The Erth Dragons Book 1: The Wearle (17 page)

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When he was a lad of seven winters, Ren had sat astride a whinney with his father and they had ridden to the highest point of the grasslands, where Ned had reined the whinney to a halt, turned them around and pointed to the tallest mountain in the land, the one the Kaal called Longfinger. Thin clouds were hiding Longfinger’s peak, but they were running fast across the wide blue sky and before long the tip of the mountain was revealed. Ren, in his joy, had asked his father, ‘Have yer climbed it, Pa?’ Laughing, Ned had tousled his son’s white hair and clamped the boy in his strong, lean arms. ‘No man nor beast will tame Longfinger,’ he’d said.

But that was before the skalers had come.

The roamer had put Ren down on a ledge, twice as long again as it was deep. No green thing grew there; no flake of snow clung. His only companions were the biting cold and the cushion of a sheer wall of rock at his back. He lay, depleted, in a broken heap, listening to the frequent calls of the dragons, his nose pricking as their pungent bursts of fire were borne across the sky on the shuffling wind. They were fighting, fighting the evil darkeyes, though how the sides were numbered Ren could not tell. Now and then a dragon swept overhead, whupping the air with its sturdy wings. But the battles were mostly distant, nearer to the sleeping mountain than this.

A silhouette against the sun was all Ren saw when he finally encouraged his eyes to blink open. After a time, he supported his chest and dragged himself into a sitting position. The ledge looked over the great ice lake, down the arm of the slow-moving glacier, onward to the boundless, misty sea. Barely days ago, Ren would have thought this a prayer answered: Longfinger tamed and the world spread out in its glory below. But oh, what a price he had paid to be here. Now he was nothing, a hopeless wreck at the mercy of skalers, and no brave father to lean upon.

Shielding his face, he looked across the sky. The sun was still high enough to warm the mountains, but the wind was concealing a spiteful edge. A torn robe was poor defence against it. No matter how Ren tried to wrap the cloth around him, one patch of skin always seemed to burn cold. Worse, each time he sucked for air it felt as if his chest had been cut in half. Out of nothing, he remembered a story from that ride with his father when he was seven. A tale about an invisible giant who lived in a crack on the peak of Longfinger. The giant did not like the Kaal on his mountain and would squeeze a man’s chest the higher he climbed until the man could breathe no more and he fell.

Ren thought he could feel the squeeze right now, but the giant that came to land on his ledge was anything but invisible. He turned his face away as a rush of cold air announced the arrival of a dragon. Not the green one that had dropped him here, but the grey patterned scales of Elder Givnay.

Givnay folded his wings down slowly. He peered over the valley as if to check that no other dragon could see him. There was one in the sky some wingbeats away, but it was following a screaming fireball to ground and showing no interest in Ren or his visitor.

Wake
, said the mute, invading Ren’s mind for the second time that day.

Ren jerked and gripped the rock at his back. ‘What do you want, skaler?’ He had little love left for the beasts by now. All the glory he’d associated with the word ‘dragon’ was smeared in his blood on a cave wall somewhere.

Givnay looked around him again.
Show me what you can do with this
.

Something clattered across the ledge. It was the horn Ren had taken from his father’s shelter. He studied it hard, wanting to have it, but the memory of the stand-off in Givnay’s cave, when that strange stone heart had fallen between them, stayed his hand. Unless he’d been much mistaken, Givnay had wanted to kill him then. He shook his head.

Pick it up
, growled the dragon.

‘No,’ said Ren.

Givnay’s eye ridges narrowed. He switched his gaze to a portion of the ledge on the far side of Ren. Moments later, a crack appeared. It ran along the join between the ledge and the rock face and splintered into several thin black roots. The ledge creaked like an old man’s knee. Ren scrabbled sideways in terror. ‘You’re too heavy! Stone’s breakin’! Fly!’ he shouted.

The ledge groaned. A small piece crumbled away.

What powers did the Astrian give you?
snarled Givnay.

