The Erth Dragons Book 1: The Wearle (4 page)

Part Two

Ren

5

It was forbidden, by order of Targen the Old. No man or woman of the tribe must contest the beasts or defy their will. Just to look upon the skalers, especially in flight, was enough to call down their fire on the tribe. From now on, men would settle on the flatlands.

This was the law of the Kaal.

Ren Whitehair, son of Ned, heard the words true. No man or woman must contest the beasts. But Targen the Old had not mentioned boys. And what kind of boy concerned himself with laws when his heart was beating to the spirit of adventure?

Ever since the first group had burst through the sky and driven the Kaal tribe out of the mountains, the beasts had been despised by the men. A few brave souls had crossed the scorch line in defiance, but all had returned to the settlement in terror, many with hot blood running from their ears, clouds across their vision or blisters on their skin. Thus far, the skalers had killed no men, but their forceful defence of the mountain territories suggested they would burn to the bones anyone foolish enough to provoke them to excess. Nothing got past their patrols anyway. The eyes of the beasts were so advanced it was said they could see the smallest scratcher scurrying through grass from the highest clouds above. And even if a man did manage to hide, he could not conceal the scent of his body.

But as much as men mourned the loss of their caves, it was all Ren could do to contain his excitement about the skalers. Awed by their power, he was eager to be near them and learn their ways. He was often chastised by his father for climbing to high places from which he might watch them, and banned from making drawings of the beasts. ‘What Kaal,’ Ned had thundered in exasperation, ‘would wish to look upon a rock and see the eyes of a skaler looking back?’

None of this hampered Ren’s ambitions. If a curfew was placed upon him, he simply waited out his father’s temper and amused himself with the cache of skaler artefacts he kept hidden among the hides on which he slept: two talons, a chipped scale that sparkled under moonlight, and the charred bones of several unfortunate animals. What would it feel like, he wondered, to run his hand along a whole row of scales? Or ride upon a beast as it soared above the mountains? Such fancies played with his dreams, but dreams were all they were destined to be, until the morning of the fateful hunt, the day he saw Utal Longarm burn.

Ren had been out catching snorters with the men when two huge skalers had ranged across the sky. Utal had dared to challenge them. Utal, who stood higher than any man in the tribe, had ripped his robe wide open at the neck, bared his chest and roared at the beasts to give the mountains back to the Kaal.

Ned, who was leading the hunt that morning, turned his whinney round and said, ‘Utal, step back from the line. If you bring the beasts down, we all burn.’

But Utal had been drinking the juice of many berries and his head was not where it needed to be. He began to dance and sing a lewd song. Stomping left and right, he flapped his arms in a mocking imitation of beating wings. ‘Harken to me, skaler! I’m flying!’ he boomed.

It amused the men, but not Ren’s father, who was watching the beasts with a wary eye. ‘Oak,’ he said, to the man astride the whinney nearest him, ‘I propose you tie your brother to his mount if you wish to hear him snoring tonight.’

Oak laughed and pulled on his reins. ‘Utal, stand back,’ he called. ‘Ned fears you might be worrying the beasts. Don’t poison them with your breath, brother!’

It was a decent attempt to calm the situation, but Utal continued his clownish antics. And now Ren was growing concerned for him as well. A skaler the colour of fresh spring grass was raising the horns that grew in sharp lines from the back of its head. Ren had seen many skalers do this just before they swept to take prey.

The beast was preparing to attack.

‘Utal, it’s coming!’ he called.

Still Utal refused to listen. He lifted a foot and dangled it over the scorch line. Then he pulled up the lower half of his robe and made water on the skalers’ territory.

The bright green beast gave a quiet snarl and bared more fangs than Ren could count. Almost leisurely, it glided down and produced a burst of fire that made the hair crackle on Utal’s head. Utal yelped. And then he
really
danced, flapping his arms as if a swarm of buzzers had filled his ears. Foolishly, he picked up a stone.

His brother whispered, ‘Utal, no…’

But the fool could not resist. He took aim and hurled the stone. It bounced harmlessly off the skaler’s rump. The beast flicked its tail in anger. Utal gave a triumphant shout and picked up another, larger stone.

