Dragon Breeder 3 by Dante King (motivational books for students txt) 📗

Diggens tapped his meaty chest proudly. “I’ve got a ripper of an internal clock, me,” he said.

“That might be all very well and good,” Ashrin said from the back of the short column, “and I’m very happy for you and your internal clock, but we do not stop until the day’s end.”

“Not me,” Diggens said amiably and without rancor. “I always stop at ten-thirty no matter what.”

Through the heads and shoulders that separated us, I could just make out Ashrin’s bemused expression as she watched the gnoll pull out his tobacco pouch and start to roll one of his skinny smokes.

“Okay,” Ashrin said, her cat ears twitching amongst her spiky black hair. “Do you want to tell me why you’re stopping?”

Diggens glanced up from his makings. The gnoll looked confused, as if the dragonmancer had just asked him something plainly obvious.

“Why?” he parroted. “Why? Because it’s bloody smoko, isn’t it?”

He stuck the thin cigarette between his lips, rummaged about in his enormous pack, and extracted a miraculously uncrushed pie. He sniffed it in the same way that a vintner might inhale a promising merlot.

“Ah,” he said, “just the job: bacon and harpy egg.”

After a moment or two of the most nonplussed silence I had ever experienced, Ashrin had started the march up again, telling Diggens that he could catch us up if he was able.

Diggens, with his mouthful of pastry, had pulled a small vial of crushed tomato sauce from his pocket and doused the pie liberally in it. Then he had waved us off and told us that he’d be along momentarily.

And, somehow, the gnoll had caught up with us a few miles down the road. The same thing had happened at three o’clock too, and Diggens had caught us up once more without showing any sign of being out of breath. It was remarkable. I was beginning to think there was far more to the gnolls than met the eye.

It was something I pondered on as we stopped to rest for the day in the cavern.

There was a source of freshwater, in the form of a subterranean pond fed by a mineral spring, in the middle of the chamber. The squads sat near its banks. The flames of the few torches and the fairy-filled lamps rippled and moved in its crystalline waters.

The squads had all fallen into an easy camaraderie. They all talked amongst themselves, and even Ashrin and Jazmyn’s squads mingled with the men and women of the lesser dragonmancer’s coteries. There was even a game of cards starting up amongst some of them, headed by none other than Rupert.

I smiled to myself, wondering how long it would be before the other coterie members discovered that Rupert was the Mystocean equivalent of a Vegas card-counter.

Gazing aimlessly about and enjoying the sensation of not walking, I noticed Diggens Azee sitting some way away on a boulder. The gnoll was looking quite pensive and so I decided to go over and offer him a penny for his thoughts.

As I strolled across the camp, the gnoll delved into his rucksack and pulled out a small can. A switchblade appeared in his hand. He punched the blade into the top of the sealed can, tucked the knife away, and took a swig.

“What’ve you got there, Diggens?” I asked.

“A tinny,” the gnoll grunted.

“A tinny?” I asked.

“Yeah. A tinny. Something I came up with, for when I go walkabout down here looking for my fortune,” Diggens said. “It’s ale, see, but sealed up in this here tin. Keeps the grog fresh and stops your bag stinking like a bartender’s rag when your skin gets punctured by a pick or nail.”

I blinked down at the little green-skinned humanoid.

“Are you telling me you invented beer in a can?” I asked incredulously.

Diggens flicked his can. “Nah, it’s not a can, it’s tinny. ‘Cause it’s made of tin.”

“Where do you make them?” I asked, intrigued.

“In my shed,” Diggens said, taking another sip and sighing appreciatively. “Only when I know I’m going walkabout, you know. Although, I do normally have a batch of two dozen or so hidden in a hole in my yard, so that they keep nice and cool.” He took another appreciative sip.  “Can’t beat a cold tinny, fella.”

I nodded slowly. “You know,” I said. “You could probably make a boatload of scales selling these.”

Diggens waved a skeptical three-fingered hand at me. “Righto, fella,” he said.

“I’m serious,” I said.

“Yeah, Old Sleazy reckons I could be onto something too,” Diggens said. “Reckons if I started tying six of them together and flogging them, I’d become rich as… Well, as someone with a shitload of cash, I guess.” The gnoll burped. “What can I do for you anyway, fella?”

“You just looked a bit pensive,” I said. “I thought you might have something to get off your chest.”

“I don’t know about my chest…” Diggens said, “but I’ll not lie to you; there’s been a sense of disquiet building in me all day.”

The firelight from the campfires flickered on the walls of the chamber. Shadows danced, rising and falling across the roughhewn ceiling.

“A feeling of disquiet?” I asked in a low voice. “What do you mean?”

Diggens beckoned me closer, and I leaned in.

“While the warrens down here have been cleared and made safe for the most part, there’s something still around, know what I mean, fella?” the gnoll said. “Something unseen. Something I can almost taste on this stale mine air. Something I can almost smell. Something that I can almost detect, right on the edge of hearing…”

I found myself subconsciously holding my breath.

“What are you—” I began to say.

Diggens let off a fart of such epic magnitude that I thought the blast brought a little dust down from the ceiling. He ripped long and loud, the sound