The Erth Dragons Book 1: The Wearle (3 page)

‘Wait,’ said Gabrial, stepping up to Grogan’s shoulder. He could see where this line of questioning was going. ‘It was my idea to draw G’vard across the crater.’

‘You’ve been warned more than once to be silent,’ said Grynt. ‘Do I need to remind you, you stand before your Prime? This impertinence will not serve you well.’

‘I won’t let you hold Grogan to blame,’ said Gabrial, the words squirming carelessly out of his mouth.

Every watching dragon caught their breath. To disrespect the Elders in this manner was as good as inviting death’s fire to rain down.

‘Still – your – voice,’ Grynt said, barely needing to open his jaws. Black smoke played around his purple face. ‘The per was asked for his opinion and he
alone
shall give it.’

Grogan cleared his throat. Looking squarely at Galarhade, he said, ‘I have thought on this and I do not believe my charge was capable of causing a physical eruption. A few live sparks, perhaps, but nothing of the magnitude so witnessed. He’s simply not advanced enough.’

Prime Galarhade tilted his head. ‘Then what are you saying?’

‘That it was a natural event – or that some other force took advantage of the moment.’

Now there were cries of ‘
Shame!
’ from the mountainside.

Elder Grynt leant forward, making his pillar creak beneath his weight. ‘Are you accusing a dragon more accomplished of callously causing the death of a queen?’ ‘Murder’ was an ugly word among dragons. Even the Veng did not kill for pleasure or reward.

‘Of course not,’ Grogan snapped. Raising his voice above the clamour, he roared, ‘We were sent to this planet to find the first Wearle! How can we be sure that whatever force has conspired to hide them from us did not bring about the death of Grystina?’

A good argument, but not strong enough to stay the tide of insults.

Only the De:allus dragon, Graymere, was truly taking note of Grogan’s words.

In spite of the hysteria, the Elders consulted. The Prime exchanged brief words with Grynt, but spent longer in silent communion with Givnay. In tragic situations such as this, it was Givnay the Wearle would turn to for solace. His long contemplations on the wonders of Godith marked him as a source of spiritual comfort. If any dragon would show mercy, it would be the mute.

Calm fell as Galarhade raised his head. He said, ‘We find the blue guilty of causing the rock fall which killed Grystina and her myss. We accept there was no malice intended, and for this reason he is spared the worst of punishments. We also find that the dangers of the i:mage should have been recognised by the per. We therefore hold both to account. Before I pass sentence, would anyone speak in favour of these dragons?’

‘I would,’ said a voice. To Gabrial’s surprise, per Gorst came forward. He was a cousin of Grogan and shared similar gradations in the grey-green blushes that dignified his sides. ‘Per Grogan is older than most of my teeth—’

‘And nearly as useless,’ a Veng voice muttered.

‘—but his loyalty to the Wearle is without question. I ask that his sentence be light. As for the blue…yes, he has caused a great misfortune. But let us not forget that he fought to be this queen’s companion – and bravely so.’

This was met by another hail of roars.

Per Gorst lengthened his neck and shouted, ‘When other, more legitimate candidates, closed their wings and would not even court her!’

Hrrrrrr
. The storm of criticism blew itself out.

Per Gorst looked at the dismayed figure of G’vard. ‘My charge is wounded, his challenge unfulfilled. But he will recover to fight for another queen. This is a terrible day, I agree. But the Wearle needs young dragons. Fearless dragons. Dragons prepared to face difficult and possibly dangerous encounters. Despite our mapping and our searches we are still no nearer to knowing what happened to the first Wearle. I am therefore in some agreement with Grogan.’

‘Your point?’ said Grynt.

‘I ask that the blue be kept on Erth to continue his work, not exiled back to Ki:mera in shame.’

‘I agree,’ said Galarhade, before Grynt could interrupt. ‘They will both stay – but they must always be reminded of what they have done.’ He ordered both dragons to look at him.

Gabrial sat up proudly.

‘From this day,’ said the Prime, ‘until or unless you prove your worth again, you are no longer recognised in the glory of Godith.’

‘What does that mean?’ said Gabrial.

‘It means your name is now Abrial,’ said Grynt. He nodded at Grogan. ‘And his is Rogan.’