Ren shook his head in confusion. He looked frantically left and right to see where the next crack might appear.

The queen, Grystina. She had the gift of transference. I waited years to take my revenge on her line. And now I find she lives on – in you:
galan aug scieth.
Reveal her to me! Pick up the stig!

The rock sang again. Another crack weakened the ledge some more, rolling the stig near to Ren’s right hand. ‘Let me be. I done no harm to you.’

You have, and you know too much
, said Givnay, a dark light entering his pale green eyes.
Grystina’s father crushed my neck. So I crushed hers while she lay in the mountain. And I would have rid the Wearle of her drake as well, had it not been for your interference
.

‘Drake?’ said Ren.

Givnay gave a snort of contempt.
This planet has some interesting treasures. The much-maligned mineral, fhosforent, for one. If the Veng had used it wisely they would have discovered that their dark mutation can be controlled. Allow me to demonstrate
.

And there on the ledge, in the plain light of day, one of Givnay’s eyes turned red and his grey scales darkened to a deep shade of green. He growled in his curiously stunted way and opened his mouth. In the upper left quarter was a broken fang.

‘You!’ gasped Ren. ‘It were
you
that went for Pupp!’

Call Grystina. Now!
snapped Givnay.
I want to see her die in your eyes. Call her! Or I will rip out your
—

Whatever Givnay was about to say was cut short by a shadow spreading over the rocks.

‘Darkeye!’ Ren cried, a fraction too late.

From nowhere, one had risen at Givnay’s back. In a blink it had clamped itself onto his shoulders and plunged its fangs into the curve of his neck.

Givnay squealed and threw his head sideways, pounding it so hard against the mountain he almost shook Ren off the ledge. He twisted and managed to spread one wing, but that was the full extent of his resistance. The creature had targeted the vulnerable point where nerves and directional tendons clustered, rendering the Elder dazed and unstable. He rocked dangerously towards the drop. The darkeye raised its head, spitting out scales and blood-green flesh. It had suffered some serious injuries itself. One leg was nothing but an oozing stump and a burn mark had seared the length of its belly. Even so, there was fight left in it. It opened its jaws to take a second bite and must have believed that victory was assured.

But it had not reckoned on Ren.

The boy whistled.

The darkeye paused. It swivelled its gruesome head and saw a damaged Hom, struggling to stand, holding a stig in its shaking fist.

Ren opened his mouth as wide as he could, hoping the creature would mimic him.

It did.

‘Bite on this,’ Ren whispered. And he tightened his fingers around the stig and felt Grystina’s auma rising. Fire poured into the darkeye’s throat. A burst so strong it passed along its gut before exploding out of the tail in a spray of sizzling, acidic pulp. The dull eyes rolled. The claws loosened their grip. The creature slumped sideways, dragging Givnay with it. Both rolled over the edge.

But as Givnay fell, he scored a final triumph. One point of his isoscele hooked onto the ledge, cracking it down a heartline, front to back. The ground beneath Ren’s feet gave way. Instantly, he dropped through the gap, skinning his arm against the newly-sheared rock. The pain opened his hand and the stig worked free. Without it he was helpless – no dragon to call upon.

His one hope of escape had gone.

The drop was prolonged, and Longfinger was kind. Its ragged grey slopes made no attempt to break Ren’s fall. And so he had time to make his peace with the Fathers. He thought of Mell and Ned and Wind (and Pine Onetooth, strangely, flashed through his mind). But most of all he thought about Pupp. And lastly, he spoke to Grystina. ‘Forgive me,’ he whispered as the air whistled by.

He closed his eyes, and then it came – the thump that should have brought eternal darkness but instead brought a sweeping whoosh of air. The ice flew past in a blur of white, followed by the upward slant of the mountains. Ren blinked as cold air rippled his face. He was alive and the world was slowing down. Alive and flying again – caught by the claws of a dragon.

