[Age of Fire 05] - Dragon Rule

by E. E. Knight - (ebook by Undead)

  After the usual courtly pleasantries and cheers welcoming him—and a small contingent of the Griffaran Guard and of course Shadowcatch 00 welcomed him to the only Protectorate that could begin to rival Hypatia—NiVom had some thralls pull away a canvas covering to show him a map worthy of the Lavadome map room itself.

  Instead of a map, he’d constructed a model using sand and paint and some sort of adhesive—sugary egg yolks, the Copper suspected. It wasn’t quite up to the standards of the map room in the Lavadome—rescaled to show the extent of the Grand Alliance, and it seemed, if NiVom would have his way, soon needing another improvement—but it showed the topography from the air in impressive detail, with blighter settlements dotting the Bissonian Scarpes like tiny black beetles. In fact, the blighter positions were beetle carapaces, now that he looked closely.

  “Ghioz has long wanted these mountains. They are rich in precious metals and ores.”

  “But this is the heart of the old Blighter Empire,” the Copper said. “Something about the age of wheels and chariots. I don’t remember the history, but wouldn’t they have mined these mountains out long ago?”

  “After a fashion. But the dwarfs have a method of mining using water forced through nozzles. It scrapes away the mountainside like you cleaning your scale of dirt with your tongue. Valleys thought long since cleared of gold have been richly harvested of fresh nuggets, according to the dwarfs.”

  Shadowcatch ground his teeth in impatience behind. The black dragon had no interest in technical talk.

  “I wonder,” the Copper said, after a moment’s thought. “I’ve looked at the map. It’s a vast stretch of mountains, and far from Ghioz. How will you possibly manage it?”

  “As you know, my Tyr, I’ve never been afraid of hard work,” NiVom said.

  “Why a war? Ghioz must be rich in goods it can trade.”

  “We’re still rebuilding after the conquest.”

  “You’ve had years, NiVom. Let me guess. Imfamnia is spending all the tribute on parties, baubles, and gold paint.”

  “No, if you must know, we’ve been working on this.”

  With that he called to his linemen, who ran to their places at drag ropes and hauled off, their taskmasters counting the step.

  There was a groan, the high bowstring twang of lines parting, and the sailcloth covering of the mountain’s face fell away.

  The Copper looked across the valley, into his own reflection. NiVom had chosen their vantage well. He wondered how the people in the city below felt, under the unblinking stare of a monumental dragon.

  You wouldn’t call it lifelike, but it was eerily accurate. Except they’d given him two normal eyes—perhaps modeled off of NiVom. It did look rather like him about the eyes.

  “Of course, it’ll go green eventually,” NiVom said. “Copper only looks this way for a few years, unless the tarnish is removed.”

  “I’ve no words.”

  “A thank-you in artistic tribute, for forgetting old grievances and remembering old friendships. Imfamnia herself corrected the model to better match your appearance.”

  While he was glad of a chance to praise NiVom, he refused to do the same to his mate. She’d be tolerated, nothing more, until she died a natural death. A natural death that couldn’t come a moment too soon for the Copper.

  Just behind the vanguard of scouts, the Copper marked some unusually big soldiers. Ghioz men tended to be small and wiry; these were great hulks.

  “Who are they?”

  “That’s the Grand Guard,” NiVom said. “Five hundred blighters of third generation, raised on dragon-blood. Those are dragon-scale on their shield, too, mine and Imfamnia’s. A project the Red Queen started and I completed. She called them the Queen’s Terrors, but that’s a bit too battlefield-poetry for me.”

  “With whose blood?” the Copper asked, astonished at his own mental calculations.

  “Mine. It was taxing. But blighters thrive on dragon-blood even better than your demen. And they breed more quickly, allowing for culling and development of promising lines.”

  The Copper thought about the grim business of “culling.” Well, there could be no feast without a few bullocks slaughtered.

  The expedition snaked through the landscape, an ever-unfolding pavement of bobbing heads, reminding the Copper of a slow-motion King Gran. The power in its coils was latent until they wrapped around you.

