Page 2 of Dragon Champion (Age of Fire 1)

He heard a trill from above him and saw Mother’s spade-shaped head looking down. His mother, big enough to be a world herself, reclined against the cave wall. He tasted the rich nepenthe of the air around her; it smelled better even than the bloody tang of the air around his deceased sibling.

“I know this is strange, and you can’t speak yet, not until you’re grown a bit and learned. But you can understand—even in the egg, you could understand. I showed you stories, remember?”

His mother’s voice was familiar, but he could remember no stories, just vague dreams of floating in light, pictures, sensations that rolled about in his head unmoored. Her speech, after its first startle, relaxed him. He felt his eyelids closing.

“Time for you to sleep and grow, little Auron. Don’t worry, you and your sisters are safe, we are deep-deep. No assassins will get here, for Father is on guard.”

She began to sing, and he recognized the rhythm of her tune, not strange at all. He dozed off, lulled by the comforting cadence of the song.

Listen my hatchling, for now you shall hear

Of the only seven slayers a dragon must fear.

First beware Pride, lest belief in one’s might

Has you discount the foeman who is braving your sight.

Never Envy other dragons their wealth, power, or home

For dark plots and plans will bring death to your own.

Your Wrath shouldn’t win, when spears strike your scale

Anger kills cunning, which you will need to prevail.

A dragon must rest, but Sloth you should dread

Else long years of napping let assassins to your bed.

‘Greed is good,’ or so foolish dragons will say

Until piles of treasure bring killing thieves where they lay.

Hungry is your body, and at times you must feed

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The hatchling tasted his first air. Cool and dry compared with the dampness inside the egg, its strangeness set him aquiver.

He had only just discovered a new world in the slow awakening, one so different from the muted patterns and colors, muffled echoes and stale tastes of the old. He had been snug in his dark little space, drowsing and dreaming, when sharp, cracking noises had woken him. He’d suddenly hated the enclosure in which he’d floated for so long. Instinctively, he tried to uncurl his long neck. He had jerked his chin upward, feeling the growth on his nose strike the inner surface of the hard cocoon. Three more taps, and the shell had cracked.

The air relayed so many new impressions that his senses rebelled, and he gave a tiny snort.

He wiggled his nose and widened the hole. When he could get his snout well out and open his mouth, he took a real breath. His long lungs, running almost the length of his back, filled entirely with air. Its zest, the new sensation of his lungs inflating and deflating, invigorated him as much as the rich dose of oxygen to his bloodstream. He pulled his head back, and the sawtooth on his still-wet nose opened the egg further. Now he could get his head out.

The light, dim though it was, hurt his eyes. Scrabbling sounds and a deep, rhythmic whooshing above roused his curiosity. Determined, he turned his head.

A presence, huge and green, lay curled around him—strange yet familiar—and beyond that, he sensed an even larger enclosure of rock and shadow. Another casing, many-many times larger than the first? Echoes played off the hard stone, chasing each other through the great space.

He wriggled his head free. Now he could use his neck to look around. A nasty drop hung before him. Many neck-lengths below, two shapes writhed; both had necks like his, with equally long tails projecting out of their hindquarters. Identical in every aspect save color, they pushed and clawed at each other using four stubby legs. Their mouths yawned agape, displaying sharp white teeth, and atop their snouts stood sawtooths just like the one he’d used to poke his way out of his shell. Both the combatants had short crests covering their necks. One of the hatchlings was a rich ruby color, and it sank its teeth into the coppery opponent, rending flesh and muscle and eliciting a plaintive cry.

Something about those crests sweeping back from the armored ridge of their eyes and forehead put him into a seething rage.

He longed to join this contest. He uncoiled his body; his fractured egg was no match for his new strength. It separated, and he twisted over so he could crawl.

The crack of the egg opening interrupted the red hatchling in its triumph. It released its opponent’s torn foreleg and looked up. In the flick of an eye, it scuttled to the rock face and began to climb toward him.

He did not wait to meet it amongst the other eggs. He moved to the edge of the shelf to get it on the way up, instinctively wanting the advantage of the high ground.

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