Only when Gabrial set him down did Ren Whitehair know the dragon that had saved him. By then, Gariffred was on Ren’s chest, licking his wounds in a noisy confusion of joy and distress. Before long, Gayl had joined in too, under the watchful eye of Grendel.

Ren groaned and laid himself out. He looked up at Gabrial and managed a smile.

The blue adjusted his optical triggers and seemed to understand that this movement of the mouth was a gesture of friendship. He bowed his head. ‘My name is Gabrial,’ he said. ‘For all you have done, I pledge you my life.’

The words were too fast for Ren to understand, but he reached out a hand and let it rest on the claws that had saved him. ‘
Galan aug scieth
,’ he whispered.

Gabrial looked at Grendel, who said, ‘In memory of the Astrian queen, Grystina, I call you into the Wearle.’ And she lowered her head and ran smoke across Ren, saying in return, ‘
Galan aug scieth
.’

Epilogue

In total, not counting Givnay and Graymere, sixteen dragons were lost in the fighting over Mount Vargos. Only five were goyles, all of them Veng. Gallen, the Veng commander, returned with a break in his isoscele and several melts at the joint of one wing.

G’vard, the white dragon, did not survive. Shortly after setting off to search for Gariffred, the Veng that had snarled at G’vard on Skytouch mutated in mid-flight. They were approaching the Hom settlement when it happened. A savage battle had ensued. G’vard had fought bravely, wounding the goyle but succumbing to its bile in much the same manner that Graymere had. The white had fallen on one of the Kaal shelters, killing two women and one old man. As he dropped, he sprayed his fire in such a frenzy that nearby roofs of straw caught fire and passed their sparks on the wind to others. Before long, the whole Kaal settlement was burning. The second, unaffected Veng, after some confusion, had turned on the goyle and managed to kill it. It had then swooped on the settlement to flame G’vard and put him out of his misery.

It was a sorry tale made worse by the fact that G’vard had ignored the i:maged coordinates in favour of following his personal conviction that the Hom were hiding the drake. There was no suggestion that fhosforent poisoning was to blame for his behaviour. His loss of shading prior to these events had been noticed by dragons other than Grendel, but despite their argument in Grymric’s cave, Grendel identified grief as the cause of the white’s distress. The healer supported this, and G’vard was duly honoured in the glory of Godith.

Givnay was left to rot where he lay. At the inquiry held by Grynt, the first roamer to attend the body explained that he could not identify it to begin with. Its colouring resembled the matrial, Gossana, but its features were somehow different, he said. Givnay was still clinging to life at that point, but as his fire tear ebbed away the roamer was shocked to see the green scales turning to grey. He was even more disturbed to realise the stricken dragon was Elder Givnay.

When Gabrial was called to give his evidence, he was asked, first of all, why he had deserted Grendel and the wearlings. The blue confessed he had seen what appeared to be a wounded goyle drifting toward the peak of Skytouch. Fearing it would attack Ren, he had flown to intercept. On his approach he had witnessed the final moments of the drama and seen a dark green dragon fall from the ledge. He could not say if it was Givnay or not – but the next witness could.

In what would become an extraordinary twist to the chronicles of dragon lore, a Hom was called before Elder Grynt. Using Gariffred, the drake, to help him channel Grystina’s auma, Ren was able to make himself understood. He positively identified Givnay and gave a patchy account of the Elder’s motives. All of it confirmed the appalling truth. The mute, with his extraordinary powers of physical i:maging, had started the rock fall that had killed Grystina.

A disturbing revelation, and a terrible blow to the Wearle. Grynt acted quickly to remedy it. Gossana, who had stood accused of Givnay’s crimes, was freed and allowed to redeem her honour in any way she saw fit. She seared Givnay’s scales to the soft flesh beneath, then turned bitterly to Grynt and said, ‘Let anything that finds him chew on him now.’ Grynt, in his unopposed role of leader of the Wearle, had agreed.

