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It took him a moment to obtain his bearings and evaluate the air currents, for the stars were strange this far south. Once he knew north from south, he turned his neck for Ghioz.
An hour of flight passed and he idled in an updraft as the dry ground north of the Lavadome’s mountain bled heat into the night sky. He spotted a watering hole shining below and started a slow circle down to see if it was safe to drink.
Motion caught his eye to the north. Two roc-riders, flying hard and a goodly distance apart, straight for the mountain of the Lavadome.
Something about the distance between the two bothered him. All the roc-riders he’d seen flying until now had kept close. These flew to observe as much sky and desert as possible, and still stay in visual communication with each other.
He alighted, trusting to shadow and coloration to conceal him from the fliers’ eyes—hominid and avian.
A pebble-backed desert lizard with two rows of horns running along his back hissed a warning that he was poison to eat. AuRon glared at him—he’d not come hunting lizards.
Then he had a thought.
“See those birds above?” he asked.
“Too big for prey,” the lizard said. “I hunt jumpmice.”
“Do you see such birds often?”
“Wrong color for griffaran,” the lizard said, rolling one eye skyward while the other kept watch on the dragon. “No, not see such birds before. Hawk and carrion-wing dayhunters.”
AuRon wondered what two such hunters of the Red Queen, flying hard for the Lavadome, could be seeking in the night.
Had the Red Queen somehow learned of the hour and place of his departure?
Hardly moving, even to breathe, he let them pass overhead.
When they were thin black lines against the sky again he caught the lizard’s attention.
“Thank you for the information. Is the water nearby wholesome?”
“Best drink in the world,” the lizard said.
“I thank you again. Good luck with the jumpmice.” AuRon raised a saa high and stomped, hard. Tiny rodents bounded away in panic. The lizard scrambled after them with an excited hiss.
AuRon resolved to fly low and slow for the rest of the night, and hide out of the sun.
He had an easier time finding his way back to Naf’s encampment.
He overflew the woods, searching, searching, while wolves howled beneath. The wolves were complaining of men to the northwest devouring all the deer.
Naf’s men must have moved—or perhaps they’d learned not to light campfires where the roc-riders could see.
Or he was too late, and his friends had been destroyed.
As he passed over thickly wooded hills on a blustery afternoon he heard a hunting horn—or so it seemed. He turned, following the sound. A flaming spark streaked up from the trees.
He altered course, saw another streak of flame rise.
He searched the sky, looking for the Queen’s riders.
It was all very well for them to indicate where they were hiding in the forests. He was considerably larger than a flaming signal arrow. For a dragon to land there risked breaking a wing.
He had to settle for a messy, painful landing on top of the green canopy, quickly folding his wings as the limbs gave way . . .
Six kraaaks, a cascade of snick-snaps, and a very loud swoosh-thunk later, he stood on the forest floor, smelling the spring growth and the hearty rotting smell of last year’s leaves breaking into detritus.
He righted himself and shook the twigs out of his griff, hoping he hadn’t landed on anyone.
