The Erth Dragons Book 1: The Wearle by Chris D'Lacey Read Free Book Online Page A

head. Utal yelped. And then he really danced, flapping his arms as if a swarm of buzzers had filled his ears. Foolishly, he picked up a stone.
    His brother whispered, ‘Utal, no…’
    But the fool could not resist. He took aim and hurled the stone. It bounced harmlessly off the skaler’s rump. The beast flicked its tail in anger. Utal gave a triumphant shout and picked up another, larger stone.
    This one would never leave his hand.
    The green beast circled back. It put itself directly in line with Utal and began what appeared to be another slow descent. It was still some distance away and there was time enough for Utal to halt his madness. But Ren had witnessed this manoeuvre as well. He had once seen a beast bear down on a bleater, closing so fast that the hapless animal had died of fright, even before the claws sank into it. He knew exactly what was going to happen.
    ‘GET DOWN!’ he screamed.
    At the same time Oak kicked his whinney in the belly and raced toward his brother. He planned to knock some sense into the oaf or at best take hold of his newly-singed hair and drag him clear of the line. But in an instant the beast was there in front of them, fearfully huge, much closer to the line than anyone (other than Ren) had expected. It had somehow jumped the length of fifty men in the time it would have taken Ren to crush a leaf in the palm of his hand. The whinneys reared. The men yelped in terror. Ren flung himself down as the beast unlatched its blistering jaws and released another surge of flame. The fire travelled in a ball from the back of its throat and burst against Utal’s upright arm, charring it black from the midbone to the hand. Utal rocked like a blade of grass. His eyes glazed, their centres stopped. Then he fell in a slow and steady motion. He sagged to his knees and toppled sideways, falling just the right side of the scorch line.
    The skaler banked away, splattering sizzling dung across the field. One pat landed squarely on Utal, steaming where it glued to the skin of his chest. The men recovered their nerve and dragged him away. Using leaves, they cleaned off what they could of the dung, cursing when it stung their hands. Then they laid Utal over a whinney and quickly took him back to the settlement. One burst of lunacy had bought their best hunter a withered arm and a new name. From then on he was known as Utal Stonehand, because the stone he’d intended to throw was now permanently fused to his clawed black fist.
    And there was worse. By the time the men had laid him out, the stains of the dung had burned into his chest, eating back the flesh in great red welts. A splash had travelled to his eye as well, fusing the lid to the ball in a horrible stew. And no amount of bathing could wash the stench of dung off his body. Poor Utal. He now had a chest that stank, a useless arm and only one eye to see it with. The stench made certain no one visited his shelter without good cause, and not without their face wrapped heavily in cloth. It was a terrible lesson to bear, and Targen the Old was rightfully enraged. Had he not ordered the Kaal to stay clear of the beasts? Was it not better to live in peace beyond the mountains rather than be walking ash among them? The men glumly acknowledged this wisdom, but the incident had rankled their pride and there was much shared talk that night about what might be done to restore their honour. The beasts were mocking them. First they had driven the tribe from the mountains, and now left their best man ruined by dung!
    But while most of the Kaal tribe cussed and wailed, Ren began to look at what else might be learned from this dreadful incident – and a frightening idea came to him. It happened as he watched Oak Longarm burning his brother’s soiled robe. Even in the fire the bad odour still carried, blocking out the cooking smells around the camp. Men and women alike were complaining, covering their noses as they went about their work. It made Ren wonder how the