Hatch (The Dragons Of Laton) (6 page)

T
he dark outlines of the boulders loomed overhead, and as he got closer he could see a stone twice as tall as he was that leaning against a couple even large stones. Where they came together was a hollow that looked just big enough for him to crawl through. He strained his eyes as he hurried around the smaller, crumbled rocks, small trees, and thick brush that surrounded it.

He was almost there when he stumbled in the darkness. Slipping on the loose gravel, his right foot slid
into a hole, and he fell to his side hard. A wrenching pain shot up his leg and he cried out as he clawed at the rocks with his fingers. In agony, he rolled to his stomach and used the staff to push himself upright. Gritting his teeth, he reached down with his right hand and wrenched his foot free. He stood still for several minutes gasping in agony as his foot hung limp. Was it broken? He couldn’t tell in the low light, but he could already feel it starting to swell and tighten against his thick leather boots. Now he needed that shelter more than ever. Using the staff, he gingerly placed his foot on the ground and immediately brought it back up as tears ran down his face. It was now too dark for him to see much further than a few feet in front of him; it would be hours before the sliver of moon would rise. Starting a fire out in the open to see his injuries was out of the question.

Silently he stood leaning heavily on the shaft and wondered if he could guess the direction of the rock opening. Suddenly the dragon shifted on his back, and he felt
Fulgid jump to the ground. Even in the darkness, his golden scales shimmered faintly. He walked around in front of Ammon, his eyes glinting and then disappeared into the blackness to Ammon’s left.

“Oh great, now you decide to leave me?”

The dragon returned and gently gripped the staff in his teeth and pulled.

“Hey! Stop that! I’m barely standing as it is.”

Ammon had no choice but to hop on his good foot or risk falling again. As soon as he started moving, the dragon let go and walked a pace away before turning and looking at him.

Irritated, Ammon snapped. “What are you doing?”

Again, Fulgid came back and gripped the shaft in his teeth and pulled Ammon off balance until he hopped a few steps.

“Okay, okay, I’m coming!” Ammon winced. “I hope you don’t expect me to help you catch mice.”

Putting as much of the weight on the staff as he could, Ammon followed after the dragon. Each time he got close, the dragon moved forward until he was almost out of sight. Again and again, until finally Ammon found himself standing in front of the large rock formation he had seen in the distance. Fulgid slipped inside the opening between the rocks then reappeared a minute later, waiting for him to follow. Ammon ducked his head and limped in.

Feeling around, Ammon found the space inside was mostly clear of cobwebs and he discovered he could stand up straight holding onto the shaft. Dropping slowly to the ground,
he felt around and found a pile of twigs and small branches that lined the edges, but the center was layered in sand and leaves. It was likely used by some animal as a den once, but not for some time. He cleared a place in the center and used the twigs for kindling to start a small fire as far from the entrance as possible. Searching the cave interior, he found enough larger branches to keep the fire going for awhile, so he unlaced his boot with a grimace and set about getting it off his foot. As soon as he pulled the boot free, a stab of pain raced up his leg. After a few minutes he sat, panting and sweating with the effort not to scream. In the firelight he could see the swollen ankle but still couldn't tell if it was broken; at the very least it was sprained badly and any hope of travel in the morning was dashed. Frustrated, he threw his boot against the stone and it nearly bounced back into the fire.

“Now what am I gonna do?”

Carefully stretching his leg out onto the soft sand he leaned back. “Fulgid, I think we’re…” Ammon looked around the cave as he suddenly realized he was alone. “Fulgid? Awww…Dragon spit!”

The occasional pop of the small fire was all that broke the stillness of the night, and its tiny flames did little to warm Ammon’s bones. He’d grown accustomed to the constant heat of the furnaces and his leather shirt and breeches did little to ward off the night chill. He pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders and laid the sword beside him within easy reach. Cold and miserable, he sat shivering until the growling of his stomach forced him to think more about food than his throbbing ankle. Pushing one of the cattail roots onto the tip of his knife, he slowly roasted it above the flames. When he thought it sufficiently cooked, he blew on the steaming root before cutting it into small pieces. As he lifted one to his lips, the smell of damp earth filled his nostrils and he hesitantly bit into it. The fibrous wad refused to yield to his teeth, and after trying unsuccessfully to chew it for several minutes he finally spit it into the fire. Listening to it hiss, he buried his head into his hands and groaned as the low rumble of thunder echoed in the distance.

As midnight approached the storm grew closer. Brilliant flashes of light burst across the night sky and the wind swirled leaves and dust into the cave, threatening to extinguish the tiny flames. Stoking the embers, Ammon built up the fire then crawled to the opening and placed his tin pot outside to catch the large fat droplets that were beginning to fall. The rain was coming down in heavy sheets when Fulgid returned as suddenly as he’d left. Relieved, Ammon was about to scold him for wandering off when the dragon dropped something from his mouth beside the fire. Three fish glistened wetly in the firelight. Ammon stared back at the little dragon in amazement.

“You’re just full of surprises aren’t you?”

