to think that his work here was done. They’d been his, this desolate group of hills. His project. His reason for leaving Ki:mera. He was proud to be a guardian, albeit by command, but fostering was not his true vocation. He was De:allus, born to unravel the mysteries of the universe, born to understand the wonders of Godith. He was going to miss these harsh grey scarps, and the hollows and shafts his dragons had dug to find and retrieve the precious pink ore.

Ah yes, the ore. Perhaps a life of fatherhood was better for him now. How could he ever look at fhosforent again without reliving Rogan’s horrifying end? What was Rogan thinking of when he’d swallowed so much of the pink, so fast? Did he know what effect it would have on his fire? Or had something turned his mind before that? Like a gathering storm, these thoughts began to pull his gaze toward the quarry, and before he knew it he was flying there. What he was looking for, he couldn’t say, but a chance to investigate might never come again.

To his surprise, the pit was not deserted. One of the workers, a good-natured green called Gruder, was almost on the spot where Rogan had burned. He was sniffing at the stones and racking them aside, his head bent low to the ground.

Graymere landed with a quiet clap of wings.

‘De:allus Graymere,’ the green said, jumping around. He looked nervous. Or distressed. Possibly both. Rain was bouncing off the top of his head, making spikes as tall as his primary stigs.

‘Gruder, what are you doing?’

The young dragon made clamping movements with his mouth. ‘I…’ He put his shoulders back like a guard. ‘I was told you were removed from your duties,’ he said, as if he had read it off a nearby rock.

Gallen’s words in Gruder’s mouth. Graymere gave a quick snort of contempt. ‘I have been chosen to raise the wearmyss,’ he said, making it sound like a great honour, ‘but I could hardly leave my position here without…’ How could he put it without worrying Gruder into calling the Veng? ‘…saying a prayer for Rogan.
No matter the reason he was sent to us, none could deny he was an excellent worker. One of our best. Wouldn’t you agree?’

Gruder swallowed hard. ‘I’m sorry, I must continue with my work.’

‘Of course – what has Gallen ordered you to do?’

The young dragon swung his head from side to side, his wings hanging limp like the last leaves on a tree. The rain pounded on the rocks around him as if drawn down by the weight of his fear.

‘Gruder, you know me,’ Graymere said. ‘You are in no danger. None of this will reach the ears of the Veng. Why are you working when the others are at rest?’

‘I don’t like this,’ said Gruder, taut with dismay. ‘Godith will punish us. We should not…’

‘Not what?’ Graymere pushed him gently.

Gruder shuddered, rattling every scale from his neck to his isoscele. ‘They want me to find his
heart
.’

Graymere felt the tips of his wings turn to ice. A dragon had three hearts, closely linked, but it was clear to him which one Gruder meant. The primary heart was the organ that supplied a dragon’s strength. Its walls were as thick as three layers of scales and almost impossible to pierce. Yet when a dragon died those walls would open and out of them would come a single spark. By a means unknown, even to the finest De:allus minds, the spark would travel to the dragon’s eye where it would enter a single tear. With the shedding of the tear, the auma of the dragon was released into the universe and its spirit could be one with Godith once more. But if the death was unnatural and the tear didn’t form, the heart would close around the spark and its walls would gradually turn to stone. Then, legend had it, the auma of the dragon would forever haunt those who’d denied it the chance to die in peace. That could arguably include the whole Wearle.

No wonder Gruder was frightened.

The rain eased to a softer beat. Graymere blinked his eyes, clearing the runnels of water that sometimes collected in the folds of his lids. ‘You must do your duty,’ he told Gruder kindly. ‘If your auma is pure, nothing
can harm you.’

But the dread in Gruder’s eyes did not marry with that statement. ‘Is it true?’ he whispered. He was shaking like a wearling.

‘Is what true?’ said Graymere.

‘That the Tywyll came for Rogan at the end?’

Was
that
the rumour the Veng were spreading? That the change observed in Rogan was the spirit of evil, risen? Graymere set himself strong. ‘No, Gruder, that is not true. I was there. The darkness played no tricks on me. Rogan was distressed, driven mad by…his confinement. He was not in control of his flame. I assure you no dark spirits rose. What is to be done with the heart – if you find it?’

