Bareback on a dragon was not the most comfortable way to travel, Wiz discovered. At least not when you were riding a monster like Wurm. Unlike the cavalry mounts, Wurm was so large that a human could not straddle his neck comfortably. Trying to sit astride was like doing the splits. By extending his legs forward along the dragon’s neck Wiz could bring them comfortably close together, but that left him supporting most of their weight with his stomach muscles. Eventually he settled for a jockey-style seat with his legs drawn up as if his feet were in very short stirrups. If he shifted position frequently his muscles didn’t protest too badly.
To keep his mind off his muscles-and his predicament-he studied the scenery passing beneath them. As nearly as he could estimate from the size of the fields below they were about as high as an airliner flies. But airliners are heated and pressurized and there was no sign of either on Wurm’s neck. Still, legs and back aside, Wiz was as comfortable-well, as physically comfortable-as he had been back in the courtyard of the Wizard’s Keep. Wiz spent a few minutes considering the implications of that for this world’s physics and then finally dismissed it as magic.
After an hour or more Wiz began to fidget, and not just from the cramps.
They were passing beyond the lands of man and well into the Wild Wood.
“How much further is it?” he asked.
“Far enough,” his host/mount replied.
“I mean when will we get there?”
“When we arrive.” The dragon sounded amused. “You mortals, always so fastened on time and distance.”
“I thought dragons were mortal too. I mean you die don’t you?”
“Even the ever-living can die, Wizard, as you know. Mortal implies a finite life-span.”
“Well, don’t dragons grow old and die?”
“Grow old, yes. But I have never heard of a dragon dying naturally.”
That had several implications and Wiz wasn’t sure he liked any of them.
“How old are you?”
“I do not know. Even if I had remembered to count the seasons, we do not become self-aware until we are nearly full grown. Ask the little one in the courtyard how old he is and see what you get for an answer.”
“The little one . . . oh, you mean the young dragon.”
Again the amusement in Wurm’s “voice.” “There was no one else in the courtyard as I recall.”
“That’s the pet, uh, playmate of a friend’s kid. He calls him Fluffy for some reason.”
“That is because he is,” Wurm said in Wiz’s head.
“Fluffy?”
“Of course. Can you not sense it?”
Wiz wasn’t sure whether the dragon was joking or not and considering the circumstances he didn’t want to find out.
“In any event,” Wurm went on, “the experience will probably help him. Your kind is spreading everywhere and knowing humans well will serve him even better than it has served me.”
“You were a cavalry mount, weren’t you?” Wiz asked with a sudden burst of insight.
“I was.”
“I thought you said you didn’t remember before you became intelligent.”
“I said we could not count. Just because we are not intelligent does not mean we do not remember.”
Wiz wondered if dragons bore grudges.
“In probability it helped me,” Wurm said, so quickly Wiz’s next wonder was if dragons could read minds. “Most of my kind die before they attain reason. A few score years fed and cared for undoubtedly bettered my odds.”
“But don’t your parents take care of you?”
“We are able to care for ourselves from the moment we hatch,” the dragon said. “Our mother is long gone before our birth.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why? It is the way of dragonkind since time began. We avoid the entanglements of those who are born in groups of their kind and it ensures we will be strong and clever-those who survive.”
Wurm didn’t say it but the subtext was clear: This was one strong, clever dragon.
They flew a while more in silence.
“Wurm? When you were in the cavalry whose side were you on? I mean who . .
.”
“Does it matter, Wizard?” There was a trace of irritation in the dragon’s thought. “It was long ago, it happened and it is done. That is enough.”