DragonKnight - Donita K. Paul [4]
“Why don’t you go fishing?” he asked.
The dragon stretched his neck over the water.
“Not here!” Bardon jerked his line and jutted his chin out toward the long expanse of shoreline. “Go to the other end of the lake. Sir Dar said the water is quite deep there.”
Greer looked to the north and then over his shoulder at the stunted forest.
“No,” said Bardon. “I don’t need you to stay and help greet the ladies.” He paused to absorb the dragon’s response. “I am not in a foul mood, and I will not catch any fish with you hanging over my shoulder. Go have your dinner and let me catch mine.”
Greer spread his wings and abruptly took off, but not before Bardon heard the rumble in his throat that indicated the dragon was laughing at his rider.
Bardon ducked as a draft from the strong, leathery wings nearly knocked him off his rocky perch. But Greer’s good humor dispersed the last of his rider’s prickly temper. By the time Bardon looked up to see his friend soaring above the mountain lake, a grin had replaced his scowl.
He pulled in his line, reset the bait, and cast his hook into the water. Then he leaned back against the rocky ledge and watched Greer rather than the cork floating in the placid lake below.
The purple dragon circled over the lake. One moment he spiraled in a lazy pattern, the next, he tucked his wings and plummeted into the water. He came out again, stretching his neck skyward, flapping his wings, and leaving a waterfall of droplets cascading from his body. Even across the distance, Bardon felt the satisfaction that pulsed through the dragon as he swallowed his catch.
Bardon’s gaze locked on Greer as the dragon repeated the performance many times. The dragon didn’t feed every day, but when he did, he ate until sated. With the close connection between dragon and rider, Bardon grew more and more content as his friend satisfied his hunger. He leaned against the sun-warmed rock and sighed. Even if he had to eat hardtack tonight instead of fried fish, he would be immeasurably happier here than at the busy Castle Pelacce in the heart of bustling Dormenae.
Bardon wiggled his foot, feeling as if a muscle in his calf had drawn taut. The cramp intensified. He opened his eyes and sat up. Around the circumference of his lower leg, a writher snake had coiled its two-inch-thick, moss green body.
Bardon held his breath. Writher snakes, though small in circumference, had muscles that were strong like cables, teeth like razors, and a reputation for drowning their victims. Bardon wondered how old this writher might be. Legend said they grew five feet longer every year, but never any thicker. This one’s tail still hung beneath the surface of the lake.
With its head lifted, the snake’s pale eyes gazed dispassionately at its victim. A black, forked tongue flickered, tasting the air. Hissing with an odd cadence like the humming of a song, the serpent bobbed its head to and fro.
Bardon eased his hand to his waist, where a leather sheath held his hunting knife. The creature flinched and drew back toward the water, squeezing its victim’s leg and pulling him toward death. The snake paused, flicked its tongue, bobbed its head, and stared at the face of its prey.
Bardon’s fingers inched over the finely braided leather loop that secured the large knife. With no other part of his body moving, he pushed a finger under the catch and freed the blade. He took a slow, steadying breath and tensed for the one attempt he would have to kill the beast. He whipped the blade out in a smooth motion and swung to slice off the snake’s head. The snake dodged the knife and struck at Bardon’s leg. His boot saved him from the serpent’s bite. The tough leather tore, but the teeth did not penetrate.
The snake jerked, tightening its grip, and moved toward the water. As if understanding the threat of the knife, it laid its head along its victim’s inner knee, too close to the rock for Bardon to reach without slicing his own leg.
Flipping onto his stomach, Bardon tried to find something to hang on to, something to