Nothing he had yet encountered could have produced that noise. Besides Edger’s people, the indigenous life was small, skittish and, for the most part, silent. Even the handful of birds were near voiceless—
Well, he’d been wrong before. And he had the direction of the racket pegged now. He edged toward the bluff, wormed flat among the yellow flowers and peered down.
Dragons?
Closing his eyes, he called up the memory of Clan Korval's sigil: the full-leafed tree, its faithful winged guardian—Opened his eyes and looked again.
Dragons.
Three of them. All noisy. He winced in protest of this excess of sound and peered closer.
Supper was the point of contention. At least, Val Con supposed that the still lump in the center of the group had been intended as someone’s dinner.
The smaller suddenly moved on the largest, swinging its paw, leading with its teeth. The largest turned a negligent armored shoulder to the attack, swung his own paw across the attacker’s soft throat; used his teeth to thoughtful advantage.
The crunch was quite audible to the man on the bluff, and the littlest dragon slumped and lay still beside its late intended dinner. The largest gathered the disputed item into its jaws and waded off into the bog land, second largest following docilely.
Val Con dropped his chin onto his folded arms. No fire tonight. Perhaps, too, a camp in the rocks instead of the clearing.
Well, at least they don’t breathe fire. I think. No wings. And they aren’t very fast…
But they were right in the middle of his projected route home. Tomorrow was going to be an interesting day.
* * *RAIN WOKE HIM before dawn. Shivering in the warm air, he rose and cleaned up the campsite. He pulled out a bar of concentrate to eat as he walked and left, heading for the flatlands.
Working with his mental map and sense of direction, he plotted a route that would take him in a long loop around the bogs. It would add half to a whole day to his journey, but that was acceptable, if it insured that he did not become a snack for an eighteen-foot dragon.