“You mean—,” AuRon asked.

“That’s right,” Varl said. “We castrate the losers.”

Chapter 23

Breeding stock lived under different conditions from the fighting stock. In some ways it was restrictive, but there were advantages.

There was the smell of females. AuRon’s alcove was dim and cozy, off a tunnel that led to the main entry cavern in one direction and to the quarters of the females in the other. To avoid fights among the four members of the breeding stock, each male was allowed to mix with the females for seven days; then the next in order took over. Each had a separate tunnel leading to his sleeping cave. Gates with bars separated the males from the females otherwise, but the bars did not prevent the enticing smell of female dragons from traveling up the corridors. It was like Mother’s, in that it was a rich, satisfying smell that soothed him; but it was also more exciting in a way that was new, like the smell of human females, only a hundred times more powerful.

There was the solitude. AuRon was grateful for the time alone to think. His task was greater than just killing the Wyrmmaster, it seemed. This was no sorcerer casting spells, who could be knocked from his tall tower and forgotten as soon as his magic faded. This wizard had constructed a system, a society, and one murder wouldn’t bring it down.

AuRon felt alone and a little ashamed. Though he was around dragons for the first time since NooMoahk’s death, he was burdened by fear and secrecy. Before he has lived speaking the truth, dealing cleanly with those around him; here he chose even a false name to mask his identity. Father would not have approved. A dragon was his voice, roaring fair challenge to foes, speaking plainly to friends, singing of brave deeds to his mate. If his current path wasn’t an act of treachery, then nothing was. How could he put this experience in his song? Would it be worse to put it in, or compound the lies by leaving it out?

In the other ear, however, there was the pampering. The only thing AuRon could compare it to was his days with the dwarves and their caravan. The handlers plied him with more food than he could ever eat, of a quality and variety he had never before experienced: lamb, goat, mutton, beef, red fish, white fish, various sorts of shelled creatures from the sea—such a delight to crack apart and sample!—cheeses, breads rich with butter and honey, even wine and ale. This Wyrmmaster had learned that dragons could appreciate wine. AuRon grew to look forward to a nightly bottle at night’s meal, corked and sealed with some mysterious elvish waxen imprint, as the final relaxing touch before he settled into a dreamless sleep. There were also lumps of a strange metal-mineral blend that the dragons called ore and longed for like horses did bits of fruit, but for which AuRon had no appetite.

The only unsettling part of his existence was the Dragonguard, the most dangerous element of this wizard’s system. This corps of men stood watch in little groups at tunnel mouths and cave junctions. Varl told him they were recruited from the Varvar coast, towering giants of muscle and beard dressed in patterned dragon scale—though AuRon wondered why they seemed to prefer green, the color of females, as the dominant hue in their garb. They helped handle the younger, pre-trial dragons still being trained. Eliam, bearer of the Dragonblade, was their chief despite his youth. There were more of them around the breeding stock than the easier-to-handle fighting stock. When they wanted a dragon’s attention, say to clear a passageway for a cart, they blew a peeping whistle from behind their helmet and pointed, a practice AuRon found detestable.

But they didn’t attempt to put a collar on him. The discipline of the Dragonguard was enough to keep order, as AuRon was soon to learn.

He had a formal introduction at court, a rare thing for even a dragon of breeding stock. Or so Varl said when he led AuRon into the Highhall.

It was a wooden lodge, with doors the size of those on a barn and balconies projecting from walls and roof, set high on the side of the fjord leading to the port. There was no landing beneath, only a waterfall cut right through the Highhall’s foundations before plunging a good six dragon-lengths into the sea below. Visitors had to land at the port, then use sturdy mountain ponies to make the climb. Rune-stitched pillars greeted AuRon as he and Varl finished their long walk from the tower cliff to the fjord gap. As they climbed the outer stone staircase to the hall, Varl offered him some advice.

“Just agree with what the Wyrmmaster says. ‘Yes, Supremacy’ is best. There are embassies from the nations of men at court now—they’re about to leave before winter comes. The Wyrmmaster wants them impressed. You speak well—everyone has noticed it.”