‘No,’ per Grogan said. His old legs gave way and he collapsed to the stones. This time, not even per Gorst came to help him. ‘I am of the old ways. The shame… Please. Anything but this.’

Gabrial glanced at per Gorst. G’vard’s second was deeply troubled by the sentence. And very few dragons were making any noise. ‘Abrial?’ the blue repeated. And then the rumble
did
begin. One of those peculiar waves of sound that dragons could produce, but rarely did.

The sharp and raucous wind of derision.

4

His judgments delivered, Galarhade gave the order that all activities would be postponed until sunrise the next day. During this time the Wearle would pay homage to the memory of Grystina. All of them, Veng included, would return to their settles when the meeting was done to contemplate her life and that of her drake. Elder Givnay would prepare a song of comfort, which he would share with the Wearle through the gift of transference. No dragon would forget this tragic day.

Before that, there was yet more misery for Abrial and Rogan. Looking at the older dragon first, Galarhade decreed that Rogan be removed from his duties as a mapper – one engaged in memorising the layout of the land around the dragons’ domayne – and that he be sent instead to the far side of the mountains to mine the seams of fhosforent there. Fhosforent was a pink, crystalline substance found in Erth’s volcanic rock. Its discovery had been reported by the first Wearle, who had also determined its principal benefit. Ingesting even minute quantities of the crystals appeared to improve the strength and duration of a dragon’s flame. Over the centuries, dragons had tested many naturally-occurring minerals in this manner, but none had produced such rapid or promising effects as fhosforent. Rogan knew the work would be hard, but he was not overly dismayed by his punishment. Confinement in a mine would keep him out of the main body of the Wearle, where there would be fewer taunts about his name. And there was always the chance he might find a rich seam, which would instantly grant him favour with the Elders. In these respects, he counted himself lucky.

Abrial was less enchanted with his new role.

‘A sweeper?’ he said, when Galarhade passed sentence. Until the morning of the tragedy the young blue had been part of a five-dragon wyng, learning to improve his flying skills. This included lessons in aerial combat from none other than per Gorst. Abrial was easily the best of the wyng and had just advanced to the most exciting part of his training: learning the art of phasing – the ability to move through time during flight. Now, it seemed, his progress was about to be abruptly halted.

‘Are you questioning the decision of your Elders?’ said Grynt, his breast scales glinting weakly in the sunlight.

‘But I was—?’

‘It doesn’t matter what you
were
. Your duty now is to fly the edges of the domayne, keeping watch for incursions, especially from the Hom. You will rest no more than once on each circuit, and at dawn each day you will report to Veng commander Gallen. Don’t disappoint him, blue. The Veng do not respond well to laziness.’

Abrial puffed a heavy wisp of smoke. Talk of the Hom had made his scales lift. He had never seen one of the two-legged creatures that could allegedly stand like bears and make fire
outside
their bodies. (
Hrrr?
) According to per Gorst, who spoke of them occasionally between teaching sessions, their auma levels were superior to any other creature that inhabited Erth (except dragons, of course). The Hom were clever and inventive, he said, but usually fled when challenged. There had only ever been one serious confrontation. Recently, a large Hom male had foolishly hurled a rock at Gallen. The Veng commander had responded with limited force and charred the arm raised against him. But even the Veng adhered to the Elders’ law of no killing, except in self-defence or for food. (No dragon had thought to taste the Hom yet, preferring instead to graze on the lush forest greenery or the juicier animal forms that covered the domayne.)

Due to their aggression and relative intelligence, the Hom were chiefly suspected of being involved in the disappearance of the first Wearle, yet nothing could connect them to it. Prime Greffan, in his earliest reports, had identified the Hom as a potential threat. This had first become apparent when he’d ordered his dragons to lay claim to the mountain range. He told how the Hom had resisted being driven out of their caves and how some had fought back with sharpened sticks. No dragons had been injured in the skirmishes and no Hom killed, though several had suffered serious burns when sparks had fallen on their fragile skin or warning flames had blown too close. For a while after the conflict had ended, small parties of Hom had tried to reinvade the domayne. In exasperation, Greffan had ordered his roamers to sear a line in the ground, all the way from the borders of Vargos to the shores of the unmapped sea, a line that the Hom were forbidden to cross. This had led to further clashes, until the Hom had finally withdrawn to resettle in the flat lands beyond the domayne. And there they remained, always a source of simmering tension, without ever posing a serious threat. Barring the incident with Gallen, not a single dragon had since been targeted. The Veng had come to Erth prepared for a fight, but so far their formidable claws had generally been employed picking food off their teeth.

