“Yes, Farkol-dahé,” Translator responded, his voice clear and loud. “The mighty dragon of Air, destined to rule the Realms forever asks, ‘Why should we bring this flap of wriggling flesh back to our magnificent land?’”
Yeah? I thought. Well, you look like a broken umbrella in a dust storm. But then I thought about more than the insult. Was Translator right? Were they planning to take me across the strands to the Realm of Air? I desperately wanted that not to happen.
Farkol addressed the dragon. “Eminence, as I explained before, the copper blood is powerful in this one. Introducing his bloodline into that of the Twenty-Two could only strengthen you.” My tortoiseshell friend relayed his words to the dragon, his rolling cat tones making the language almost attractive.
Another gut-shaking, smoky exclamation from above, which the cat translated. “So slaughter him now, and I will drink his precious blood. My soldiers are in need of fresh meat.” Translator gave me a quick look and whispered, “The dragon’s words, Kras-pa-han, not mine.” That was sweet, but cold terror had come over me so fast, I could barely nod in reply.
“Yes, Eminence,” Farkol explained carefully, “I see your point. But first of all, I’m not sure you could absorb the benefit of the blood that way, though of course you are free to try.”
Not helping!
“But might I also point out he could be a valuable hostage in the event this conflict becomes prolonged.”
The tornados began forming around the dragon, and his smoky wings filled and lifted. Within seconds, the whole camp was swirling with dust and volcanic gas. Everything from racks of weapons to shelves of cooking utensils tumbled over in the wind.
“LLL-AAAAA-SSFFFAAARA-KHALLLOOOO-SOOOAHHH!” screamed the dragon as it lifted into the air.
Over the noise, Translator shouted the translation to Farkol, who was holding his plumed helmet in place with one hand. “Within days, my siblings will arrive. We will slaughter the dragons of Farad’hil, and the wind will sing our victory.” The dragon was still screaming as it flew away, and the tortoiseshell cat cupped his ear to make out the words through the rumble. “And I don’t care about the human. Make him your pet, eat him, copulate with him, he is beneath my notice.”
I had already dropped to the ground, bent forward till I was kissing my kneecaps, both hands covering my head. I was protecting myself from the blowing dust, but I was also a five-year-old, chanting to himself, “I’m not here! You can’t see me! I’m not here.”
Chapter 40: The Five Day War
Day 1
When the Bear Star rose in the redward sky, the apprentices were still awake. The entire human population of Cliffside lay around them in the Citadel’s courtyard, shifting and moaning in uneasy sleep, exposed to the damp night. There weren’t enough of the musty blankets to go around, so the apprentices were huddling together for warmth, whispering stories about Grentz. When a mixed being or a cat soldier approached, someone would chirp like a night frog in warning, and they would fall silent until the danger passed.
“So what did Grentz do with the stolen spice-cakes?” Zent’r asked.
Kriz’mig said, “The answer is obvious, bean sprout.” The boy, clearly baby-looping on her, giggled at the insult. “He ate all twelve of them, one after the other, in the time it took the teacher to walk to the library and back.”
Zent’r had to put both hands over his mouth and bury his face in the blanket so as not to give them away with his snorting laugh. What a gift it was, Davix thought, that the boy could still laugh at this terrible time.
“I remember it well,” Davix said. “His flatulence the rest of the day is the stuff of legend.”
Stakrat stepped out of the dark and joined them, tucking herself against Kriz’mig under her blanket. Davix had been watching her and the other guards closely. He’d observed them meeting stealthily in twos and threes, passing intelligence through the ranks about the cats and the mixed beings. With Stakrat’s arrival, the talk turned from tales of their dead friend to rumours of the war.
“How many cat soldiers are there?” Ragnor asked.
Stakrat looked around again, making sure they were unheard. “Somewhere between twenty and forty. Davix, I’ve been told to ask you what the DragonLaw says about previous attacks from the Realm of Air.”