With a flick of his tail, Fulgid curled up close to the fire, and soon steam began to rise off his scales.

Ammon placed the pot over the fire then cleaned one of the larger fish, dropped it into the pot and filled it the rest of the way with the cattail roots. The other fish he placed on a forked stick over the fire to smoke. They would keep for awhile wrapped in the oilcloth when done. He hoped his ankle would look better by morning, and perhaps they’d be on their way again in a few days. For now, a warm fire and a full belly would have to do.

Later that night after the fire had died down, he felt Fulgid slip under the blanket next to him. He reached down and pulled the little dragon closer, and soon the sounds of tiny muffled snores drifted out from under the blanket. The miserable feelings that had overwhelmed him earlier began to slip away as he dozed off. He was unsure of what tomorrow would bring, but at least he wasn’t alone anymore.

Chapter 3

The Search Begins

Tirate’s mood was as black as the armor that lined his chambers. It was nearly a full day since that impudent little runt had run from the Nest with the dragon. Somehow the boy escaped the city and a search of the surrounding area had turned up nothing. In frustration he slammed his fist into the polished surface of his desk and winced as fresh blood oozed through the bandages of his sword arm. The wicked little beast had ripped through the steel gauntlet as easily as if it were paper. He was lucky he still had his hand. Flexing his fingers, he felt the bandages pull against the scabs that formed over the gashes. That boy would pay dearly for this.

He took pride that unlike most knights, he had no scars on his body. It was a testament to his prowess with a sword. Looking up from his desk, he stared at the paintings on the walls depicting his ancestors astride massive black or gray dragons. In each pose their long swords pointed towards an unseen enemy. He grated his teeth. All of them had been linked to a dragon by their twentieth year without exception, a fact he was painfully aware of. Tirate was twenty-seven and had attended every hatch since he was nineteen. He would have been removed from the service as a knight years ago if he hadn’t been the only heir to his uncle’s throne.

He turned his attention back to the maps spread across his desk and studied them. The boy couldn’t have gotten very far on foot. Patrols had been sent to the most likely escape routes to the south, east and west. Anyone matching the description were being held and questioned. He had not sent anyone north towards the mountains yet, it was an unlikely route through treacherous country that offered little chance for escape. Still, that would soon be taken care of. The boy and dragon must be found, or at least the dragon must be found. The boy was of little consequence to his plans.

It didn’t matter that the tender had already linked with
the dragon. He knew enough about dragons to know what was going to happen the moment he’d seen its unusual gold color. That dragon would fit his needs perfectly. Years of planning and scheming within the circles of the royal court were finally coming to fruition. All he had to do was to get the beast into his possession.

He rose from his desk and gazed out the window. In the courtyard below he could hear the clack of wooden practice swords and the booming voice of the captain knight bellowing instructions to a new recruit. The captain was a great ox of a man named Boris who moved with surprising speed and agility for his age. He was also unquestionably, the greatest swordsman in the history of
Gaul. Tirate watched as Boris pushed the recruit aside, picked up the practice sword and squared off with his opponent. With a quick step he lunged, spun, and deftly knocked the sword away from the other man’s hand. Tirate snorted in disgust.

Most of the Kings Guard worked secretly for Tirate, bought with a little silver and a few promises. A few of the older Guards like Boris were King Erik’s men to the bone and could never be swayed. Their numbers were d
windling steadily as he reassigned them or forced them into retirement. Boris however had become a major stumbling block to getting his men promoted to the higher ranks. Those positions were necessary if he was going to assume the throne from his dear uncle Erik once the man died of his unfortunate illness. When Tirate got the dragon, that would happen quickly.

Turning his back to the window, he rang a small silver bell kept on the end of the desk to summon a servant. Within minutes a page was leaving his quarters with
orders to bring Boris to his chambers. The page returned quickly with the older man following behind him. Broad shoulders nearly filled the doorway as Boris entered with his simple cloth shirt pulled tight across his muscular arms and chest. A few strands of gray hair hung around his balding head like a halo, and he stood tall and erect. Clear blue eyes missed nothing as he entered the room, including the bandages on Tirate’s hand, yet he said nothing.

Tirate motioned Boris to sit and turned the maps to face him. “I have a job for you captain, if you and your dragon are up to it?”

Boris grunted. “Ellis and I are as fit for duty as we were twenty years ago sire.”

Tirate sat on the edge of the desk and looked down at the man. “Of that I have no doubt,” he said with obvious disdain. “I need someone well versed in tracking by air and ground, and you are the most experienced in that area.”

Boris rubbed at the white mustache that flowed across his face, the sharp blue eyes never wavered. “If you don’t mind me asking, exactly who are you tracking that is so important that you need to take me from my duties? A kidnapper? Murderer? Why send the captain of the King’s Guard, why not one of your own men?”

Tirate leaned down and hissed. “Worse than a murderer, a thief! He has stolen a hatchling dragon from the east Nest.”

Boris sat back with raised eyebrows. “He stole a hatchling? Who in their right mind...? How?”