He’d invited a few families of blighters from the rugged Northwest Coast of the Inland Ocean to settle on the isle, where they could mine and herd in safety, trading the rather poor ores to be found on the island for the protection of the dragons. While not as intelligent as elves or as industrious as dwarves, they were easier to deal with than other hominid races.
He glanced up the hillside, where Natasatch was watching Istach and Varatheela stalk some goats. Varatheela’s tail quivered just like his sister Wistala’s on the hunt. Istach tended to be quiet and reserved, perhaps because of the odd dark stripes on her green scale. The males were forever quoting some bit of hatchling rhyme they overheard their mother say when the parents thought their hatchlings asleep.
She born with stripes looks to a bitter fate,
As many suitors as stripes, but never to mate.
Istach gave as good as she got. She liked to weave the scales on her brothers’ tails as they slept, so when they twitched to wakefulness each yelped as the scales pinched or tore free.
He sighed. Of the six dragons of his family, he was the only survivor. Unless his brother, maimed in the hatching duel, still lived. Not that he deserved his heartsbeat. He’d betrayed the rest of them to the dwarves.
Oh, Tala. It’s a hard world—for both dragons and goats.
Natasatch raised her head as well. She’d picked up enough wolf-speech to understand an alarm.
“O good woooooooolves! Strangers on the island, trail and spoor on morning-side downwind, to the burned clear and fjord-caves. Pass this news to Firelong, O Good Wooooooooooolves!”
Birchfang hopped up on a smooth-topped rock that reminded AuRon of a sea turtle he’d once met and began to pass the news.
“Don’t bother with that,” AuRon said. “I heard. Thank your pack, friend. I’ll fly north to Grass Point and bring back a moose for you first chance I get.”
Birchfang’s mate looked at her husband, pride shining in her eyes. Though they were both young, they’d already founded their own pack. The freshly named Mist Hunters had a range nearly as great as the whole woodlands of their birth. Here there were no men to catch wolves in cruel traps and nail their pelts to barn doors and fenceposts.
Natasatch and her hatchlings joined them. While the hatchlings swapped stories and the males set to wrestling again, AuRon relayed the details Natasatch had missed. At her request the wolves repeated the warning so she could learn.
“See, the wolves are worth a few sheep and goats. More than,” AuRon said.
“I never disagreed, my love. Remember, the words were Ouistrela’s. She hates fish and shell-crawlers and blubber and begrudges every mouthful of red meat. She resents the wolves, and you for bringing them.”
Ouistrela was a brave dragon-dame. Her fury had helped free the glacier-hung Isle of Ice from the dragon-breeding wizard. But without an enemy to fight, she quarreled at any opportunity, and AuRon had long ago learned that something about his leathery skin put her off.
“I’ll see what this is about,” AuRon said.
“We’ll help you fight the invaders, fazer!” Ausurath yapped and Istach rattled her griff in agreement.
“A fight is the last thing I want,” AuRon said.
“Stalk in caution, AuRon,” Natasatch said. She used his name only when she grew serious. Otherwise it was “my love” when she felt playful and “my lord” with a good deal of nostril-twitching when he waxed pompous and imperious over family policies.
“A scaleless dragon learns early to do nothing but,” AuRon said, nuzzling the closed griff at the back of her cheek and tapping his hatchlings each on the snout with a sii. They shared a brief, affectionate prrum.
He launched himself into the air and first found Zan the tradesdwarf. Zan wandered the coasts in an open oarship with a blighter crew. In return for exclusive rights to take beaver and ermine from the patches of woods in the soggy central valley, he did odd jobs and carried a few messages. AuRon suspected that some of the other dragons on the island traded loose scale for a few coins or bars of working iron, but that was their business.
Zan denied any knowledge of strangers and warned AuRon not to burn his boat and oarblighters by mistake.
Then he turned east and found the yearling wolf who’d passed the warning, and from him met up with the sister of Birchfang’s mate, who’d discovered the stranger’s trail.
The she-wolf was only too happy to leave off digging for chipmunks and trot over to guide him, ears and tail up at the prospect of a good hunt.
He found them in the old dragon-rider caves. First he tracked by scent, then the echo of stone being moved and orders issued.
They were seeking treasure, not revenge, then. There’d been one or two unfortunate encounters with men of the barbarian coast, come through dangerous seas to avenge brothers or fathers. Better still, there was no smell of dogs. Hominids were hard enough to deal with without their snarling hounds hanging off your throat and loins.
Good. Treasure-hunters would have more regard for their skins.
They’d set a few warning-traps in the outer passages, strings of scrap metal hung from wires designed to spin and clang like wind chimes at the low bits of the tunnel ceilings where a dragon’s back might strike them.