That same day, Prime Galarhade died of natural causes. He was two hundred and thirty-nine Ki:meran turns old. He had been a companion to four great queens and lived through two ancestral wars. He had witnessed the birth of stars. He saw no part of the fighting with the goyles and shed his fire tear in peace, asleep in Grymric’s healing cave.

At his burning, Grynt addressed the Wearle, saying:

‘We gather today to commit the auma of this great Elder to shelter under the wings of Godith. Despite the tragedies this Wearle has suffered, he would be proud of what we have achieved. He led us here so we might determine what became of the first Wearle. This battle has given us an answer. We know the first colony mined the fhosforent, doubtless unaware of its harmful effects. Overuse of the ore or prolonged exposure to a concentrated seam causes a dangerous, regressive mutation. It is unclear what triggers the decisive transformation, but when it happens, the change is rapid. For this reason, and because the Veng were primarily affected, commander Gallen has surrendered himself into quarantine until his blood can be cleansed or otherwise investigated. All surviving Veng will also be tested. The mine is now closed, the caches of fhosforent destroyed. The time of these goyles is over.

‘Some of you, I know, have been deeply unnerved by what you have seen. I have heard foul whispers that the Tywyll has risen. Such talk will not be tolerated. We go forward with facts, not superstitions. Based on what we have learned, I have reached the conclusion that the first Wearle was drawn into a conflict like ours – and the result was mutual destruction. We have been more fortunate. We have lost many dragons, among them a brave De:allus and the old per, Grogan, whose name we restore and whose memory we honour for his valiant attempt to warn us of these dangers. But our quest to seek Godith in all creation survives. We will continue to explore this planet and its mysteries. The Wearle is everything; the Wearle goes on.’

There were roars of approval all round, the loudest from a family on a nearby hill. Ren was among them, flanked by Gariffred and Gayl. It still hurt Ren to move any limb, but he rested a hand on each of the wearlings and gladly accepted their nuzzles and licks. He was happy for them, truly happy, but he ached to go home and find his mother. The report of fires in the settlement had troubled him. But for now, a return would not be possible. Grynt had given the order that Ren should be kept within the Wearle until he healed. A show of kindness, perhaps, but Ren felt there was some shading in the Elder’s words and was already counting the days when he might have to fool the sweepers again and cross the line in the opposite direction.

Nurtured by Grymric’s powerful herbs, he was growing stronger with every day. Strangely, now, his scales came and went, but he could feel Grystina’s auma always and no longer needed the aid of a stig or Gariffred by his side to call upon her power. Soon he would be ready to run if he needed to – and Gabrial seemed to be aware of it.

As they listened to the last prayers for Galarhade, the blue said, ‘Do you hate us, Ren, for the death we have brought on your kind?’

Not hate, thought Ren. Hate was too strong a word. He flicked away a blade of grass. ‘I miss my pa.’

‘Pa?’ said Gabrial. This was a Hom word new to him.

‘Tada – father,’ Ren translated.

Gabrial nodded. His claws pressed a little tighter to the ground, churning gentle furrows in the erth. ‘I lost my father in battle.’

Ren looked up into the great blue eyes.

‘He was here with the first Wearle,’ Gabrial said.

Far below them, Galarhade’s body caught fire. The sudden
whumph
made Gayl cry out in fright. Gariffred sat up as if he’d seen a star fall out of the sky.

‘Come,’ said Grendel, ushering him to her. She gathered both wearlings under her wings.

Ren picked a small flower, leaving enough of the stalk to twirl in his fingers. ‘Dint know about yer pa. I’m sorry.’

The blue let a quiet moment pass. ‘He was a mapper,’ he said.

‘Muh…?’ Ren said.

Gabrial pronounced it again, more slowly. ‘Map-per.’ Ren’s grasp of dragontongue was fast improving, though some expressions still bounced around his ears like muddled growls.

‘Map-per,’ the boy repeated.

‘Hrrr,’ said the dragon, meaning ‘good’.

Ren smiled and looked at the flower in his hands. It had six pink petals and a black centre. It made him think of the pink-coloured crystals that had turned some dragons into goyles. What if Gabrial’s father…?