She didn’t look him in the eye, nor did he seek out hers. Even with all that had happened, her involvement in his arrest was still a wall between them. Would they have the chance to heal this rift before the war destroyed one or both of them?
He cleared his throat. “In the Book of Recitations, there are accounts of a siege which lasted half a cycle, with almost six hundred of the People dying. There is also a much-disputed passage in the Canticle of Infamy about ritual sacrifices which became popular for a time. Some say this section of the DragonLaw is evidence that Air ruled our realm in the time of the spectral dragon, Frazz’laf.”
They finally closed their eyes around seventh bell—the automated bells down in the city were still doing their job, as if nothing had changed. Davix didn’t think he’d get any sleep, but suddenly it was morning, and he was being awakened from thick slumber by the banging of hand drums. In the cold damp of the foggy dawn, the whole human population of Cliffside was prodded into long straight lines for a count. They were allowed to descend into the bunkers in groups of ten to use the lavatories, while the cooks and those seconded to help them served up breakfast.
The mixed beings, under the leadership of Convenor Zishun, divided the humans into work groups. Some were tasked with setting up a proper camp in the Citadel, and some with meals and cleaning. Octonas and quadranas supervised, while the hissing cat soldiers intimidated the humans into obedience. A small group was allowed down into the city to feed the animals in their barns. They were even more heavily guarded.
Grav’nan-dahé and the masters of all the disciplines—with the exception of Tix-etnep-thon-dahé, who was in the healing tent—were ordered to join Zishun across the no-man’s-land. Grav’nan-dahé was assigned a desk just to the left of Zishun’s, while the others were clustered together farther away. The group was guarded by two octonas, while an extra octona with a spear guarded Korda specifically. Soon, all the masters were filling blank notebooks with text, like they were sitting for a commencement exam. Davix, busy with a building crew, was burning with curiosity to know what they were up to.
Day 2
Right after breakfast on the second day, Davix was told to leave his work unit and join Grav’nan-dahé at his desk by the stage. He almost objected. How could he assist the man who had been on the verge of destroying his life? But they were all lackeys to the traitorous mixed beings, so what choice did he have?
Grav’nan-dahé was reading through a delicate book with a cracked leather binding, and greeted Davix with the faintest of nods as the apprentice sat down across from him. The desk was covered in more dusty old books, stacks of paper, ink bottles, and pens.
“Welcome, young apprentice,” Zishun said. “We are glad of your aid. The former masters of Cliffside are compiling documents for the great dragons of Air so they may decide how best to use the resources of the realm when they arrive.” Behind Zishun, Tiqokh kneeled, still as a statue, his head in the shroud, his arms still bound to his side.
Zishun continued. “D’gada-vixtet-thon, your task is to compile a list of prayers and rituals—daily and cyclical—that the People perform. Rather than banning these rituals, we plan to adapt them to suit the worship of our new lords. We hope this will make the transition less traumatic for the People.”
Davix didn’t dare show his contempt to Zishun, but when the quadrana left, he let his frustration out in unaccustomed insolence to his former teacher.
“Prime Magistrate,” he asked with a curl in his voice that already made Grav’nan-dahé’s shoulders stiffen in anticipation. “Should I include the domestic rituals of Fire Revealed? After all, these are part of the daily devotions of much of our population.”
“D�
��gada-vixtet-thon, while your levity might make our situation seem more bearable, you and I must be exemplars to the People. Act with some dignity.”
Davix wanted to throw his pen at him. “Why are we cooperating with these traitors?”
“We have little choice,” Grav’nan-dahé answered without looking up from his work. But then he lowered his head and whispered all but inaudibly, “And Korda told us to…for now.”
Davix fought the urge to spin around in excitement and look at the Defence Master. But as the morning went on, he watched guards coming to speak to her and caught her covertly passing them notes. The sudden surge of hope made it hard to sit still.
After lunch, as the day grew hot and muggy, members of the People began to break down. One by one, people would come to a halt in the middle of their work and sink to the ground, weeping uncontrollably, or just stare into space and pick at their clothing. Krenlin-etnep-bor-dahé, Master of Health and Healing, walked them back to their sleeping area, talking softly to them while his assistants ran for hot, sweet tea.