This one would never leave his hand.

The green beast circled back. It put itself directly in line with Utal and began what appeared to be another slow descent. It was still some distance away and there was time enough for Utal to halt his madness. But Ren had witnessed this manoeuvre as well. He had once seen a beast bear down on a bleater, closing so fast that the hapless animal had died of fright, even before the claws sank into it. He knew exactly what was going to happen.

‘GET DOWN!’ he screamed.

At the same time Oak kicked his whinney in the belly and raced toward his brother. He planned to knock some sense into the oaf or at best take hold of his newly-singed hair and drag him clear of the line. But in an instant the beast was there in front of them, fearfully huge, much closer to the line than anyone (other than Ren) had expected. It had somehow jumped the length of fifty men in the time it would have taken Ren to crush a leaf in the palm of his hand. The whinneys reared. The men yelped in terror. Ren flung himself down as the beast unlatched its blistering jaws and released another surge of flame. The fire travelled in a ball from the back of its throat and burst against Utal’s upright arm, charring it black from the midbone to the hand. Utal rocked like a blade of grass. His eyes glazed, their centres stopped. Then he fell in a slow and steady motion. He sagged to his knees and toppled sideways, falling just the right side of the scorch line.

The skaler banked away, splattering sizzling dung across the field. One pat landed squarely on Utal, steaming where it glued to the skin of his chest. The men recovered their nerve and dragged him away. Using leaves, they cleaned off what they could of the dung, cursing when it stung their hands. Then they laid Utal over a whinney and quickly took him back to the settlement. One burst of lunacy had bought their best hunter a withered arm and a new name. From then on he was known as Utal Stonehand, because the stone he’d intended to throw was now permanently fused to his clawed black fist.

And there was worse. By the time the men had laid him out, the stains of the dung had burned into his chest, eating back the flesh in great red welts. A splash had travelled to his eye as well, fusing the lid to the ball in a horrible stew. And no amount of bathing could wash the stench of dung off his body. Poor Utal. He now had a chest that stank, a useless arm and only one eye to see it with. The stench made certain no one visited his shelter without good cause, and not without their face wrapped heavily in cloth. It was a terrible lesson to bear, and Targen the Old was rightfully enraged. Had he not ordered the Kaal to stay clear of the beasts? Was it not better to live in peace beyond the mountains rather than be walking ash among them? The men glumly acknowledged this wisdom, but the incident had rankled their pride and there was much shared talk that night about what might be done to restore their honour. The beasts were mocking them. First they had driven the tribe from the mountains, and now left their best man ruined by dung!

But while most of the Kaal tribe cussed and wailed, Ren began to look at what else might be learned from this dreadful incident – and a frightening idea came to him. It happened as he watched Oak Longarm burning his brother’s soiled robe. Even in the fire the bad odour still carried, blocking out the cooking smells around the camp. Men and women alike were complaining, covering their noses as they went about their work. It made Ren wonder how the skalers put up with it, never mind the Kaal – and suddenly, there it was: a way of reaching the mountains again, a way of getting close to the beasts.

Use
dung
.

It would be dangerous. Ridiculously so. One mistake and Ren would be black specks floating on the wind. But the challenge burned so brightly in his mind that he could not resist exploring it. Early the next morning, he crept back toward the mountains and waited until the skies were clear. Then he ran across the scorch line in search of what he needed – a fresh heap of skaler dung.

The heap he found was fresher than fresh, steaming black, still red with cinders. It almost boiled away the mitt he’d made for his hands. Turning his face aside, he smeared the dung over a robe he’d brought with him. Oh, it smelled bad. Worse than the innards of a dying mutt. But he stuck to the task and when it was done he undressed and put the dung robe on, over an undercloth he’d stolen from his mother’s things. She would roast him like a snorter if she ever found out, but Ren had taken note of Utal’s suffering and knew he must keep the dung off his skin. Thankfully, the extra layer worked, but the stench was just as bad as ever. Every time Ren drew breath, the reek almost tore the nose off his face. But the deed was done and there was no going back. Two beasts had appeared above the shoulder of the mountains. He was over the scorch line, inside their territory. Now he must hide – or die.

