Page 15 of Dragon Outcast (Age of Fire 3)

He heard a clattering echo from deep down the passage and decided to leave the chamber, filching one more tube of metal on his way out. He’d have fun flattening and devouring it later.

While hunger gnawed at him back in the home cave, he argued with himself about going back. Certainly the metals he’d eaten would be missed, and the dwarves, if they were dwarves, would be put on their guard.

He visited the cave a second time, and lurked long in the pool before emerging. He spent most of the time rooting in the garbage heap and hunting rats. He very much doubted the dwarves would miss a few rats. He did find a single coin, fallen and rolled into a shadow behind one of the wooden boxes, and gobbled it eagerly. Coins were a perfect size to slide comfortably down a hatchling’s gullet.

But the metallic tang nagged at him, wanting company. He worked one of the metal talons driven into the wood loose with his teeth—there were so many others he didn’t see how one would be missed.

Since the second trip went so well he planned a third, though he waited what felt like ages, just in case. He kept himself in practice hunting up slugs. The trickles into the egg chamber increased day by day—evidently the dry period above was ending. The other hatchlings had all grown substantially, ranging over almost the whole cave now, and he couldn’t avoid them with his usual paths. Luckily he could hear Wistala, for she was always talking to Jizara.

Quick, quiet Auron was something else entirely. The Gray Rat almost killed him with a pounce and chased him all the way across the egg cavern, and the Copper had to dive into the rising pool to escape him by wiggling through the crack, now underwater again.

Auron wasn’t satisfied with having Mother and Zara and the chatterer and food and Father’s horded gold. Rich in everything, he wanted even the lightless edges and holes and cold corners of the egg cave.

But Auron had a weakness, and in his arrogance didn’t see his own faults. The Gray Rat had no scales. If the Copper could build up his strength a little, thicken his scales, he could close with Auron and take back the clutch.

The thought made his fire bladder boil.

With the waters rising again it meant a little longer swim to the treasure chamber. He took extra time smelling the air and certainly smelled no dwarves, though there was a dirtier scent, of the kind he associated with bits brought down from the Upper World.

The garbage pile had some meaty tidbits, and he lingered at the edge of the pool, ready for a fast dive, slowly nosing drier garbage aside while he extracted the meaty joints.

Then he smelled the silver.

It wasn’t a strong smell, and leather masked the aroma. He investigated next to the benches and cubbyholes—they smelled of the recently cooked meat—listening, always listening, and probing with eye and ear before he placed a foot.

The silver-and-leather smell came from pegs driven into a wooden wall hung with bits of woven fabric, most of which smelled like either grease or charcoal. Farther down the tunnel were stacks of fragrant wood, and many roots and herbs hung up and drying—perhaps the dwarves were replenishing supplies as the season changed above.

He found the source of the enticing smell. A leather bag containing a few coins—copper, silver, and even a faint aroma of gold—hung there. The top had some kind of binding on it, evidently to close it, and had been left loose, allowing the smell of coin to escape.

The Copper salivated. The dwarf would pay for his forgetfulness….

He nosed the bag off the peg.

Ka-thunk!

The peg, relieved of the coin’s weight, sprang up in its wooden slot.

Hairy masses of rope engulfed him. Festoons dropped from the cave roof, weighted with chains, and his eyesight went white as one of them struck him across the snout. The boxes to either side exploded open, throwing more lines that sprang from them. He felt weights and hooks and slick little circles of metal skittering across the floor.

When his eyesight returned he saw shadows all around, their beards glowing faintly. He felt tugs at his limbs as they attached lines.

He’d never been so terrified. His hearts felt as though they’d burst out of his chest or from behind his griff. Auron’s leaps and sudden pins were nothing to this.

One was trying to extract the purse from his mouth, grunting as he pulled. The Copper sawed at the purse strings and the dwarf fell back. Defiantly, he swallowed the silver. The dwarves might win a three-limbed hatchling, but they’d lose their silver.

The dwarves made noises that all seemed to be some variety of yak or grumt or phmumph.

They drove metal claws into the rocks and tied him, snout and tail, and set bands of leather about his limbs. A massive dwarf with an ax watched the whole thing, gurgling to his companions, ready to sever his head if he wiggled free.

But the dwarvish hands seemed made of rock and iron, and he was soon covered with their greasy smell.

Then the beatings began.

They took iron bars and smashed them against his vulnerable pinioned tail. The pain ran up his body, fired in each digit, sparked yellow in his eye sockets, whirled about his organs so that each breath brought agony.

He whimpered; he cried; he sent mind-pictures begging them to stop.

That pain was nothing to what came when they stopped, gave him time to sleep and heal, and then started in on his tail again. During the second beating his teeth came together and tore at mouth edge and tongue until he spit blood.

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