Dragon Champion (Age of Fire #0)

Dragon Champion (Age of Fire #0) Page 32

The men said something to Hross, and Auron caught the word dragon and fire but little else.

“A dragon that age breathes little fire,” Hross said. “It’s not anything like full grown. Suppose it gets sick.”

“I’m healthy,” Auron said.

“So you speak,” the scarecrow said. “But do you fight with anything besides your bragging tongue?”

“What bragging have I done?” Auron asked.

“This dwarf maintains that you can do as good a job as my men. You’ve oversold your abilities, lizard. Get yourself some scales, and try again.”

Auron ignored the insult as he would a buzzing fly.

“Our belief in the dragon isn’t changing,” Djer said. “You and your men will have to leave.”

“Just one of my men could take that thing apart in a fair fight,” Hross said.

“Ask him what a fair fight would be,” Auron whispered to Sekyw in Dwarvish.

“What do you mean by a fair fight?” Sekyw asked.

“No fire breathing. My men each choose their weapon.”

“Give me my choice of weapon, and I’ll fight all four. Without fire,” Auron said.

The scarecrow translated for his men, and they talked among themselves. “Young Partner, we’ll happily take the test. My four against your dragon, hand to hand. My men get one weapon each, and as long as we approve of the weapon your dragon has, we’ll fight to see who is the strongest.”

Djer looked at Auron, and Auron nodded.

“It’s a match. But we see the weapons your men choose, or there’s no fight,” Djer said.

The man stuck out his hand, but Djer shook his head. “We’re putting it down clear and simple in writing. If you lose, you leave the camp with your men at your own expense. If you win, your original contract holds.”

The scarecrow translated for his men, and they all nodded. The one who had spat said something, his lip raised in a sneer.

“My men demand the body,” Hross said. Auron craned his neck to Djer’s ear and whispered.

“That will go in the contract, too. If the dragon gets to keep the bodies of his kills,” Djer said.

“This is to the death, lizard,” the gap-toothed man said to Auron, in guttural Parl. The long-haired one with the circlet about his brow said something in a language Auron didn’t understand, but the others barked at him.

“It’s a bargain, man,” Auron agreed.

Word spread through the camp as if criers had sounded the news of the match from the towers. The scarecrow emptied a corral of draft horses, and dwarves began to assemble; they perched on the rails like sitting birds on tree limbs.

“I’m about to sign the agreement,” Djer said, fixing Auron’s fighting-tail on the stump. “Are you that sure of yourself?”

“Every fight of my life has been unfair,” Auron said, watching the men hang chain shirts over each other’s shoulders and strap on armor. What he didn’t add is that he’d lost each of them, and survived only by strange chance. “This is one where I’ve picked the odds.”

Djer looked at the men. “Sekyw, they’re armoring themselves.”

“Nothing was said about armor!” Sekyw shouted to Hross.

Hross pointed to the unsigned document, pinned to a post of the corral. “Exactly. Nothing was said about armor.”

“Let them. The more armor, the better,” Auron said, swinging his tail to make sure the fighting claw was fixed. “Shields, helms, braces—I hope they pile it on. It’ll slow them down.”

“You’re only betting your life. I’ll be betting my money,” Sekyw said, counting handfuls of coin.

Djer walked over to the agreement and signed it, and handed the pen to the scarecrow with a bow. Hross scrawled his name and returned to his men.

“Four armed men against one drake, no flame,” Sekyw called to the dwarves. “Four to one, but I’ll give you better odds. Three to one. I’m offering three to one.”

“I’ll put down three silver,” a dwarf called.

“Six Diadem gold on the men,” the captain of the Suram said. The elf towered over the assembled dwarves.

Sekyw worked the crowd with scroll case and pencil.

“Were your life not in the balance, I’d want the greedy blighter to lose,” Djer grumbled.

“Think of it as a consolation prize if the men get lucky,” Auron said.

“Never. I’d be out a Partnership. But more important, I’d be out a friend,” the dwarf said, tickling Auron under the chin.