  NiVom appeared to be displaying to his Tyr just how soundly he could manage an expedition into enemy territory. From the air he pointed out prescouted campsites, chosen for defensible ground and access to firewood and water, and rivers where canoes laden with supplies were crawling in procession so that the expedition might always have three days’ worth of food ready for the eating.

  “I doubt even old SiDrakkon could find fault with your preparations and execution,” the Copper said, referring to their perpetually gloomy and irascible commander on the expedition into Bant that they’d served together back in their days of Drakwatch service.

  NiVom bowed at the compliment.

  “But will the blighters give battle?” the Copper asked.

  “I venting-well hope so. All this flying for nothing but a march,” Shadowcatch said. Tchhk tchhk tchhk, added his teeth.

  NiVom ignored the outburst. “They’ll do what blighters always do. Divide. Some will take to the mountain passes, and they can be dealt with later. Some will throw in with us and look for the Ghioz order to set them above their fellows. Some will grudgingly accept our presence and sneak sand into the corn and flower baskets when they can. A few tribes will band together and give us one good fight. Were they all to unite, of course, that might give us difficulty, but blighters never seem to manage that.”

  “The same might be said about dragons,” the Copper said.

  “At other times, of course,” NiVom said.

  “Let’s hope so.”

  There was something about an army on the march, perhaps all the orchestrated chaos, like an improvised song, that set the Copper’s hearts to beating quickly. He had a weakness for this sort of thing, he had to admit. It was so much more invigorating than dull sessions with NoSohoth in the Audience Chamber. Being out under the sky with an army, especially one as disciplined and well-directed as this was wonderful.

  A doubt crept in. This army was well-directed, anyone could see it. Might NiVom be displaying his prowess so that whispers would begin that the Tyr had a rival. There was never any question in the Copper’s mind that NiVom was a brighter dragon than he. The only mark against him was a tendency to fly from difficulty or submit to circumstances. Sometimes a Tyr needed the obstinacy of a cave-caught bear to get results.

  NiVom chose what looked like bad ground for the crossing into Old Uldam. The river ran narrow and swift here, and there were high ridges on either side and thick vegetation and driftwood along both banks. It seemed like good country for archers and spearmen.

  “It looks like we’re about to fight our first skirmish, my Tyr,” NiVom said. “Our scouts are across the river and into the disputed lands. They say there’s a party of blighters sheltering in the woods behind that ridge. I’m sure they see us.”

  “Do you think they mean to contest the crossing?” the Copper asked.

  “We have a footbridge in two pieces. You see it ready there. I can swim out and join them, and we’ll be across in no time under a canopy of shields. They won’t be expecting that. Then the bridge can be expanded with rafts to bring the carts across. The river is narrow enough here for lines from side to side to hold the bridge against the current; that’s why I chose this spot.”

  “Provided you can hold the far bank. Otherwise your bridge may disappear downriver as fast as those leaves.”

  The Copper watched NiVom and his men go through the crossing as though practicing a military evolution. He saw a blighter go loping away from the riverbank carrying what the Copper first mistook for a short, leaf-shaped stabbing sword but turned out to be a fish when he sat the blighter tear it i
n half with his teeth and throw away the tail.

  NiVom sputtered and gasped in the current, but with some difficulty and the aid of his tail joined the two ends of the wooden raft bridge with metal pins extracted from behind his ear. Fleet-footed linesmen secured it on the other side to thick trees and brawny axmen moved driftwood out of the far landing under NiVom’s attentive direction.

  NiVom’s Grand Guard crossed first, interlaced shields layered together like oversized dragon scales held over their helms against a rain of arrows that never came.

  Archers and crossbowmen followed. Artillerists dragged a cart across and set up some kind of war machine that NiVom claimed could hurl clusters of long, dartlike throwing-spears over the top of the ridge.

  The Copper took his word for it. NiVom was a clever engineer.

  “That was the tricky part. We shall be safe, now. Downriver is a landing for the canoes. We’ll move there and be established by nightfall; the rest of the march will be irresistible once the base is secured.”