‘I thought the Hom were driven out of the domayne?’ bickered Abrial, still tetchy about his new role.

‘They were,’ said Grynt, equally irritable. ‘Your job is to stop them coming back
in
.’

‘Grynt, be done with this,’ said Prime Galarhade. ‘We are not gathered here to talk about the Hom.’ He gave a call and two more dragons glided down from their settles – the females, Grendel and Gossana. Abrial stepped aside so that Grendel would have room to land. She was a gloriously beautiful dragon with touches of gold around her purple face and enough lytes underwing to star the night sky. Her eyes, like Abrial’s, were just beginning to crystallise, but there was still enough softness in them to melt even the hardest of Veng hearts. She nodded shyly at Abrial, a look that suggested she felt sorry for him. He gulped and tightened his wings. Being this close to Grendel made his scales rattle, and that was not wise in front of the Elders.

The other female, Gossana, was well known throughout the Wearle. She was dark green, running to black along her neck. She had heavily-slanted eyes, one the colour of amber stones, the other near blood red. Many dragons feared to look at her, for the eyes could alter colour with her mood. Like most mature females, she possessed a ruffle of sawfin scales, which stood up in a frill behind her ears and were the same dark colour as the rest of her body. This bestowed her with a bold, majestic look, which she further inflated with the high carriage of her head. On Ki:mera she had twice raised wearlings and had been sent to Erth to oversee Grystina’s first birthing – a slightly modest assignation for one so grand, but an important commission nonetheless. Galarhade bowed when he spoke to her.

‘Matrial,’ he said, acknowledging her previous successes with young.

‘A sorry day,’ she said, funnelling dark smoke. Dark smoke was heavier than air and would fall from the nostrils rather than drift away. It was one of the few ways a dragon could express sorrow. She glanced at Grynt and the ever-silent Givnay. Both gave a courteous nod.

‘We have a problem,’ said Galarhade. ‘Grystina’s wearmyss is without a mother. I cannot commit her body to Godith until we have settled upon a solution.’

‘Is it so difficult?’ Gossana said, her words almost hissing across the water. If any other dragon had addressed the Prime so, they would have been met with an ear-singeing flame. (Abrial actually flinched, expecting it.) ‘We have an able female in Grendel. Fostering an orphan is not beyond her, as long as the myss is given to her quickly. I’m surprised the Elders have been slow to see this.’

‘I see it,’ said Galarhade, some authority restored in his terse response. He straightened his long red neck. ‘The myss is sickly, her air sacs full of dust. She is nesting in healer Grymric’s cave. She will be given over to one of you when Grymric is satisfied she will survive.’

‘One of us?’ Gossana said. She inhaled the last of her smoke.

‘It is important,’ Galarhade said, letting some weight fall onto his words, ‘that we continue our breeding programme.’

‘One of us?’ Gossana repeated, her upper jaw pulled so tight that her teeth were now aggressively unveiled. A broken fang on the upper left side was causing an abrasion where it met the lower jaw, weeping saliva and a touch of green blood. ‘Are you saying you expect
me
to foster the myss?’ Her fin scales billowed.

Abrial shuddered and looked around him. G’vard and per Gorst were keeping their silence. Even Grynt was curling his claws.

Elder Givnay leant towards his Prime, who nodded as he received a thought from the mute. Galarhade said, ‘The Elders acknowledge Gossana’s past accomplishments and are grateful she brings her wisdom and experience to bear at this time. However, as Elder Givnay has reminded me, we must always introduce new lines into the Wearle. We are therefore decided that Grendel will enter the next laying cycle and Gossana will raise the myss.’

‘This is an insult!’ Gossana roared.

‘It is my ruling,’ Galarhade said firmly.

