“And in truth you might, but had none warned you of the perils of such a journey? This land is counted accursed by many of your kind, boy, and indeed I myself am a portion of that curse, though of late only the lesser portion.” It saw Dumery’s helpless expression and said, “’Tis dangerous, lad! Did no one tell you?”
“No,” Dumery said. He was beginning to accustom himself to the beast’s manner.
“Well, ’tis. Truly, it is. Aside from the presence of myself and my kind, this is the land where warlocks vanish, where ordinary folk may become warlocks, to vanish in their turn. All this, and the more usual hazards of any wilderness, as well.”
“I didn’t know,” Dumery said. It seemed the simplest reply, under the circumstances, and after all, he hadn’t known there were wild dragons, or that the Warlock Stone was real and dangerous, if it really was.
“And did you make this journey unaccompanied, with none to aid you?” the dragon asked. “No father, nor mother, nor sib, nor comrade, to see you safe to your destination?”
“No,” Dumery said. “Just me. My father didn’t approve.”
“Ah,” the dragon said, in a curiously sympathetic tone, “an outcast from the bosom of family, are you? So was I, once, these few centuries past, to a way of thinking. What name do you go by, lad?”
“Dumery,” Dumery said. “Dumery of Shiphaven.”
“A fine name, it seems me, a fine name. No patronymic, then, but merely a residence?”
“I’m the third son,” Dumery said in explanation. He didn’t mention that patronymics were out of fashion in Ethshar.
“Ah. Well, then, Dumery of Shiphaven, I have been known, and know myself as, Aldagon, which is in the speech of the lost ancients ’She Who Is Great Among Dragons,’ or so I was once told. Some have called me Aldagon of Aldagmor, but that strikes me ill, since the land’s named for me.”
“It is?” the boy asked, startled.
“Aye,” the creature said, “Aldagmor means clearly, the Mountains of Aldagon, and the Aldagon so named is myself. I was here ere this land had any name in our common tongue.” Aldagon turned its-or rather, her head slightly and squinted at Dumery. “Me seems we’ve wandered a field in our converse, lad. I was asking whence you came, and why, and we’ve rambled off to names and whatnot whilst I have no sound reply from you.”
Dumery said nothing-not because he was stubborn or reluctant, but only because he didn’t know what to say.
Aldagon let out a long, earth-shaking draconic sigh. “Speak, lad, tell me the tale entire, in whatever words and manner that you choose, but you tell it all. How came you here?”
Dumery hesitated, but then explained, in awkward and stumbling sentences, that he had wanted to see dragons, and that he had seen Kensher Kinner’s son in Ethshar, and had followed him home to the dragon farm. There he had asked for an apprenticeship, had been refused, and had left in despair, only to lose the trail and head south, cross-country, toward Ethshar.
That was the tale as he told it, and Aldagon accepted it. No mention was made of burglaries or witches.
“You sought dragons, you say, and indeed you’ve found a surfeit of them, I’d venture-first came you to that accursed and damnable farm, and now to my nesting, where you find us all.” She flexed a wing slightly to indicate the half-dozen young dragons huddled on the far side of the lair.
Dumery nodded.
“Me seems you have an unusual favoring of fortune, to chance upon so many. In truth, I am not often to be found here; my common dwelling is to the east, beyond the mountains, where I’m little troubled by your kind. I take pleasure in converse with humans, but alas, few care to join me so; the more likely occurrence, should I appear amongst them, is a flurry of spears or spells, flung hither and yon for fear of me.”
Dumery gulped, and ventured, “Well, you do eat people, don’t you?”
“Nay,” she replied, with a shake of her head, “I’ve not tasted man-nor woman, nor child-for these two centuries and more, not since the Great War ended.”
“Oh.” The idea that this creature had been around during the Great War seemed absurd at first, but then Dumery looked at it again. Aldagon was immense, her head alone a good bit bigger than a farmer’s wagon. She had certainly needed a very long time to grow to such a size.
And she was clearly old. Her scales were thick and overlapped each other heavily, while the edges were all worn smooth. Her teeth were huge, but they, too, looked worn.
And if she had really been around back then it made her claim that Aldagmor had been named for her more reasonable, too-Dumery was rather vague on the details, but he thought that Aldagmor, like most of the rest of Sardiron, might have been part of the Northern Empire, so it wouldn’t have had any name that ordinary people could use until after the war was won.
“Were you really around during the War?” he asked.
“Oh, aye, of course,” Aldagon said. “I was born and bred for the war, these four hundred years past. I was hatched on just such a farm as you saw, though not that very one-the Ethsharite forces had not penetrated so far in my time. I was trained from the egg to fight and fly in the service of the Holy Kingdom of Ethshar, against the minions of the Empire, and for a century I burned the towns and camps of the Northerners, slew their sorcerers and the sorcerous beasts sent against me, and devoured whatever Northern soldiery I could find. I took many a blow in that service, and with damnably little in recompense.”
“Really?” Dumery asked.
“Aye, really,” Aldagon said. “Oh, at first I was but a beast, rampaging where my masters sent me, at the behest of a half-trained fool whose hand-signs I had been made to recognize, but when I had at last learned to speak I began to operate more freely, to take orders too complex for a beast, to fetch back what news I could, and my masters sent me ever farther afield in pursuit of sundry military goals. And what did I ever receive for my pains, but shouted commands, scant provision-for they wanted me always hungry, the better to feed on the foe-and the occasional whack on the snout?”
Dumery made a wordless noise of sympathy. Aldagon nodded.
“At last I thought better of it,” she continued. “I betook me across these mountains, and made my home upon their eastern slopes, where I could dine in peace upon the abundant wildlife and the stray Northern patrol that ventured by.”
“And you’ve been there ever since?” Dumery asked.
“That I have, save when the whimsy takes me, and I stray back this way, seeking a taste of beef, or to rescue a handful of my fellows from that foul farm where you were turned away.” Again, Aldagon gestured toward the young dragons.
“Oh,” Dumery said. “They didn’t just escape?”
“Nay, I brought them forth-save that one hatchling, he of the black scales, who I found wandering the mountaintop behind the farm, lost and alone. I know not how he came there.” She made a motion with her neck and shoulders that bore an uncanny resemblance to a shrug.
“Oh,” Dumery admitted, “I think that was my fault.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Aldagon eyed Dumery with interest.
“Speak, child,” she said. “Tell me how you came to send this youngling roaming free.”
Dumery cleared his throat uneasily, stalling for time to think about what he wanted to tell this gigantic beast. Despite its oath, he still feared that if he said the wrong thing he might be roasted, eaten, or both-after all, a fit of temper would only need to last an instant for a dragon as large as this one to kill him.
“First,” he said, “tell me about rescuing the others.”