Throwing the clean robe aside, he sank into a small depression in the rocks, drawing up the bare parts of his legs and covering his face with a shallow-rooted thicket he’d ripped from the ground. The beasts soon saw the robe he’d discarded. One of them, a bright green monster identical to the one that had maimed Utal, dropped with a heavy thump beside the cloth while the other glided in circles overhead. The beast picked up the robe and sniffed it. It turned its incredible head both ways, staring left and right along the hillside. The eye that Ren could just about see rolled suspiciously in its socket, the inner layers moving like ripples on a pond. Ren steadied his breathing, praying he hadn’t left a toe exposed. He thought about his hair, which was lighter than the colour of corn, and hoped the thicket had covered it well.
Lay still
, he told himself.
Still as the dead
. If he rattled the thicket or made water down his leg he would know in an instant what it felt like to be a log on a fire.

But the beast didn’t come for him, and its friend in the sky was growing impatient. It gave a grating call. The one on the hill gave a sharp call back. It took off with a
whumph!
, trying to shake the robe from its claws. It was several wingbeats clear of the hill before the robe came sailing back. It landed beside Ren’s hiding place, ripped but still wearable.

When he was certain the skalers had gone, Ren carefully changed back and hid the soiled robe beneath the thicket, keeping it separate from the undercloth. A flush of boyish pride ran through him. He had accomplished something no one else in the tribe had ever done. He had walked across the scorch line and back again, unburned.

He had fooled the beasts.

6

Ren hurried back to the settlement and washed for some time in the river which ran behind the shelters, treading water in the shadow of an overhanging tree to avoid inquisitive eyes. Very little of the dung had got onto his hands (one slight burn on a fingertip) and mercifully the smell stayed in the water. He walked home fresh of body and mind, bristling with the need to tell someone what he’d done. Wisely, however, he kept it to himself, mainly because he returned to find the settlement veiled in sadness.

Utal had developed a fever. No one would speak any details of it, but Ren heard his father saying to his mother that Utal’s arm was being chewed by a wound the colour of grass. None of Targen’s herbs could cleanse it. Two days later, Utal died. His wounded eye was sealed and matted, the other popping out like a hard grey pebble.

The tribe gathered around a fire to mourn him. They drank the juice of many berries. The talk among the men grew loud and dangerous. They shook spears at the mountains and called for vengeance. But what hope did they have of killing a skaler when they could not even get near to the beasts?

This was the moment an unexpected voice spoke up.

‘Ren Whitehair knows a way.’

The voice belonged to a girl, Pine Onetooth, so called because she had one strong tooth in the middle of her mouth, gaps to either side of it.

‘What’s this?’ said Ned, while Ren was busy stilling his heart.

Pine came into the light. A frail girl, thin as the flower stalk hanging loose between her fingers. ‘Two days afore, I see’d him washin’ long in the river.’

‘Washing?’ scoffed Ned. ‘Away with you, girl. The boy’s mother likens him most to a snorter. If he could bathe his bones in mud, he would do it.’

The men laughed, but Oak Longarm took up Pine’s words. ‘What mean you, Pine? Why would seeing Ren in the river be aught to do with the skalers?’

Pine did not answer. She simply looked at Ren and skipped away into the night.

‘Well?’ said Oak. He turned his attention now upon the boy.

But Ned Whitehair was in no mood to amuse himself with the ways of children. ‘Ren, be gone. Your bed beckons,’ he said. He flicked a twig into the fire and ran a hand through his hair. The loss of Utal had hit him hard.

‘Nay, I would hear his piece,’ said Oak. ‘The boy is quick of mind and purpose.’

This was met with a grunt from Oak’s right. Varl Rednose, a man with an oval belly and a beard so dense it was a wonder nothing nested there said, ‘Perhaps your boy would tell us our business, Ned? Shall I loan him a spear and point him at the mountains? He might bring us back a juicy skaler leg to roast.’ He broke wind, making the fire flutter. The men laughed loudly, but their mood remained sour.