“Back in a moment,” Auron said, his tongue flicking in and out in a rasp across the dwarf’s wrist. He didn’t want this fight for himself, but for Djer. Djer’s honor, rather than dragon pride.

First beware Pride, lest belief in one’s might

Has you discount the foeman who is braving your sight.

But his mother had never mentioned the honor of those who had done you a good turn and offered help in a time of need.

Auron faced the four men. All wore armor of one sort or another, head to toe, save one man who wore only chain-and-leather gauntlets. The unarmored man held a net before him. Auron looked at the net, and his fire bladder stirred. He couldn’t help the puffs of smoke that appeared from either side of his mouth as he suppressed a belch. Two of the men carried boar spears, with long points and crossbars to stop him from pulling himself toward the holder if impaled. The last man, the long-haired one, removed the silver circlet holding his hair and pulled a helmet on. He snapped down the face- plate and took up a dwarvish double-headed ax.

The scarecrow whispered something into the ear of the ax-man, then spoke to the man with the net before retiring to the other side of corral rails. Dwarves dropped their tasks and climbed upon wagons and even the outer wall to get a view. Sekyw was not the only one taking bets; Auron saw coin and rings passing to holders all around. He wondered if Djer had hazarded a bet.

Auron brought himself back to the coming fight. This confrontation was not the joke Auron made it to Djer, for all that he wanted to help his friend. But this time he’d chosen the conditions and the odds, as a way of proving himself after being trapped by hunters twice in his short life.

The four men shuffled back and forth, talking amongst themselves. Neither side wanted to make the first move. The net-holder took a step forward, prodded by the ax-wielder, whose hair hung from the bottom of his helm. The spearmen fanned out.

Auron locked his eyes on the net-man. He put the fury from his fire bladder into his eyes, concentrating on the man’s dark eyes until the spear-men and the sword-wielder shrank away, as if viewed from a distance. Conversely, the net-human’s eyes grew until the loathsome round irises of the human’s brown eyes filled his vision. Auron felt as if he were out of his body—the drake wearing his frame crept toward the net-holder as Auron floated somewhere above, watching dispassionately.

“Wer! Athack!” the spear-men’s voices shouted at their companion, who stood like a statue. The ax-wielder pulled net-man back as Auron jumped.

Ax-man, net-man, and Auron went down together as the drake landed on the chest of the retiarius. Auron raked through the netting with his saa, and the net-man came out of his trance, screaming out his death throes. The spear-men charged, and Auron tried to side-step, but his feet entangled in the netting. In the moment it took him to free himself, the spear-men bore in with their weapons.

Auron writhed and avoided impalement, but one of the spears tore a jagged wound along his ribs. The other dug into the dirt, and as the man pulled it free, Auron whipped his armored tail up and caught the man squarely aside the head. There was a crash of metal, which staggered the spear-man. Auron bit at the ax-wielder. The man kicked him in the snout as he slid backwards toward the ring of spectators.

The spear-carrier who had wounded Auron raised his weapon to strike once again. Auron dragon-dashed between the man’s horribly hairy legs, knocking them out from under him as he wiggled through. The man planted his spear in the dirt, missing Auron but keeping himself upright with the pole. Auron whipped his neck back and bit up and under the armor at the man’s legs. He felt his fangs go deep, but he did not grip and tear, for the ax-man was already stepping in. The long-haired man, the quickest of his foes, was on his feet and supporting the man whose helmet Auron had dented. He backed off, holding his shield-tail between him and the ax-wielder.

Auron smelled the blood running out of the leg of the spear-carrier he had bitten. The man ignored the wound; he took a short grip on his spear and used it to maneuver Auron toward the corner of the corral. Auron read the blood trail the spear-man left and waited. As the other two retrieved the net from the body of the retiarius to join him, the suddenly pallid man’s eyes rolled skyward in his skull, and he toppled over. The crowd either howled in triumph or wailed in dismay, depending on which side their money stood.

The other two stared for a moment, as if trying to discern the magic that had felled their second comrade. They tried to keep him in the corner, holding the net between them. Auron coiled his body, ready to spring to the left of the one still weaving in his concussion.