He shuddered, not wanting to go where that thought was taking him.

‘Are you cold?’ asked Gabrial.

Ren shook his head. ‘No.’

Gabrial lifted a foot, flexing his claws to be rid of the dirt. ‘We must go, both of us.’

‘Where?’

‘To Galarhade.’

A small sigh betrayed Ren’s thoughts. It was a long walk down the hill from here.

‘You would honour the Wearle if you did,’ said Gabrial.

Honour. Of course. Ren stood up and threw away the flower. He sighed again as he measured the distance.

Gabrial tilted his head in query.

‘Long way,’ said Ren. He made walking movements with his fingers.

The dragon’s eye ridges narrowed. He tried to move his claws in the same way as Ren’s fingers; the Hom had some strange abilities, he thought. He bent his knees, dropping his wings to a comfortable height.

‘REALLY?’ gasped Ren. They were going to fly?!

‘Swiftly, before Grendel burns my ears,’ said the blue.

Ren did not need a second invitation. He scrambled up the stairway made by the wing bones and sat astride Gabrial’s giant neck. The warmth from the dragon’s body was amazing, even if the scales were uncomfortable to sit on. ‘Does this hurt?’ Ren asked, taking hold of two stigs for balance.

Gabrial snorted and put out his wings.

‘Waah!’ cried Ren, gasping and laughing as the dragon rose up.

‘Ready?’ said Gabrial.

Ren tightened his grip. In his best broken dragontongue, he gabbled, ‘One day, we will fly to my home and make peace between skalers and the Kaal.’

Gabrial’s eye ridges creaked again. Ren’s words were like raindrops tossed in a storm. But the beat of the boy’s heart told its own story. Gabrial matched it with a positive hrrr!

And they took off into the crisp blue sky.

A boy and a dragon, at peace.

But peace was not on everyone’s mind. On the far side of the scorch line, Mell, wife of the tragic Ned Whitehair, was sitting alone by the river, idly making a chain of flowers. Behind her, dying columns of smoke still marked the invasion of the skalers and their war.

So lost in her thoughts was Mell that she did not hear a whinney approaching, until it was blowing its warm breath over her.

She looked up, cupping her eyes against the sun. ‘Do I know you?’ she said, even though the rider was a stranger to her.

He smiled, but did not reply at first. His hair was thin and its colour blacker than the nose of a mutt. It fell in curling strands to his shoulders. He was wearing a robe the kind of which Mell had never seen before. Sleek, it was, like the fur of a hopper, but shining here and there like a skaler wing.

Odder still was his ride.

‘What kind of whinney would that be?’ she asked.

It was white, the whinney, with a flowing mane and a spiralling horn protruding from its forehead. There
was a strange and distant light in its eye, a light the colour of an evening sky that would herald sunshine on the dawn.

‘I found it so,’ said the man. ‘I seek shelter, woman. Will you give it?’

‘I would, if I had it to give,’ said Mell. ‘The skalers have burned what was mine, what was Kaal.’

The man reined round and stared at the mountains. ‘I have no love for skalers,’ he said.

Mell bowed and felt a tingle of joy. She liked this stranger’s sureness of heart. ‘You have the eyes of someone I knew,’ she said. ‘A brave man, a farmer, now resting with the Fathers. He went by the name of Waylen Treader. Are you kin to him?’

‘I have no kin,’ said the man. And now, Mell noticed, his eyes for a moment glowed the colour of those that defined his whinney.

‘Nor I,’ she said, throwing her flower chain into the river. She fought back a tear as it floated away. ‘Our leader, Targen the Old, is dead, along with half our men. My man and my boy are both gone.’ She gestured at the mountains so the stranger knew her meaning.

‘Then join me,’ he said.

‘I might,’ said Mell, stroking her hair where it fell across her shoulder. ‘First, I will need a name to call you.’

The stranger extended his hand to her. ‘I have only one name,’ he said. ‘Tywyll.’