Page 10 of Dragon Champion (Age of Fire 1)

It lashed out with a foot and caught him in the eye. It kicked him again across the snout, hurting far worse than one of Mother’s smacks. He let go, tasting and smelling his own blood on his tongue now. But he was close enough to hunt by eye and ear.

The man crawled away, seeking refuge in the crevice. It had curious coloration. Auron noticed the varied hues, even as he gathered himself and jumped, of the second loose skin over its first.

He landed on the man. He aimed a bite at the neck, but got only a forearm in his jaws. The man shifted his weight, pivoting very differently from the way his sisters did in their halfhearted wrestling bouts. The man had much more strength in his forearms than Auron was used to.

He felt a sharp pain in the pit of his foreleg.

Father’s head loomed above. In a flash, Father had the man’s skull in his jaws and off its neck. Blood geysered into the air.

The body twitched as it exsanguinated, and Auron kept attacking the headless corpse, ripping at it with his teeth.

“Auron, stop,” Father growled.

Auron froze, teeth clamped on the man’s shoulder.

“Look in its hand, Auron. It had a knife.”

Auron drew himself off the blade and sniffed at the wound in his armpit. A steady flow of blood joined the man’s on the floor.

“Will I die, Father?”

“No, you were lucky. Lick the wound clean.”

Auron nursed himself, and Father continued.

“When you leap like that, let your back legs do the killing. You’re still fighting too much with your mouth. It’s all right for taking the neck of something that’s half-dead. But when you’ve got a hold of the prey, remember, he’s got a hold of you, too. Pin and dig with your saa. They put up less of a fight when they’re gutted.”>Red, Gold, Bronze, and Blue,

To my lord I shall be true.

Copper, Silver, Black, and White,

Who will win my mating flight?

Auron wondered why grays weren’t part of the song. Was something wrong with him? The question worried at him. But only until he caught the scent of a fresh slug trail on his tongue.

Chapter 3

A season had passed. The bats became torpid, their endless output of guano slowed, and the fungus that lived off their droppings shrank back from a carpet of light to spotty patches, little green points like stars on the cavern floor.

Auron, his belly holding nothing but hunger, hunted.

The slug trail was old, but not old enough to fade into the cavern murk with the growing hatchling’s sensitive nose held to the rock floor. The slugs had also slowed with the change in the bats, until they hardly moved from hiding place to hiding place.

Even his sisters, who shared none of his interests or sports, joined him in hunting. Useless in all other respects, he grudgingly gave them credit for slug trapping. Though they were not so active in searching out food as he, they did show some skill at guessing where the mindless soft-skinned prey would be in its wanderings, and more often than not, chose the right perch to while away the day waiting for the faint slurping sound of a moving slug.

Auron’s legs were longer now, the claws thicker at the end of his four digits, divided three long and one short. The hind limbs, more muscular than the front pair, allowed him to leap clean to the egg shelf from the floor of the cavern. The black stripes descending from his backbone were more pronounced now, and his gray had deepened everywhere except his underside, still pale as slugmeat. His leathery skin gave him the ability to wriggle into cracks even his undersize brother could not reach. He and his brother crossed each other’s trails in their endless explorations, and sometimes he caught a flash of copper as the cripple dived into the lake at the base of the waterfall.

The slug trail disappeared into a crack in the floor. The aperture was festooned with dried fungus, full of dormant spores awaiting the trickle’s return. Auron circled the exit and saw that if he shifted a boulder, he could pursue the slug.

He wiggled under one end of the boulder and pressed his backbone hard against the rock. He strained to no effect. He gathered himself for a real shove—and heaved until his vision went red. The rock did not move. His tail whipsawed in his petulance as he came out from under the shelf.

“Pogt!” he swore, using a Dwarvish curse his mother taught him by accident in one of her mind-stories. He brought up his neck in an intimidating arc. He felt something gurgle behind his breastbone, his neck muscles stiffened, and he vomited a thin stream of yellowish liquid at the rock.

Amazing.

He tasted the air around the expectorate. The odor singed his smell buds on his tongue and nasal membrane. He snorted in disgust and turned to find Mother. She would be able to move the rock. He scrambled to the egg shelf.

“Mother, the rock, Mother. A slug went down a hole and a rock is in the way!”

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