‘I am to carry it to Veng commander Gallen.’

‘And then?’

‘I don’t know. The Elder was here. I suppose he will decide.’

‘Elder Grynt?’

‘No, Elder Givnay visited this morning.’

Graymere narrowed his ridges. Givnay was here? The mute had left his settle – for the mine? ‘Have you found anything?’

Gruder blew two lines of smoke, first from one nostril, then the other. He pointed to a piece of ground where a few charred pieces were stacked.

Graymere adjusted his position to bring himself close to the pile.

‘De:allus, please,’ Gruder said urgently. ‘By order of Veng commander Gallen, no dragon is allowed to examine the remains.’

‘Did he say why?’

‘No. Not to me.’

Graymere gave a thoughtful nod. He raised one foot and let it rest on the remains. ‘Pray with me,’ he said.

The green twitched nervously, looking all around him.

Graymere said, ‘Relax, Gruder. Not even Gallen would deny a blessing on Rogan’s spirit.’ And he bowed his head and appealed to Godith, asking Her to accept Rogan’s auma and take him back into the Fire Eternal. And as Gruder bent his head as well, the De:allus closed his short rear talon around a piece of bone and gripped it neatly under his foot.

Leaving Gruder to continue his work, he flew out of the pit, heading for the settles on the ocean side of the mine. He had almost reached them when he was rudely intercepted by none other than Gallen, who happened to be accompanied by the dragon Graymere had come to find: a talented mapper called Garret.

The Veng commander ordered Graymere to land. Graymere chose a strip of waterlogged erth. Not the ideal place to stand up to a Veng, but the ground underfoot was very soft; he could bury Rogan’s bone with one push if he needed to.

‘You’re out of your territory,’ Gallen said bluntly.

Graymere glanced at Garret and back. ‘I was seeking Garret, not you.’

‘And what would you want with a mapper?’ said Gallen.

‘I could ask you the same thing,’ Graymere said, though the answer was obvious. The Veng prided themselves on knowing every piece of the territories they defended, and Garret was the best mapper in the Wearle.

Gallen spread his claws under Graymere’s snout, sending mud in all directions. ‘I warned you not to mock me, De:allus. The mines are my business now and I will do all I need to protect them.’

‘How might I be of assistance?’ said Garret. Like Grymric, he was a gentle soul who did his best to avoid any conflicts. His quiet intervention was enough to make Gallen retract his claws.

‘I need to find a cave – for three,’ said Graymere.

‘Um, yes,’ said Garret. ‘I heard about your new…appointment. You must be proud to be—’

‘Get on with it,’ snapped Gallen. ‘We’ve got work to do.’

Garret gave a chastened nod. ‘As you know, the atmospheric conditions of this planet have weathered out many fine hollows in the mountains. The best have been claimed by the Elders, of course. There are some spectacular sea caves I could point you to, but they may be too damp for a new-born wearling and the overlying strata can be quite unstable.’

‘You’re testing my patience, mapper.’ Gallen’s claws were out again. ‘You’ll be unstable if you don’t answer his query soon.’

‘Garret, just show me something safe,’ said Graymere. ‘All I need is shelter for now.’

So Garret closed his eyes and concentrated. Within moments, he had built a floating i:mage of a wide green hill, topped by a cluster of mature trees. ‘We’ve mapped several formations in this region,’ he said, ‘where an ancient fault line has divided the land. There was an extensive body of water here once that has worn down the rock and carried loose sediment into the hill. Drainage cracks have expanded all over it and several attractive caverns have formed. The best one is here.’ He turned the i:mage to show an undulating slope. In one fold was a dark gash. ‘It has ample mineral deposits and three subterranean branches, plus pillars of varying heights. Ideal for a playful wearling. Follow the mountains to their natural end and you can’t miss it.’

‘It looks exposed,’ said Graymere. ‘Low to the ground.’

‘It’s also near the scorch line,’ Gallen said, pouring smoke across Graymere’s chest. ‘Be careful you don’t get stolen by the Hom.’

‘I can show you others,’ Garret offered, feeling a little squashed between the stares.

‘Thank you,’ the De:allus said quietly. ‘I’d like to explore this one – if commander Gallen has no objection?’

