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

were heaped in a stack just under the tunnel entrance. Ren bounded over three, then had to stop. A wall of rock now stood in his way. He could rest his hands on the ledge without stretching, and would normally have scrabbled straight up it and away – but not with a skaler clinging to his chest. At best it might fall. More likely be squashed.
    ‘We climb!’ he said, aware that his words were stiffer than usual. But how did one talk to a baby skaler? He pulled it off his robe. It took several attempts; as one foot cleared, the other reattached.
    Grracck , it skriked, looking frightened and lost.
    No time to worry about that. Ren lifted it onto the ledge, forgetting that from there it could see its mother. He watched it turning circles with its wings outstretched, all the while calling mournfully to her. For a moment, Ren thought it would be kinder to leave it. But even as the idea entered his mind the mother’s voice was in his head again. Galan aug scieth . He pressed his hands to his eyes. What had she done to him?
    Another shuddering movement underfoot reminded him survival was of primary concern. In one push, he scrabbled onto the ledge. The youngster called again, with a little less hope in its gravelly voice. Ren scooped it up and ran, relieved to see the tunnel wasn’t blocked by rubble. He pushed the beast in as far as he could, then dropped to his belly and started to crawl. The skaler, not surprisingly, was frightened by the dark and unsure of what to do.
    ‘Go!’ Ren snapped.
    The youngster wailed and flapped. But after a couple of head butts and a squirt of dung that landed in Ren’s hair, it got the idea and skittered on ahead. Ren spoke to it all the way, but was in the cave before he saw it again. He had a moment of panic when he thought he’d lost it and another when he trod on something soft in the gloom. Horrified, he knelt down and patted the rock. Feathers. Old feathers that crumpled to dust. A beak. A wrinkled leg and claws. He’d stood on a caarker, dried and long dead. Sighing with relief, he pushed the carcase aside but stuffed the foot into his robe. A Kaal hunter wasted nothing. And to string a caarker’s claws around the neck was lucky.
    By now his eyes were seeing shapes in the rock, but the youngster was absent still. ‘Pupp?’ he called, using a name he liked, one his father had given to a mutt they’d once owned. With a rustle of wings the skaler found him. Ren bent down and picked it off his ankle. As he tilted his head, a trail of the wet dung fell from his hair and Ren instinctively wiped a hand through it. Strangely, it didn’t burn too badly, though the smell was just as raw. He supposed that was because the skaler was young, and probably still to eat meat. ‘ Galan aug scieth ,’ he whispered to it. ‘What does this mean?’
    Grracck , it said again, and nibbled his finger.
    Ren pulled his hand clear of the mouth. The teeth, though small, were sharper than grit. To have come this far and be a skaler’s first meal would be a cruel outcome indeed.
    A draught of cold air rolled through the cave, carrying the cry of an adult skaler. The youngster turned its head and gave a mystified skrike. Ren immediately clamped its jaws shut. It took the full wrap of his hand to do it; the little beast was strong for its size. It responded by pinching his chest with its claws. ‘No!’ Ren hissed, pulling it away. He raised it up until their eyes were in line. The pupp’s were glowing with a pale blue tint, making better use of the light than his. He loosened his fingers to allow it some air. A row of holes along its neck made a wheezing sound. Ren pointed to the far end of the cave. ‘They will hurt Ren if they hear you,’ he whispered. What gesture said ‘hurt’ without pain? He opened his mouth and made a quiet ‘agh’. The youngster mimicked him (as best it could). Ren sighed and looked toward the light. That call had raised a fresh round of dread. The skalers must be out like a