Page 197 of Dragon Champion (Age of Fire 1)

The younger Dragonblade bowed and hurried into the tower.

“He’ll be dead by tomorrow’s sunrise,” the Wyrmmaster said. “Dooms, what a loss. But it’s to be expected. He didn’t want to be a loser at the trials, not after his years as breeding stock.”

“Is being demoted to the fighting stock stalls so bad?” AuRon asked.

“It’s not so much that, it’s what goes with it, my new breeder,” the Wyrmmaster continued. “Being warrior stock means being around other male dragons, side by side, living or fighting. You can no more do it with dragons than you can with stallions.”>“We bring loads up and down that shaft. It’s counterweighted to make the hauling easier. Clever thing. Some dwarf did it years ago.”

“The dwarves dug these caverns?”

“No one knows who first dug them. It could even have been dragons. I’m certain they lived here. Blighters made new passageways for us. A few of them are still here, they live on the seashore on the other side of the island and fish. Not many left now.”

He led AuRon into a labyrinth of caves. Alcoves and passageways smelled everywhere of male dragons. They passed the armored back of a copper dragon curled in a tight ball, sleeping. He glanced at the dragon’s forelegs. It wasn’t his brother.

“This’ll do,” Varl said. “This one has some cracks in the ceiling; you get a bit of air flowing in. It gets thick down here, even for me.”

“The Wyrmmaster said something about food?”

Varl lifted a wooden stick from his belt and went to a tallow dip. “At the opening just before we passed Shieldwall, that copper you sniffed at, they’ll dump meat or fish in a few hours. Plenty for all. We’ve eighteen pairs of wings out south. You’re in the fighting stock stalls for now, and you’ll learn they live for their stomachs.” He lit the thin splinter of wood and touched it to a dip beside AuRon’s alcove.

The smell of the burning fat awakened AuRon’s appetite. “What’ll happen at these trials?” AuRon asked, getting his mind off his hunger.

“A challenge between sets of dragons. The Wyrmmaster uses it to judge what job each dragon has. Who can fly with the heaviest burden, who is the fastest on the wing. The best get their choice of females.”

“And the worst?”

Varl’s beard changed shape, so AuRon guessed he was smiling. “They become fighting stock. Just do your best—the reward’s worth it.”

AuRon had never imagined dragons could be so cooperative. When the meal cart came, pulled by a pony that didn’t mind being underground or the smell of dragons, three other young dragons emerged and joined AuRon in sniffing over the joints. AuRon guessed they were a few years younger than he. He tried to speak using his mind—it had been so long—but he just got back a blurry image or confused emotion. The Wyrmmaster’s training had done what nature couldn’t: put dragons together without fighting. Whatever else might be said about his Supremacy, he was a genius with dragons.

“Mutton again. I want cattle,” one said.

“Cattle for the fighting dragons. You still learn flight, Sharpclaw. I trade you your ore-lump for next ration of cattle.”

“Agreed. Unless it is gold.”

“Done. Urrrrr! Sore from flying today.”

“As I, Hawkhit.”

“You flew quick at trials, Hawkhit,” the third said. “They let you fly free-ear, I say.”

“What does free-ear mean?” AuRon asked. “No man on your back?”

“New one not know free-ear,” Sharpclaw said. “You learn soon enough. They make you fly message, fly scout, I say.”

“Fine with me, I say,” AuRon agreed.

“You do trial?” Hawkhit asked.

“Tomorrow, I’m told,” AuRon said.

“Try best, then not end up in stalls, sore and sleepy. With females, if you win, yes? You still want?”

“Where are they? I haven’t smelled a dragonelle in years.”

“Maybe you see. Maybe you not see, end up back here, Laughingstock.” Sharpclaw said.

“The name is . . . NooShoahk.”

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