Ned said, ‘Varl, he’s a boy. Let him be.’

‘Aye, but he likes the beasts fondly, doesn’t he?’ Varl stared at Ren as if he meant the lad mischief. ‘Why do you stand among the grieving, boy, when your heart flies the other side of the scorch line?’

‘Ned!’ Oak gripped Ned’s arm before he could retaliate. ‘What good would it do to fight among ourselves? How will that bring my brother justice?’

Varl burped and wiped an arm across his mouth. ‘I tell you all there will be no justice until we put a sword through a skaler’s throat. But let us hear what Whitehair’s boy has to say. My gut is sore in need of humour.’

‘Well?’ said Ned. He switched his gaze to his son.

The eyes of the Kaal tribe turned upon Ren, pressing the story out of him.

‘I…I know a way to cross the line safe,’ he said.

‘What?’ said Ned. ‘What blether is this?’

‘Ned, give him air,’ Oak Longarm said. He met Ren’s gaze again. ‘You have made your boast, Ren, now you must share it.’

Ren could feel himself shaking inside. There was a terrible, terrible conflict here. If he did not say his piece he would be sorely ridiculed before his father. But if he revealed his method to the men, he was opening up the way for a possible attack on the creatures he loved. But what if the Kaal did cross into skaler territory? One man? Two men? A whole tribe? What harm could they do to the winged giants?

And so he spoke his truth. ‘Dung,’ he said.

A portion of the fire collapsed, scattering cinders across the erth.

‘Dung?’ Varl said. ‘Have my ears turned soft?’ He stood up, swaying. ‘DUNG?’ he thundered. ‘Are you mocking us, boy? It was dung that took out Utal’s eye!’ He hurled a stale, chewed bone at Ren, and not even Ned could object to it.

‘But…it works,’ Ren shouted over their derision. He looked at Oak, who had turned his head away in disappointment. ‘I covered a robe in their scent and went beyond the line. I hid from two of the beasts – and returned.’

Ned stood up quickly, forcing Ren back. ‘Go to your bed and dream there,’ he snarled. ‘What devil makes you shame me so? This, on a day so clouded by misery?’

‘But—?’

‘Go!’ Ned pointed the way.

Ren sighed and stumbled back. But he did not go to his bed, for a storm was brewing in the minds of the men and the first roll of thunder was about to break. It came from the mouth of Varl Rednose again. ‘Why do we sit with our hearts in our boots when we all know a way to defeat the skalers?’ He cast his ugly gaze around the circle. ‘I will not sleep this night while these words sit heavy on my tongue: I say we raise the darkeyes.’

‘NO!’ cried Ren, coming forward again.

Once more, his father was forced to intervene. He grabbed a hunk of Ren’s robe and drew the boy to him. ‘This is men’s talk. Why are you still here?’

Ren shook his head, making his white hair fly. ‘Please, Pa. You cannot let them do this.’

But the plot was already in progress. ‘How?’ said Oak, the only voice except Varl’s not muttering in fear.

Varl clapped a hand to Oak’s sturdy shoulder. ‘Utal’s spirit may be with the Fathers, but his body can still be of use to us.’

Oak looked puzzled. ‘Again, I ask how?’

Varl bent close. ‘We give your brother to the darkeyes in sacrifice.’

‘What?’ said Oak. His face had turned the colour of the moon.

Varl straightened up. ‘We go to their cave,’ he boomed at the men. ‘We wake them, aye. Make them know the skalers are back. Invite them to suck every speck of green from that murderous fire-thrower in the mountains. Let the darkeyes and skalers war again. Let the beasts be hunted by the black terror and the skies be clear of their kind for good – just like the first time the skalers came…’

‘No!’ cried Ren. ‘I won’t let you hurt them! It was Utal’s folly that earned him the right to his walk with death. The skalers mean us no harm!’

‘Ned, put your boy away,’ growled Varl.

And Ned had no choice but to drag Ren clear.