  Frantic activity on both sides of the river held the Copper’s interest for a little while, but his stomach began to growl. He was just wondering how to properly phrase a request to one of his Griffaran Guard to go and get him a fatty joint from the soup pots, when a bump appeared at the ridge above the crossing.

  The bump resolved itself into the outlines of two dragons, walking to either side of a tall blighter carrying a taller banner on a staff.

  The Copper recognized the banner—the knotwork-and-goat-tracks design of the Grand Alliance. It gave him a turn for a moment: Was this some scouting party returning?

  No, there was no mistaking that gray dragon with the re-grown tail. His brother AuRon. And that near-orange-striped fellow, DharSii. He’d turned up unexpectedly again, like the musked stone in a game of Nose-Hunt.

  What sort of game was his brother playing?

  He forgot his empty stomach, called the Griffaran Guard, and flew to the other side of the river. He alighted just behind NiVom.

  Some blighter elders, a few walking with the aid of sticks or staffs, stood behind the banner of the Grand Alliance. AuRon and the DharSii fellow both bowed.

  AuRon cleared his throat. “On behalf of the Grand Alliance, we’d like to welcome Tyr RuGaard to Old Uldam and the foothills of the Bissonian Scarpes. You should have sent messengers; we weren’t able to prepare a proper reception and a feast worthy of our Tyr.”

  “Here in the borderlands I won’t stand on ceremony. What’s going on here, AuRon?” the Copper asked.

  “You’re looking at the new Protector of Old Uldam,” AuRon said. “The blighters of the Bissonian Scarpes asked to join the Grand Alliance. I accepted, as I think you’ll find them worthy allies—provisionally, of course. King Naf has already spoken in favor of it. It’s up to the Tyr and our friends the Hypatians to further cement the alliance, of course. If you so choose.”

  The Copper spotted AuRon’s daughter, Istach, standing protectively at her father’s exposed flank. Every time he looked at her face, his heart gave a thump, thinking Jizara had somehow returned.

  One of the blighters extended a bundle of wheat and another a piece of honeycomb to him, yammering something in their tongue as the griffaran circled close overhead.

  Well done, AuRon. A terrific joke.

  The whites of NiVom’s eyes showed up against the red at the center, but he kept his griff still. Old habits of the Lava-dome, no doubt.

  “AuRon, you already have an Uphold to manage. As I told NiVom when this expedition set off, it’s too much territory for one dragon to cover. You’d forever be flying. No, we must have someone else.”

  “Perhaps CuRemom. He’s a bright Ankelene,” NiVom said.

  “No, blighters need someone robust and energetic. CuRemom is energetic enough, but only in his workshop. No. AuRon, what do you say to your daughter Istach taking the position?”

  Istach, who seemed to be going out of her way to avoid notice by hanging back behind DharSii, popped her head up like a startled turkey.

  “Me?” she squeaked.

  “My Tyr, we hardly know her.”

  “Her parents do, they’re just a long day’s flight away. They can help her along.”

  “We came all this way for nothing?”

  “It was a splendid exercise,” the Copper said. “Surely a commander as careful as you has a path of retreat selected. I look forward to watching you follow it.

  “I think, as these blighters seem to hold you in some regard, AuRon, that we should pick as a Protector a dragon related to you. Istach it is.”

  “A female Protector?” NiVom asked.

  “Why not? Many a widowed dragon-dame has served in her husband’s stead.”

  “But this dragonelle is barely fledged. Her mind will be on mating and feasting and society. A collection of mud huts is no place for a dragonelle.”

  “I think I should manage,” Istach said, glaring at NiVom. “As you said, my Tyr.”

  “Well done, my new Protector,” the Copper said, laying his tail across hers.

  “I had my first uphold at a young age, Istach,” the Copper said. “It’s a tremendous experience. Govern an uphold well, and you can be trusted with any responsibility.”

  “I wasn’t any older than you when I was leading these blighters,” AuRon said.

