Page 9 of Dragon Strike (Age of Fire 4)

“Uninvited guests to our island could set things right with an apology.”

The elf went down on one knee and spread her arms, bowing. “The birds told us no dragons inhabited these caves,” she said, as the others helped Ghastmath to his feet. “We hoped our presence on the island would pass unnoticed.”

“What are you after?” AuRon asked, letting the dwarf rise. “Gold? The produce of the old Thortian mines? The jewels of Krakenoor, taken in the great sack?”

The men stirred and glanced at the elf. The dwarf, whose left arm hung funny, struck it hard against a pillar and sent it home with an audible click.

“Pogt,” the dwarf grunted. “The creature’s fouling the very air. I want out of this dragon-reek.”

“Little of the gold came here,” AuRon continued, licking the wound in his breast clean. “The old Wizard Wyrmmaster wasn’t after fortune or glory. He spent much of what he stole buying allies or building those dragontowers. Dragons have nosed all through these caves, despite the evil memories of our bondage. Nothing like a mouthful of gold to keep the scale healthy, you know.”

“I told you it went to Juutfod and Gettel in her damn tower. She’s as rich as the ten kings, I’ll swear,” Ghastmath said, picking up his sword with a wary glance at AuRon.

“The sooner we’re back there safe, the better,” the dwarf grumbled. “This is a run-out mine.”

“Ghastmath, make yourself useful and put some of your wound-salve in the dragon’s injury.”

“Waste it on a dragon?” Ghastmath said, drawing himself up with a hint of a wince.

“Thank you, I’ll attend to my own,” AuRon said.

“If it’s poisoning you fear, Ghastmath will pour some on his tongue.”

Bother the wound.

“Now, if you want my permission to explore these caves and discover lost toilet sinks and old rag-weaving rooms and sidemeat closets and then leave the island in an unburned boat, you’ll have to pay a . . .” What would the Chartered Company dwarves call it again? “. . . A usage fee.”

“May we hear the fee before we accept?”

“Only a piece of information. I would hear a story from the dwarf, regarding a name he used.”

“Done,” Halfmoon said.

The dwarf crossed his arms and broke wind; the echo of it startled the raven off its perch. “That’s the only story a dragon will get from me. Short and nasty.”

AuRon yawned. “Which might describe the rest of your scrounging little lives, should some of the dragonelles learn of your presence. They still bear a grudge for scores of stolen eggs. And they like to hunt in packs. What sort of sport would you make, I wonder?”

Ghastmath shifted as though nerving himself for another strike.

“Raise that sword and I’ll take the arm that wields it,” AuRon warned.

The elf spun, seeming to work her body in two directions at once. Her leg moved up behind Ghastmath’s ankles as a stiff arm flashing the other way caught him across the chest.

Ghastmath struck the dirty floor with a sound like a dropped platter.

“This is a parley, fool,” she said.

“You’re quick,” AuRon said. “Happily, your wits match your reflexes.”

She ignored the compliment. “Ask the dwarf for the story, AuRon son of AuRel.”

AuRon made an effort to look unaffected. “I’d like to hear about this Oracle dragon. I haven’t heard a story of a dragon from anywhere but here in years.”

The elf laughed. “Oh, that’s an easy one. It’s to do with the humbling of the Wheel of Fire dwarves and the barbarian wars. I heard bits of it myself at the Green Dragon Inn at Rainfall’s bridge from the innkeeper himself. He knew Wistala, still does.”

After hearing the tale, bits and bobs that made so little sense that AuRon wondered if the humans had invented a tale to suit themselves, he was so excited that he bade the party a farewell forgotten as soon as the words were voiced and almost walked into the javelin-trap on his way out.

Wistala. His sister.

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