“I speak well, but it’s best if I just say, ‘Yes, Supremacy’? One needn’t be a privy councilor to manage that.”

Varl opened the great doors to let AuRon go through; though he was slender enough, his midjoints grazed the doorframe as he passed inside.

“NooShoahk, you get any bigger, and we’ll have to build a larger hall,” the Wyrmmaster said from the cavernous interior. Lines of reinforcing beams stretched from angled roof to angled roof, well joined, and two iron chandeliers hung from each. Lining the hall were alcoves, empty chairs sitting in most, and at the far end a lectern that could be reached by climbing a short staircase. Humans of various size and coloring stood at the far end by tables laden with food and drink.

In the balcony above, stout men with cocked crossbows waited, their eyes shifting from AuRon to the Wyrmmaster.

“My brothers, this is our latest ally, a dragon out of the south named NooShoahk. He’s a flier the likes of which we’ve never seen here on the Ice Isle. We’re proud to have him join our cause.”

The Wyrmmaster introduced AuRon to the barbarously titled men: there was Svak the Thunderarm and Gulland Longsound, and Khon Gi-Gesh and many others that AuRon lost track of as they approached and were introduced, all important men in the barbarian tribes they represented. They patted AuRon experimentally, or shifted their heads so they could peer under his lips at his fangs. The thing he liked least about mixing with humans was being poked and prodded. Varl read dragons better than most, and moved to his side and made sure they did not outrage him further. Someone offered him a bone joint, waving it before him to get him to open his mouth, but AuRon ignored it.

“NooShoahk, I’m having you meet these men for a reason,” the Wyrmmaster said after the barbarian gave up trying to feed him. Varl put his bulk between AuRon and the Wyrmmaster, and the assembly moved off to the food and drink. “I’ve of a mind to use you to send messages to our allies. I’ve used dragons before, but most require many rest stops and hunting breaks. You, on the other hand, I believe to be twice as fast as a scaled dragon, probably a good deal faster than that if the scaled dragon is carrying a rider. You know your maps, you know your stars—otherwise, you could never have found this isle.”

“The fire mountain brought me in. Otherwise, I might still be hunting for it.”

“My beacon? Yes, clever, isn’t it? But it’s nothing to do with me.”

“Some wizard’s work, then?”

“Perhaps. It was here when I first landed, a lifetime ago, seeking to speak to a pair of dragons in the very cave you call home. Holdovers from an earlier age, like your renowned linelord NooMoahk. I’ve no idea who built the beacon, but I could determine how it works. That mountain expels flammable gas from far beneath the earth. Someone installed some sort of valve; the pressure builds, and at a certain point it releases it in a rush. The force of the outburst of gas triggers a spark, using the same principles as lightning, and you get that explosion. Brilliant.”

The Wyrmmaster spoke lower. “What is your vision?”

“My what?”

“Follow me outside.”

Varl trailed along, and a pair of women stood up at a motion from the Wyrmmaster, both in the traditional red cloaks of the men of the Jagged Isles. One sang, filling the cavernous hall, as the other danced from man to man, her body moving elusively under a cloak, which she opened at times to reveal her unclothed flesh beneath. With his guests occupied, the Wyrmmaster closed the great doors behind him, took up a walking stick, and led AuRon to a rocky ledge just above the waterfall.

“A good spot for thinking,” he said, settling his wide frame into a thronelike chair carved from a tree stump. He rested his hands on the wolf-heads carved into each arm of the chair. “Are we what you expected, NooShoahk?”

“I expected more camps of war, more ships. This is a great island, but it seems deserted. Even of dragons.”

“This island makes a poor base for conducting a war: distance, the weather, all the dangerous shallows around it. Were you to go to Juutfod, there you’d see otherwise. The dragon ships of the Varvar set out from there, and take wind down the coast in their raids. Or the floating ring, something we seized years ago from a group of sea elves. More of the fighting dragons live there than here.”

“Then why choose this place?”

“This is where the real work is, in forging and continuing the alliance between dragons and men. Dragons can fight, and men can conduct campaigns without me telling them where or when to move. I’d no doubt do a worse job than many of these warlords.”