“I see. A feud.” The dwarf started a fire.
“Please.” Auron said the world with difficulty.
“No. I know the Dragonblade spent some time here . . . oh, last summer, I think, hunting for one of your kind. A bronze, this pelt-trapper told me.”
Auron stared at the burning twigs as they licked at a larger piece of driftwood. So the Dragonblade’s story was not just brag meant to cow a young dragon.
Djer got out a frying pan. Auron was grateful for his silence. As darkness fell, the fire grew brighter against the now-shadowed riverbank. Djer threw a spoonful of delicious-smelling lard and strips of meat into the pan, and soon they were sputtering, all the while the dwarf grumbled in Dwarvish as though in an argument with the hot iron and its contents.
When the meat was ready to be turned, he spoke again to Auron. “Let me tell you something about dwarves, young dragon. Who you’re related to determines your future, unless you’re a granite- hardworking dwarf. I was born not even to miners, but to diggers. Plain tunneling folk, my father and his before. My father gave all he had to get me apprenticed to a miner, and I spent weary years working double-time saving to buy into the Chartered Company at my age. Gave up tobacco and beer, ate day-old bread so I could save to buy in.” The dwarf sighed. “Even so, I’ll never go anywhere with the Company unless I work out my life behind these horses in unprofitable lands—and I’m getting tired of the view—or do something special for the Company.”
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.”