“This story will be howled for generations,” Highway said. “Starting with our cubs.”
“Dragons don’t have packs, Feybright. The Dawn Roarers will be my only pack. I’ll miss you.”
“A strange act of fate, our meeting,” Blackhard said. “Somehow I think your name will come up more than mine generations hence, but I’ll be a wolf in the howled tales for many summers. I’m the leader of the pack and a well-traveled wolf, thanks to you.”
“I got to the mountains alive, thanks to you,” Auron said. “Our days as a pack will go into my song, and it’ll be taught to my hatchlings, if I ever take a mate. I’ll pass along my memories. You’ll be a wolf renowned among dragons and wolves, Hard-Legs Black-Bristle, leader of the Dawn Roarers.”
The females exchanged proud glances. “Our pack in a dragon’s howls. Imagine that!” Highway said.
Blackhard smiled and wagged his tail. “That is many tomorrows away. Be careful until you are well away, Auron. I don’t like the idea of men hunting you.”
“All the more reason for me to go. Good hunting, Blackhard.”
“Good hunting, Firelong.”
Auron couldn’t watch the wolves leave. He already missed the nightly sound of wolves calling each other across the hills. A return to the solitude of a wandering young drake. He turned for the mountains, and walked away without looking back.
“Hard-Legs Black-Bristle, leader of the Dawn Roarers heeeeeere!” Auron heard wailed from behind. “Beware, men in the mountains, for a good wolf comes to you in dragon skin. Let those who would hunt him fear the Dawn Roarers, so says the leader of the pack.”
Chapter 11
Auron soon had company, but not the kind he desired. Some kind of great dog, a shaggy thing that looked to be the product of wizardly mating between bear and wolf, watched him from a sky-framed meadow above. It began to bark.
Worse, its warning was also echoed by men’s voices: they hooted to each other from mountainside to mountainside in musical calls.
Worse still, the dog seemed content to bay at him from its vantage, giving Auron three choices. He could continue to climb the hill until he reached the dog’s meadow. Though he felt sure he could kill it and continue on up, a dog meant men were near. The mountain had two other spurs, pointed out like an eagle’s toes with forested valleys between. He could descend to the right or left and try another way up, or go back into the forests and attempt the crossing at a different mountain pass. He wished he had a mind-picture from his father of these mountains, but they were only vague memories this north of his normal range. From what he could see, to the south, the slopes were not so rugged, and therefore were more likely to have men on them. The north held steeper climbs, and one flat-topped mountain with a near-vertical face. Unlike its taller fellows, the flat-top was not snowcapped.
The barking from above grew more vigorous. The dog looked over its shoulder and began to caper, signaling the presence of men. It advanced a few paces down the hill toward the drake. Auron had learned from the wolves that dogs grew braver as their men grew closer. Forced into action, he dragon-dashed down the hill into some short-needled bushes. He would take the more difficult northern route.
His run gave the dog heart; it descended the steep hill to come after him.
Auron heard a horn sound, then a second blast. He looked up toward the dog. Another dog, lighter-furred and smaller by the weight of a lamb or two, joined it. Three men followed behind: thick fur boots ending in hairy legs showed between the boot-bindings and their loincloths. They wore padded jackets sewn with wide leather thongs. High fur hats made them seem tall. Auron took a second look at the strange headgear: the hats looked as if an animal slept on their heads with hind legs dangling over their ears. They carried walking sticks topped with double-sided claws and some kind of short spears gripped in the hand opposite the one carrying the stick.
He could get the dogs, at least, and then the men would be at a disadvantage, relying on only their weak senses. He pressed himself flat to the ground and crept out from under the bushes, slowly enough for his color to change as he shifted positions. The lead dog showed no sign of seeing him. It continued to bound down the hill, with the other a few lengths behind. The three men spread out as they came down the hill.
The dog smelled him; he could hide his outline but not his odor, even amid the fragrant mountainside flowers and berries. It slowed down, bearlike head held to the ground and wary eyes looking at the spreading, thorny bushes.
The dog gave a querulous whimper.
Auron launched himself forward, exploding out of the grass and into the dog’s face. He bit, getting only a mouthful of fur as the dog pivoted to the side with more speed than an animal of its bulk should have. Auron whipped around to face it, keeping his open mouth between the dog and his flanks using his long neck.>“Strange that he ran,” Feybright said. “The last boy my old pack came across threw stones.”
“This one was young,” Highway said.
“You’re forgetting Firelong,” Blackhard said. “A drake is a rare sight in these parts.”
“Yes, with the Dragonblade at work.” Feybright agreed.
“What’s that?” Auron asked.
“The Dragonblade?” Feybright said, and stood silent for a moment with eyes closed. Her ears turned this way and that as if listening to voices only she could hear. “That’s what his dog pack calls him, anyway. A great man-warrior. He has slain six of your kind, Firelong. Some fully grown dragons. He has a terrible spear, and a great sword. They had frightful names I’ve forgotten; the story was howled only once that I heard. The dogs claim he has forefathers human, elf, dwarf, and blighter, and took the best parts from each. But dogs always talk up their masters. Oh, they say he has cleared the dragons from the western face of the mountains from the hard-frost in the north to the warmlands in the south. More dog-brag, I suspect.”
“He wouldn’t work with a group of dwarves called the Wheel of Fire, would he?” Auron asked.
“The dogs didn’t mention that. Others have seen them. Fierce men, with knotted beards and bearskin vests. Though this Dragonblade wears armor of shining dragon scales. Or so the dogs say.”
“Bite the dogs, we’d best move on,” Blackhard growled, looking in the direction of the vanished boy.
That night, the howling chain called them, their foothill cadences strange to the ears of the deep-woods wolves.