Page 69 of Dragon Avenger (Age of Fire 2)

Your contraption didn’t survive the trip, I see.

Wistala squinted against the setting sun. The old condor waggled his wings this way and that on the confused air currents of the gorge as he approached.

A baying like a thousand wolves broke out from the banks of the river, louder even than the sound of water crashing into rock.

“What’s this?” Father asked.

Wistala could manage thought-pictures: “Some dogs smelled me. I killed one.”

Bartleghaff swept low over the peninsula but didn’t land. “AuRel: it’s the Dragonblade and his pack!”

Father blinked, let out a deep breath. “So he’s found me,” he said to no one in particular.

“The Dragonblade?” Wistala asked.

“The dwarves would hire him, I suppose.” His wings drooped a little farther, and he searched the banks. Wistala saw black shapes bounding through the thick mist-washed ferns. Hunched shapes moved in the lengthening shadows of the woods beyond.

“They’re coming off their horses now!” Bartleghaff shouted on another low sweeping pass.

“Fathered by a wolf and mothered by a bear, it seems, with the memory of a tortoise to boot, for his sire was killed by dragons long ago, and he’s been seeking vengeance ever since.”

“Do you suppose he was at our cave?” Wistala asked.

“Dragons must land sometime, and he always finds their refuge,” Father said.

He straightened and got to his feet, a new light in his eyes. He cocked his head at Bartleghaff and flicked a griff up and out. “Go gather your relatives for that feast, old croaker.”

Wistala didn’t like any of this. Father’s words set her trembling with the worst fear she’d ever known. If only she weren’t so small, fireless. Useless, useless, useless. “Father, I did find you some coin.” She spat out the canvas bag-bottom; her spit made it smell faintly of oats. She nosed out two tarnished coins: one of gold, the other of silver.

“Marvelous, daughter,” Father said, nuzzling her fringe. “A pair, alike and yet not twins. Like you and Auron.” He took them up with his tongue, carefully placed them to either side in his mouth.

The dogs let out another joined cry.

Must get away . . . “Are we going to run from the dogs?”

“Tala, I’m never going to fly again, in the air or on land. This fellow’s killed more dragons than you have teeth, but he’s never tried his luck against me. If I can—”

“Let me help you. I’ll draw off the dogs.”

Father stamped the ground, hard enough to cause Wistala to bounce.

“NO!”

His roar echoed off the gorge walls, louder than the rushing water, louder than the baying dogs.

Frightened, she tucked her head down into her wounded joint.

“Tala, you’re too young for this fight. The best way for you to avenge your brother and sister is to have clutches of your own. Each hatchling of your own who lives to breed avenges them thrice over.”

“The dogs—they’ll bite and hold.”

“I’m not afraid of the dogs or anything else that walks or crawls or swims. Now go.”

The dogs must have caught a fresh scent, perhaps Father’s blood on the wind, for they set up an eager clamor.

She stood there, shaking. She’d led them right to Father! That was why they’d sent a single old dog to nudge her along! “I won’t. I can’t.”

“Promise me, Wistala. Clutches of your own. Lots and lots of hatchlings.”

---