At the shelter, he drew the boy to him again. ‘Listen to me, Ren, and listen well. Is your mind so addled by these fearful creatures that you have no pity for Oak’s sad loss and would taunt a brute like Rednose with it? I have no love for the darkeyes, you know this. I would rather swallow a fistful of grit than have the tribe befriend such a hideous thing. But the skalers have taken Utal’s life. We must fight for his honour. What else would you have me do?’

‘Make peace,’ gulped Ren.

Ned sighed and put a hand to the boy’s pale face, wiping away a tear with his thumb. ‘The skalers took our land, Ren. The stars were always going to settle like this.’

‘Then you will all
die
!’ Ren said harshly.

And he dived into the shelter and threw himself, face down, onto his bed.

That night, without sleep, Ren thought long about the ‘black terror’, for the darkeyes were a mystery all to themselves.

Sometime after the first wave of skalers, the Kaal began to witness battles taking place in the skies above the mountains. A terrifying creature, the colour of a caarker but the size of twenty, appeared just as suddenly as the beasts had done. They had twisted, scale-free bodies, stunted wings and a shortened tail. Their eyes were like mud shaken up in water; no light shone from their fixed black cores. They blew no fire, these things, but instead released a poisonous spit that burned as fiercely as any flame. Several of the tribe carried scars from the time a squealing darkeye had crashed on the settlement, the rear half of its body ablaze. Ren’s father had put an arrow through its throat as it thrashed in agony on the ground. He’d been trying to show the creature mercy, but the darkeye had let out a hideous squeal, thrown its head and sprayed the camp with its ugly bile. A skaler had followed the darkeye down and destroyed it with a flame so hot it had marked a deep scar in the ground. Whatever these dark-eyed creatures were, the skalers regarded them as mortal enemies.

The battles raged for nearly three days. No man or woman of the Kaal (and certainly not Ren) ever believed the skalers would be beaten. Yet they were. The darkeyes prevailed, with two survivors. It was feared the two would lay claim to the land and call others of their kind to colonise the mountains. But no. More mystery followed. The survivors withdrew, secreting themselves in a cave half a day’s ride from the settlement. They were still there now as far as anyone knew, yet they had not challenged the new crop of skalers. Likewise, the second wave of skalers seemed unaware of the enemy in the cave. A bizarre situation, but one that the Kaal, led by Varl Rednose, intended to use to their advantage.

The next morning, Ren heard more of their scheme. Varl announced it openly to the tribe. Let the darkeyes have Utal! Let his body be taken to their cave and shown to the creatures! They will know from the stink, if not the arm, that skalers are in the air again! Surely this will draw them out and encourage them to drive their enemy away!

The Kaal roared their support, but nothing could be done without Targen’s approval.

Targen retired to consider the plan. He would speak in dreams with the Fathers, he said, and announce his decision shortly. The men chewed on their frustration. They were ready to tie poor Utal to a sled and drag him to the darkeyes there and then. But Targen had spoken, and they must wait.

Ren was relieved. Here was his chance to act. If Targen’s journey with the Fathers was long (and they usually were), Ren would have time to carry out a plan of his own, one he’d been hatching overnight.

Under the hides where his father slept was a rare prize. When the burning darkeye had crashed on the settlement, some kind of horn had broken from its head and lodged in the wall of Ned Whitehair’s shelter. A small, hardened spiral of flesh, sharper at its tip than the best Kaal arrows. Ren had wanted it for his collection, but to his frustration, his father had claimed it. A trophy, Ned said, for arrowing the beast. It was the best relic in the Kaal’s possession, the only evidence they had of the darkeyes’ existence.

Before he departed, Ren left a flower on his mother’s bed, hoping she would send his soul to the Fathers if he was brought back to her in a worse state than Utal. In truth, he could not explain this feeling in his breast, but his heart told him he must do right. His plan was simple. When night fell he would cross the scorch line, make his way to the great ice lake, bow down before the skalers and show them the horn.

The darkeyes were coming. The beasts needed to be warned.

And he, Ren Whitehair, would be the one to do it.