Trav put Piddling back into the tiny puddle and watched the dragon stumble and fall, splashing water everywhere in its uncoordinated attempts to stay upright on mouselike feet. Picking up another dragon, Trav recoiled when the beast made a savage snap at his finger. The small mouth failed to circle his finger, but he felt bony ridges scraping his skin. He dropped the green-and-gray dragon back into the puddle. The dragon glared at him, then turned and snapped at Piddling, frightening the smaller dragon.
“You are the biggest,” Trav said, “and will grow up larger than the Great Worm Yilgam.” He pushed Piddling away from the more combative dragon. “I’ll call you Yilg. And you,” he said, poking another dragon, “you are ferocious and the stuff of legends. You will be the one to challenge Kennick Strongarm.” Trav spat the name. “I’ll call you Grendl.”
The fourth dragon curled its long, thin tail around itself and went to sleep, oblivious to the struggles between Grendl and Yilg. Piddling stood to one side, watching its brothers fight, with what Trav interpreted as anticipation and anxiety on its expressive face.
“And you, sleepy one, I will name Drowsy.” The sleeping dragon snorted and rolled over, never waking.
Trav got his feet under him, rubbing his freezing hindquarters. He worried that the cave was too cold for his small charges, yet they seemed to thrive. A small dark insect scuttled along the cave floor. Trav grabbed quickly, trapping the carnivorous pig-bug. The scavenger bug went into frenzied motion when he dropped it between Yilg and Grendl. The two newborns snapped at the pig-bug and each other. The larger Yilg won after a brief but fierce skirmish, gulping the bug down whole and looking for more.
Trav had already caught several more torpid pig-bugs and dumped them where the young dragons could feed. “Enjoy your dinner,” Trav said, his own belly growling. He watched, marveling at how different the four dragons were. When they had finished their feast, Yilg and Grendl turned on the smaller Piddling.
“Hey, stop that,” Trav said, picking up the small dragon and holding it close. Piddling hissed slightly, and Trav jerked in surprise. The dragon had burned him with a tiny spark from its nostrils.
“So, you’re growing,” Trav said, knowing a full-sized dragon could bum down a house with a single flare. “Let’s see if this puts out your fire.” He carried Piddling to the cave opening and dropped the young dragon into a snow bank. The dragon floundered about, legs thrashing. Then Piddling snorted real flames.
Trav grinned and finally applauded his small ward. A plume of steam rose from the superheated snow. Piddling lapped at the puddle he had created, backing off when it froze against his tongue. A second gust of flame was larger, stronger, and created a veiling curtain of steam.
Trav watched in silence. It would be some time before Piddling-or even Yilg or Grendl-grew to a size capable of battling Kennick, but the day would come. Dragons grew quickly. Trav would enjoy watching the swaggering dragon-killer face a real opponent.
Trav shivered hard, trying to keep his teeth from clacking. Juliana lay on the far side of the room, a blanket thrown over her quaking body. The way she shook gave the only sign that his sister still lived. The unnatural quiet after the storm had settled both inside and out, preventing them from getting outside for more than a day.
“Where is he?” muttered Merrow Gorman, walking painfully back and forth across the small room in a vain attempt to keep himself warm. “Kennick should have been here by now.”
Trav tried to speak but his teeth began chattering. He wanted to tell his father that Kennick wasn’t likely to return from Westering if it meant any discomfort. He might have promised to bring wood and much-needed food, but Trav would believe the dragon-killing paladin when he saw tangible proof. Warm proof. Food proof.
“We need wood for the stove,” Trav got out. “We cannot last another night. It is still now, but cold, colder than I can remember.”
“So fetch the wood,” snapped his father. “There is no way to get to the woods and chop enough to last more than a few hours, not in this damned cold.” He looked at their pot-bellied metal stove, long since cold from lack of fuel. “Why your mother wanted that monstrosity is a mystery to me. A good stone fireplace would serve us better.”
Trav wanted to point out that any heat would be appreciated, but he lacked the strength to argue. He saw from the way his father’s left leg increasingly dragged that he would be unable to gather firewood, even if a new storm wasn’t threatening. And Juliana was in no condition to move. All she could do was lie under her inadequate blanket and mutter Kennick’s name from between gray-blue lips.
Trav pushed to his feet and went to the door. Snow had drifted high, leaving only a small, open rectangle of wan daylight at the top. He burrowed a few minutes, ignoring his father’s orders to shut the door. At last scrambling out onto the crusted snow, he looked out over a land that had been totally altered. Slake had vanished, save for a few chimneys sputtering fitful puffs of smoke. Gone was the poverty and the horror of the past months; replacing it was a blinding whiteness, a snowy renewal that brought beauty and threatened death.
Trav pulled his thin coat tighter around him and began trudging toward the distant woods. It was far to go, too far. The easy wood had been collected long since, and he had scant notion what he might do once he found decent forest. His father had traded their axe for two bushels of grain, on Kennick’s advice. The grain had proven of poor quality and hadn’t lasted nearly as long as Merrow Gorman had anticipated when making such an extravagant exchange.
Razor-edged wind began blowing, and ice crystals slashed Trav’s exposed face. He pulled a long, woolen scarf woven by his mother over his mouth and nose. The cold still insinuated itself and slowly paralyzed both body and brain.
Hardly knowing where he walked, Trav blundered across the ice-encrusted lakes and up the streamlet toward the cave where, he was sure, his baby dragons must have frozen by now. It had been weeks since he had been able to tend them.
Trav broke through the tough rind of snow over the cave mouth and was met by a blast of hot air. He rocked back, the sudden heat painful against his frozen cheeks. For a moment, he thought some strange volcanic activity had warmed the cave. Then he realized the heat came from the dragons’ own magical internal fire. The dragons huddled together, their considerable fiery breaths splashing against rocks until they glowed red-hot. The dragons then settled down and basked in the radiated warmth.
Trav scrambled gratefully into the warmth of the once-cold cave. He hunkered down and stared at the beasts. It had been a month since he had tended them, but they had thrived. Trav reached out and waited for the cat-sized Piddling, identifiable only by facial markings, to waddle over to him and nuzzle his frozen hand.
“You’ve done well for yourselves,” Trav said, picking up the dragon and stroking its head. The dragon snorted and made growly noises. Trav no longer felt softness in the nut-brown scales. Piddling made no move to wiggle free of his grip. The dragon turned its head up, as if begging to have its chin scratched. Trav started to run his fingers along the neck and belly but Piddling snapped, yellow eyes glaring.
“So, you’ve developed a personality,” Trav marveled. He saw Yilg and Grendl sitting near their heated rock, but nowhere did he see Drowsy. He stood and walked around the cave, hunting for the fourth hatchling. He paused when he saw the tiny skeleton at the rear of the cave.
“The winter has been cruel,” he told Piddling. The dragon growled and snorted again, this time snuggling closer to Trav’s chest. The youth jumped when an unexpected spot of heat burned into his coat. Trav rubbed at the charred area Piddling’s fire breathing had sparked. The dragon peered up at him again, and this time Trav at least imagined that he saw affection in its expression. Like a dog marking territory, Piddling marked its with fire.