‘The further away the better,’ said Gallen.

And with one more brooding exchange of glances, Graymere recorded the i:mage in his mind and left without another word.

18

Garret was right. The cave was easy to find. The dwindling grey backbone of mountains pointed like a drawn-out isoscele to an unrestricted tract of hills, only one of which had trees at its peak. Graymere swept over it, studying the cave from several angles. It was, as he’d feared, a little low to the ground. Grynt could think what he liked about the Hom, but until the wearling grew, it was vulnerable to attack.

Using his optical triggers he scanned every gap between the trees, registering the scent of any sizeable creature, moving or still. Birds were active in the trees, and on the hill was a plentiful supply of rabbits (a good meal for a growing wearling). Swinging further out, he was pleased to see a pale stream wiggling through the fields, with good vegetation all around it. A few wingbeats beyond the stream, running almost parallel to it, was a long dark streak in the grass: the scorch line. It was the first time Graymere had seen it, and he didn’t get long to study it now. His nostrils began to twitch as they picked up the scent of another dragon. It was approaching low with the sun at its back, flying fast and breathing fire. At first he thought it might be Gallen, chasing him down because he’d discovered the theft of Rogan’s remains. But it soon became clear that this was not the case. A young blue swept underneath him, renewing the scorch line with bursts of flame that left the ground scored and crackling, blackened.

The blue was good at his job. As soon as his fire sacs emptied, he lifted and banked, then reversed his course and burned the line in the opposite direction. It was on his next run that he noticed Graymere and switched course to join the De:allus in the sky.

‘Do I know you?’ said Abrial, gliding alongside.

‘No,’ said Graymere, ‘but I know you.’

Abrial tipped his wings and circled. What dragon
didn’t
know him by now?

‘You were Rogan’s charge,’ Graymere said, as Abrial passed by on the other side.

‘Yes,’ the blue said eagerly. ‘You have news of him?’

So word hadn’t reached the domayne edge yet. This was going to be difficult. ‘We should land,’ said Graymere, and pitched towards the hill.

Moments later, they were facing one another on the ground. Out of habit, Abrial stood a little lower than the visitor (when reporting to Gallen, he was expected to look up). ‘Tell me of Rogan. Is he still at the mine?’

Graymere bent his claws around the remnant, a bony piece of wing, shrivelled and blackened by the heat of the Veng. He kept it out of sight as he spoke. ‘I am Graymere. I ran the mine,’ he said. But that was as far as their dialogue went. Suddenly both dragons snapped to attention as they heard the sound of a fast-beating heart and smelt the scent of a Hom approaching. Abrial was swift to react. He turned, stood tall and spread his wings – a passive gesture taught by Gallen to scare off anything from small animals to Hom.

But the boy kept coming, using both hands to pull himself up the slope. He was deep inside the scorch line and not stopping. Abrial snarled and filled his fire sacs. He directed a flame above the boy’s head. The pressure knocked the Hom a short way down the hill. The boy cried out, more in anger than in fright, but picked himself up and came at them again, shouting something in his feeble Hom voice.

‘He’s wounded,’ muttered Graymere. Wounded and limping. The boy was stained on his arms and chest with the strange red blood that leaked from his kind.

‘Why doesn’t he stop?’ Abrial said anxiously. By now, his battle stigs were fully extended. ‘He must go back. He must know I could kill him?’

‘This will send him back,’ said Graymere. And he pushed his head forward and bellowed a warning, setting off cries of alarm in every animal to the far horizon.

The boy screamed and clutched his ears. He fell to his knees, writhing and clawing at the sides of his head. Blood ran in trickles through his fingers.

‘Nudge him over the line,’ said Graymere. ‘And make sure he sees your fangs.’

But as Abrial prepared to step forward, the boy spoke a sound that both dragons thought they’d misheard at first. Then he spoke it again, in a slur, before collapsing face down onto the ground.

Abrial felt his claws contracting. He looked at Graymere and Graymere at him. The boy had just mimicked the speech of a dragon. It was thin of tone, but unmistakeably a word.

‘
Tada?
’ Abrial said.

The De:allus nodded and whispered the translation.

Tada:
father
.