Free Dragon Sacrifice (The First Realm Book 3) by Klay Testamark Page A

deck of a knarr , a human trading vessel. Shorter and wider than the longship, it was good for hauling cargo but not so good for carrying passengers, who had to deal with a ship that warped and flexed with every wave.
     
    Cruix looked at my wide, confident stance. “Why must the sea be so vast?” he a snarled. “Why must this tub dance so much? And why does everything smell like beef broth? ”
     
    “That’s probably the self-heating soup. The captain buys it from a capran supplier. They can’t use open flames at sea, so it’s hard to get a hot meal.”
     
    Cruix’s eyes rolled, and then he retched over the side again.
     
    “Try to vomit away from the wind,” I said.
     
    I got him a ginger beer. We stood there while he sipped and stared at the horizon. It was a good idea to stay in one place. It was a small ship and the crew were constantly adjusting the sails and bailing out the hold. There was always someone on bucket duty.
     
    “The boy is Angrod’s, isn’t he?” Cruix asked.
     
    “No one is certain. And the mother would rather not let anyone know.”
     
    He nodded. “They were fighting duels over it, even before I was turned to stone. A son is a precious thing.”
     
    “Was it the same for dragons?”
     
    Cruix drank some more ginger beer and frowned at the horizon. He looked at me. “Can I trust you?”
     
    “Are we not battle brothers? Have we not bled for each other?”
    “In truth, I was the only dragon of my generation. My fledgeling days were desolate days. I had a sister, but she was old when I was born. We do not coddle our young, you know. I was pushed out of the nest as soon as I could hunt.”
     
    “Wasn’t that cruel?”
     
    “It wouldn’t have been a problem when there were more younglings. They’d run around in gangs, or as much as dragons can. We do love our personal space.”
     
    This was how most juveniles learned to talk and to name things. The younger ones were taught by the older ones and the older ones were taught by the adults that tolerated them.
     
    “There is less to learn when you’re a dragon,” Cruix said. “Our instincts serve well in most situations. We like shiny things, but we don’t need civilization. A dragon is perfectly happy with a cave, a hoard, and a hunting ground.”
    The way he described it, dragons were a lot like cats. They certainly slept a lot.
     
    “But if you were the only one of your generation...”
     
    “Loneliness was my singular companion. For years I lived no better than a wyvern.”
    He scowled.
     
    “Dragons live much longer than any of the humanoid races,” Cruix said. “We live ten times longer than elves, who live ten times longer than halflings. But we are less fertile than elves, who are less fertile than halflings. It seems a race becomes less fruitful as its members become longer-lived. The mechanism escapes me.”
     
    I shrugged. It escaped me too.
     
    “The effect, of course, is that elf and dragon populations either remain stable or decline,” he said.
     
    “Losses are not easily replaced, and it is painful to consider increasing one’s numbers. Do you have the same problem in the Northlands?”
     
    “I had noticed that more and more men had taken mistresses from the halfling slaves.”
     
    “If only dragons had that option.”
     
    He had finished his ginger beer. I gripped him firmly in the arm. “You’re not alone, my friend.”
     
    He looked at my hand, then at me. “I’m glad,” he said.
     
    Suddenly, flute music.
     
    One of the crewmen had started playing the flute. Another stood nearby, doing loopy things with his hands and elbows.
     
    “What.” Cruix said.
     
    The flautist looked up. “We are merely providing accompaniment to your touching scene.”
     
    “And what are you doing?” I asked the other sailor.
     
    “Interpretative dance, fool!”
     
    “Don’t you have some bailing to do?” Cruix asked.
     
    “Hah!” the flautist said. “Borghild, this elf is trying