LITMIR.BIZ

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it, once, twice, thrice. It was not just for show, though swooping low or turning a slow roll in flight might win shouts of admiration from the Elderlings who peopled the city. It was to notify everyone, dragon and Elderling, of one’s intent to arrive. It gave the small fishing boats notice to get out of the way. For the best way to land at Kelsingra was to come in low over the water and then clap one’s wings tight, extend the neck and plunge beneath the surface of the water. The river cushioned the landing. Once in the water, the dragons did not swim, but waded to the bank, up and out, scaled hides glistening and gleaming. Once out of the water, pleasure awaited. There were always Elderlings waiting to greet the dragons, people whose duty it was to—

      She stumbled as a large rock in the riverbed turned under her foot, and the fragile thread of memory snapped. She groped desperately after it. It had been such a sweet thing, something wonderful to recall, and now it was gone. All around her, the other dragons waded on, huffing and grunting with the effort of moving against the current. Closer to the bank, the water was shallower and slower, but the mud at the bottom made it hard going. She decided the sticky footing was less annoying than the deeper water. She waded past several of the others and then deliberately increased her speed until she had passed every dragon except Mercor and Ranculos.

      The golden dragon was toiling steadfastly along. He was not as big as Kalo and Sestican, but here in the river he seemed longer. Perhaps it was how he strode along, his neck straining, his long tail lifted above the water. ‘Mercor!’ she called to him. She knew he heard her, but he didn’t turn his head or slacken his pace. Scarlet Ranculos was only a pace or two behind him.

      ‘Mercor!’ she called again, and despite how he ignored her, she demanded, ‘What do you remember about the Elderlings greeting us when we reached Kelsingra? I know that we circled the city three times, to let them know that we were arriving—’

      ‘I remember how they would sound trumpets from the city towers when they saw us. Trumpets of silver and horns of brass, to warn the fishing vessels to clear the depths of the river.’ This came not from Mercor, but from Ranculos. The red dragon’s silvery eyes spun with sudden pleasure. ‘That just now came to me, when you spoke of circling the city three times.’

      ‘I remember that!’ Veras surged through the water suddenly, struggling to catch up with them. The gold stippling on her green body, so often obscured by mud and dust, shone now.

      ‘I didn’t,’ Sintara admitted quietly. ‘But I remember landing in the river, and going down into the water until it was dark. The bottom was sandy. And I remember wading out, up onto the bank. There were always some Elderlings waiting for us when we arrived.’

      She halted, hoping someone else would say something. But no one did, and Mercor trudged stoically on.

      ‘I remember that something pleasant came next. Some special welcome …’ She let the thought trail away invitingly. No one spoke. The only sounds were the eternal hiss of the river’s motion, and the splashes of the dragons and their heavy breathing as they moved against it. Another snag, not quite as large as the first, loomed ahead of them. Sintara knew a moment of deep discouragement. She was already tired.

      Suddenly Mercor lifted his head. His nostrils flared and then he halted in mid-stride. He looked all around himself, surveying the wide expanse of river to his right and the dense forest to his left. Then he gave a sudden huff of breath. An abbreviated ruff of toxic quills around his neck stood out, blue-white against the gold of his body.

      ‘What is it?’ Veras demanded. Then she, too, halted and looked around.

      ‘Riverpig,’ Sestican said. ‘I smell riverpig dung.’

      As if by naming them he had summoned them, the creatures suddenly burst from the water. Their hides were grey as the river water, their hair long and straggling as roots. They had been clustered in the lee of the snag, their hairy, rounded backs in the sun, sheltered from the current’s push by the fallen trunk.

      Sintara made no conscious decision. Some other dragon, ancient beyond reckoning, prompted her. Her head shot out on the end of her neck, mouth wide. She’d targeted the largest one she could reach. The riverpig reacted an instant before her teeth sank into him. He tried to dive under the water. Her teeth sank into him and her jaws latched shut, but she had not bitten him as deeply as she’d meant to. A correct bite would have sent her teeth sinking into his vertebrae, paralysing him. Instead, she gripped a layer of fat, thick hide and hair. The heady succulence of fresh, hot blood in her mouth nearly dazed her.

      Then the riverpig in her jaws erupted in a savage struggle for his life.

      All around her, other dragons were similarly engaged. Some still pursued pigs, trumpeting as they darted their heads after the squealing prey. Fast in the water, the round-bellied creatures were less agile in the shallows and up on the foliage-tangled riverbank. Dragons slammed against her as they sought prey of their own, and she was nearly knocked off her feet when three river pigs rammed into her, trying to get past her to deeper water.

      Those events barely registered on her mind. Never before had she gripped live prey in her jaws. Her ancestral memories of hunting were mostly of diving onto cattle or other prey, slamming them to the earth so they were half stunned when she darted her head in for the killing bite. The creature in her jaws was desperate, very alive, and in his home element. He struggled madly so that her head whipped from side to side on the end of her long neck. The weight of his body dragged her head into the water. She instinctively closed her nostrils and lidded her eyes. She braced her front feet in the mucky river bottom and struggled to lift her prey out of the water. For an instant, she succeeded. He dangled from her jaws, squealing wildly, his sharp cloven hooves striking out wildly at her. He waved his head with its diminutive tusks at her, but couldn’t reach her. She caught a breath.

      But she could barely hold him up.

      She should have been stronger. Her neck should have been thick with the developed muscles of a hunting predator, her shoulders heavy. Instead, she thought with disgust, she was as slack-muscled as a grain-fed cow. She should not have any problem with prey of this size. But if she opened her jaws for a better grip, he would break free of her, and while she gripped him as she did, he was battering her with his struggles. She needed to stun him. He pulled her head under the river’s surface and she was not quick enough to close her nostrils. She snorted in water.

      Reflexively, she found the strength to snatch him up out of the water. It was part-accident, part-intent that when her strength failed her, she managed to dash him against the fallen log in the river. For an instant, he hung loose in her grip. When he suddenly began to struggle and squeal again, she slammed him against the snag hard. She braced his momentarily still body against the log, and in the fraction of a second she gained opened her jaws wide and then closed them again. He gave one final spasm and then her kill hung limp from her jaws.

      She’d killed! She’d made her first kill!

      She pinned the meat against the snag with one front foot while she tore into it. She had never tasted anything so delicious. The blood was liquid and warm, the meat flopping fresh. She gulped and tore mouthfuls of guts, and crunched bones. When pieces of the pig dropped into the river, she plunged her head in to retrieve them.

      It was only when every last bit of the animal had been devoured that she became cognizant of the scene around her. Many of the dragons had caught prey. Veras had pursued her pig up onto the bank and killed it there. Two of the smallest dragons had a squealing pig stretched between them, tugging at it until the creature’s body suddenly gave way. Kalo was gulping the last of one pig while he had another pinned under his great clawed foot. That sight sent her looking for more pigs.

      ‘The herd scattered,’ Mercor said quietly. She found the golden dragon cleaning his claws. He licked them and then nibbled a scrap of meat from under one. He had obviously hunted successfully. As she had. The memory rocked her again. She had killed! She, Sintara, had killed her own meat. And eaten it. How could she not have known how important it was to do this? It suddenly changed everything. She looked around at the river and the other dragons. Why was she mindlessly following the others, like a cow in a herd? This was not what dragons did. Dragons didn’t have keepers or depend on

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