An idea formed in Trav’s cold-numbed brain. Of the dragons, Piddling was the smallest and most amenable to handling. Trav wasted no time stuffing Piddling under his coat. He winced as sharp scales nicked his flesh, but he didn’t want the dragon exposed to the bitter cold outside-it would either kill the hatchling or provoke dangerous blasts of flame.
Darkness had settled over the still fall of snow and the wind had died, leaving behind a glacial temperature. Head down, Trav made his way back to his home, trying not to get turned around in the dark. Everything looked different with a meter of snow covering familiar landmarks. Hours later, his feet turned into numb lumps of frozen flesh, Trav found the cold chimney of his family’s hut.
“In,” called Trav, “let me in.” He knocked on the closed door but got no answer. Again and again he banged, to no avail. Frantic, Trav burrowed down through snow until he reached the latch. The door opened with a suddenness that sent him tumbling into the still, cold interior.
For a ghastly moment, Trav thought both Juliana and his father were dead, but their slow, tortured breaths left faint, feathery trails in the air. Trav went to the iron stove and clanged open its door. He carefully drew Piddling from under his coat. The dragon shivered with the exposure and crouched inside the stove, eyes wide and questioning.
“Here, Piddling, try this,” Trav said, giving the dragon a small amount of the household’s remaining grain. The dragon sniffed at the kernels and turned away. Trav shivered with the cold and remembered dragons did not eat grain.
But what could he feed the carnivorous dragon? No bugs or mice were visible.
There was only one source for the needed meat. Dazedly Trav slumped to the floor and began pulling off his boots. His toes had turned blue from frostbite, too numb for any feeling. He had seen frozen digits on other folk, and these were dead. Trav placed a knife against his smallest toe, closed his eyes and shoved down hard. For a moment, he dared not look-it hardly seemed that anything had happened. Then Trav saw he had severed not one but two of his toes and had never felt the pain.
“Here,” he said, placing his severed toes inside the stove next to Piddling. The dragon sniffed at them, then stared balefully at Trav, as if asking permission. Trav felt a giddiness from shock at what he had done. He waved a hand, hoping Piddling interpreted the gesture properly.
The dragon sniffed some more, then began daintily nibbling, using its rudimentary claws as hands to hold the frozen meal. Trav tried to turn away but watched in rapt horror and fascination as Piddling cleaned his toe-bones of all meat. Then the dragon belched a powerful flame that spread inside the stove. Not content with a single short blast, Piddling kept up the flame until the iron glowed dully. Then the small dragon settled down to eating the second digit Trav had given him.
Retreating a little from the glowing stove, Trav did his best to bind his foot. Then he pulled his father and sister closer to the stove. They stirred, then turned toward the heat. The hut would soon be warm enough, and would stay warm for a time.
Especially after Trav fed Piddling four more frozen toes.
“A great day, it is,” said Merrow Gorman, briskly rubbing his hands together. “It is a truly great day for an engagement.”
“Father, please,” said Juliana, blushing. “Kennick doesn’t want any fuss over our betrothal.”
“I’m telling the entire town!” Merrow, despite his bad leg, almost danced about the small room, now lit with warm spring sun pouring through the door.
Trav stood painfully and hobbled outside. He couldn’t bear the notion he had saved his sister from freezing-Piddling had saved her-just to marry Kennick Strongarm. The small dragon, nourished on occasional bugs and food scraps as well as frozen human flesh, had continued warming the iron stove for a week until the cold broke. Trav had not offered his father and sister any explanation of his heating system, nor had they demanded any. Neither did they seem curious about where Kennick had spent the winter.
Trav had returned Piddling to the small cave, where he had made sure his three remaining dragons were well fed with insects and a small rabbit that might have gone into his own stew pot. Those dragons would be Kennick’s undoing. When they grew larger, Trav would use them to show the paladin’s true colors. Dragonslicer was a fierce, magical blade, but the wielder was weak. Why couldn’t Juliana see that? Why couldn’t his father?
Trav hobbled out of his house into the sun, then paused. From behind the sod hut not twenty meters away, Trav saw a hunched-over figure watching him. The village smith and his family had all perished during the winter, and their house had been taken over by another. For some reason, Trav was startled to recognize the old story spinner, Wyatt.
“You hobble along, Trav,” observed Wyatt. “You will end up like me.” He spat, the gob hissing where it struck the ground. Trav retreated a pace, not wanting to be near the ragpicker. Sometime during the winter, Wyatt’s face had become covered with thick, scaly patches, giving him a repulsive, almost reptilian aspect.
“My feet were frostbitten,” Trav explained tersely, not wanting to engage in conversation with the old man.
“Wait, don’t go.” Wyatt’s voice carried a startling snap of command. “You will be cursed if you continue on your course.”
“Whatever are you saying? Is this another tale? I have no money, so save your breath.”
“No tale, no tale. I, too, know Kennick for the liar he is. I know dragons, and I know Dragonslicer. Oh, how I know that blade!” Wyatt edged closer, his crutch making sucking sounds in the soft ground as he moved. In a conspiratorial whisper, he added: “Dragons will eat more than your flesh. They will steal your soul.”
“What do you know about it?” Trav felt a growing uneasiness. Had Wyatt spied on him?
“I know more than you will ever know-I hope.” Wyatt tried to grab Trav’s shoulder and hold him, but the youth slipped away. Wyatt called after him, “I know! Let me tell you a true tale for once. A dragon ate my leg! It ate my leg, and I killed it with Dragonslicer!”
Trav shook his head and walked as fast as he could to get away from the crazy old man. It was a shame Wyatt would say anything to regain the audience-and coins-stolen from him by Kennick’s tales. In a way, Trav felt betrayed. Old Wyatt was the only one in Slake who also thought Kennick was a fraud. Still, some of the old story-spinner’s words struck a chord in Trav’s conscience.
What he intended to do with the dragons was dangerous, but he did it for a good reason. Trav was sure that if Kennick was faced with a dragon of any size, he would turn and run.
On his maimed feet Trav now needed a long time to make his way to the cave. Along the way he picked up a few choice bugs, special treats for the dragons. He approached the cave with some trepidation, worrying about Wyatt spying on him. He ducked in.
The dim light wasn’t sufficient for him to see at first. Only slowly did his vision adjust. The musky smell of nesting reptiles came to him-and more, something he could not place.
Trav jumped when something hard and sharp rubbed against his leg. He helped and grabbed at the scratched place before seeing that it was Piddling rubbing against him.
“Piddling!” he cried in genuine glee. “You have grown so!” Trav knelt and held the dog-sized dragon’s head in his hands, not moving to stroke or pet as he had once done. “I have a treat for you. And for Grendl and Yilg.” He pulled the pig-bugs from his pocket and held them out.
Trav jerked back when Piddling snapped ferociously, one fang impaling the pig-bug before it hit the floor. The dragon ate noisily, then turned yellow eyes to him begging for more.
“I want you to share,” Trav said, but he gave the hungry dragon another bug. As Piddling ate, Trav hunted for the other dragons. He found one, small and huddled at the rear of the cave. Trav frowned and tried to identify the dragon. It might have been Grendl, but he thought it was Yilg. Of the third dragon, he saw no trace.