  “I must have a dragon I can trust. I can trust you.”

  “But why did you let us go to the trouble of building a bridge?” NiVom asked.

  DharSii smacked his lips. “We thought a celebratory feast was in order. Given that mountain of supplies filling those canoes heading upstream toward your landing and on the other side of the bridge, we thought it would make things easier for all concerned to have a bridge in place to bring them across to our cooking fires.”

  “I’ve not dined on Ghioz smoked army pork in years,” AuRon said. “I’m looking forward to sampling your supply.”

  The Copper stifled a laugh. It was pleasant to see the Gray Rat bite someone else for a change.

  Chapter 10

  Wistala was shocked to see DharSii return to the Lava-dome in company with her brother.

  She couldn’t help but see it, as they arrived during a hatch-ling viewing in the gardens atop the Imperial Rock.

  The proud mother, a Skotl, and her mate, an Ankelene, predicted great things from their hatchlings—a mix of brains and brawn. Some in the Skotl clan had warned the mother against mating outside the Skotl line, but had been encouraged from afar by Nilrasha, who always spoke against division by clan in the Lavadome.

  She left the hatchling viewing as soon as she decently could, bestowing a gift of cattle from the Imperial Herd to help the sharp young appetites along, and hurried over to where her brother and DharSii shared a welcoming drink from a flower-ringed fountain (Rayg had some success recently breeding flowers that blossomed in the muted light of the Lavadome—when he wasn’t working on more important matters).

  “Wistala! My felicities on your new role in your brother’s tyrancy,” DharSii said.

  “It’s only for a time.”

  “How much time? I’ve never heard of a dragon regrowing her wings,” he said.

  “I… I cannot say,” Wistala said. Her brother’s hunt for a likely candidate to become Tyr was a secret Wistala didn’t even dare think about in the solitude of her room. “I am glad to see you allowed to return. Do you visit for long?”

  “Returning wingtip-to-wingtip with Tyr RuGaard helps,” DharSii said. “Though I’ll stay as briefly as possible in some discreet hole near the edge to avoid giving offense to the Imperial Line. The gardens here have changed. They’re much improved from the few ferns and mushrooms and lichen-patterning of my day. Will you show me around? I’m too exhausted to do aught but keep you company for a while.”

  “I’ve always wanted to hear the story of why you’re not welcome in the Lavadome.”

  “Yes, I’m not quite at the status of exile, but I see my share of quickly turned backs and exposed tailv
ents on the rare occasion I do visit. I fear it is a long story.”

  Wistala wanted it to be a long story. She looked forward to forgetting about plots and assassins while she walked with him. “I’ve no objection to hearing it.”

  “I suppose to properly tell the story, I must go back to the dark times after the fall of Silverhigh.

  “Dragons scattered. Some, the very young and the very fit, went as far away from their enemies as they could, into the great east or the islands beyond. They made themselves useful to the men there, and when dragon-hunters on swift Rocs came looking for them, they were hidden deep in temples or palace grottos. The grateful dragons did favors in return for this, so legends grew up about how lucky it was to have a dragon in your house. But they hid apart so long they grew estranged, and with no hatchlings they dwindled and died.

  “The most indolent and lazy of the dragons sought refuge with a young wizard named Anklemere, who promised them the protection of his magic.

  “This is just personal opinion, you must know, but I believe he began to breed dragons. The Wyrr were bred for hardiness and health, meant to travel long distances in carrying messages, and have a mild temperment so that they would not cause trouble. The Ankelenes were selected for their brains. I’m not sure what Anklemere had in mind for them. Of course the Skotl were bred for size and fighting strength.”

  “So they’re different dragons from what we were before Anklemere?” Wistala asked.

  “You have a scientific mind. How can you determine speciation? For example, with horses.”

  “Mating is the easiest rule of claw. If, for example, a horse and a donkey mate, they produce a sterile mule. Other animals, when mixed, can’t produce offspring at all, for example a dog and a cat.”

  “However, if you mate with an Ankelene—”