‘Yours – or his?’ She cocked her snout in the direction of Givnay. She had never liked the mute, whom she saw as little more than an ineffective peddler of spiritual fantasies. What use, she had been known to argue, was a dragon steered by its third (and smallest) heart? The matrial had even been recorded as saying that she would not have let Givnay survive the injury that had left him unable to flame or speak. Not surprisingly, there was little regard between them. What
was
surprising was that both had been included in the second Erth party, a decision that had caused a great deal of muttering among some orders of the Wearle.

Despite Gossana’s fearless conceit, Elder Grynt felt it necessary to lash out a warning. ‘Have a care, Matrial. Remember where you are.’

Gossana spread her gigantic wings, almost blowing Abrial off his feet. ‘Have you forgotten that I am
frenhines fawr
?’ (Words from the old tongue, meaning ‘great queen’.) ‘How dare you dishonour me like this? The fostering of orphans is for common dragons, not one of
my
standing. And what male would willingly protect an orphan’s…carer?!’

Galarhade let out a thread of steam. ‘The white, G’vard, will be your guardian, and will be called father to the myss.’

This raised an immediate objection from per Gorst. ‘Prime, with respect, that cannot be. The battle was void.’

‘Well, it appears he’s been declared the winner,’ snapped Grynt, who seemed to be growing tired of the arguments.

‘But without her true mother to imprint upon, the character of the wearmyss will always be challenged. This would be of little importance if the father was of less noble bearing, but—’

‘It’s all right, Gorst, I will do it,’ said G’vard. He raised his weary head. ‘In the name of Godith, I will honour Grystina and be a father to her myss.’ He looked at Gossana and bowed. ‘I pledge to protect you in all—’

‘Faah!’ said Gossana. ‘Save your voice for singing your orphan to sleep. I demand to be returned to Ki:mera,’ she roared. ‘You’ll send the wearling too, if you know what’s good for it.’

‘You would be wise to bite your tongue,’ said Grynt – a slightly inappropriate remark, given the condition of Gossana’s upper fangs.

She bared the whole row at him. ‘You haven’t heard the last of this.’ And with a screech that made the mountains shudder, she took off back to her eyrie.

Abrial sank into a pit of despair. His wings felt as heavy as the rain clouds looming overhead. Had it not been for a kind glance from Grendel, he might have thrown himself under the waterfall and joined the ice on its long trail down to the sea.

Prime Galarhade called for Grendel’s attention. The young female looked up, her blue eyes lively with fear. Galarhade said, ‘Be calm, Grendel. Do not think yourself unworthy of the duty your Elders have placed upon you. Although you were not brought here to further the early growth of the Wearle, fate has selected you to be the first true queen of this colony. You were born of noble, Fissian ancestors. The males that come to you must be a suitable match. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’ The word clicked in her throat.

‘Are you ready to be courted?’

‘I am.’ She bowed before Galarhade, but again she flashed a look at Abrial as if to say,
Will you fly with me?

It made his hearts race to have her regard, but it also hurt so much. How he would have loved to chase Grendel round the mountains. But what chance would he have, stuck out on the edge of the domayne, keeping watch? He was going to be a sweeper, the lowest of the low. A forest might have grown on the peak of Skytouch before he ever saw Grendel again.

With a
whumph!
Grystina’s body caught fire. Galarhade was above her, coating her in flame. One by one every dragon flew past, adding their own breath to the blaze.

‘Forgive me,’ Abrial whispered. And he lifted up and flamed Grystina as well, not caring who was watching or what was being said. And when his flame was spent he lifted up again and flew away from the lake. He glided over the bulging crags of Vargos, setting a course for the northernmost edge of the domayne. He hung his head low as he flew. His life was over, he told himself. His name was blunted, his family shamed, his chances of fathering wearlings minimal. It really didn’t get much worse than this.

But had he been a little less doleful and a little more alert, his life would have been so very, very different. Had he chanced to begin his sweep from that moment, his sensitive optical triggers would surely not have missed a slight movement on the hillside, the actions of a creature desperate to conceal itself against the dark rock. Unbeknown to the dragons, the loss of Grystina was being felt by something other than themselves.

A young Hom was on the mountainside. A boy, no more than twelve winters old. Within the folds of his robe he was hiding something.

A frightened dragon wearling.

A drake.