“What ails these people?” Zishun asked Grav’nan-dahé with curious surprise.
“Humans come into this world like seeds sown on the wind,” Grav’nan-dahé responded. “Their potential is only realized when they find good soil. The DragonLaw is that soil, and in its nurturing embrace, a human grows productive.”
Zishun said, “Book of Comforts, 13th Lesson. What is the point of your quotation, Grav’nan?”
“You have torn the People loose from the soil of the law. Rootless, they wither, starting with the most delicate.”
Zishun grew still as a statue, as quadranas did when thinking through a problem. “Then you must find words to comfort them. We cannot afford any diminution of our workforce.”
Grav’nan-dahé examined his fingernails. “And what words shall I use, when you have banned the DragonLaw?”
Zishun shifted one of the piles of paper on his desk and found a thin notebook with a red leather cover. “Here. These are collected thoughts of Kaaarhh-als-sssssiiii, the greatest philosopher dragon of Air. We have been translating the book for the last quarter cycle. I’m sure you will find something suitable in its pages.” He handed the book to Grav’nan-dahé, who took it distastefully between two fingers, like it was a squirming insect, and passed it to Davix.
“D’gada-vixtet-thon,” he said, “Read through this…mighty tome and find words of comfort for the People.”
Davix suppressed a smile at the Prime Magistrate’s theatrical gesture and opened the book at random. “Blood! Blood and entrails to anoint the general. What satisfaction it is to wash your feet in the gore of the vanquished.” He and Grav’nan-dahé locked eyes and almost laughed. “I will try and find something more appropriate.”
Despite the tension between them, Davix had to admit that amid all the blood and chaos, there was comfort in being again at the old man’s side.
As he thumbed through this book, whose philosophy of conquest was so foreign to him, Davix looked up repeatedly to observe the People. While some were felled by the stress of the attack, others were fuelled, their faces full of anger and resolve, awaiting a moment when they might act. And, too, he saw Korda and Defence of Realm passing whispers and notes, nodding to each other across the courtyard. A growing readiness hung in the air.
Day 3
Something was about to happen. Davix could almost taste it on his tongue as he sat down to begin another day of work on behalf of the dragons of Air. He looked around, but everything seemed calm. Then he caught a little thread of electricity passing through the courtyard in a series of glances from guard to guard, each discreetly putting a hand to their chest before passing on the signal to the next person in the chain. The chain ended with Korda, whose hand strayed longer over her leather breastplate and then closed into a fist.
“Good morning, Tiqokh,” Zishun said just behind him, and Davix turned to watch the octona guards bringing the bound quadrana up from the bunker. At a gesture from the Convenor, the shroud was removed from his head.
Tiqokh squinted at the sky and around the courtyard before turning his attention to Zishun.
The Convenor asked, “Has your time here with your kind brought you around to our way of thinking? We are eager to add your skills to ours for the glory of our new lords.”
“Fortunately, I find myself unchanged.”
Zishun shook his head. “Your time may be running short, my comrade.”
“I cannot be other than what I am.” Hearing this, Davix felt a stab of guilt. Tiqokh was loyal and true, while he and the rest of the People were doing whatever they were told in aid of the Realm of the Air. But something, he reminded himself, was about to happen.
“Convenor!” shouted an octona, arriving in haste. He sounded as distressed as an octona could. “We have completed count, and six humans are missing.”
Davix’s heart began to beat faster. His senses were sharp and alert. Grav’nan-dahé arrived at that moment from his morning trip to the bunker, a dollop of shaving foam behind his left ear.
“Six of the People are missing,” Davix told him, trying hard to keep his voice neutral.
Zishun said, “It is nothing. Resume your work.” Davix lowered his head to his pages, but kept peeking discreetly.
Three of the humans were soon found in bed, apparent victims of the spreading melancholia. Two more were discovered to have taken lavatory breaks without permission. A final one returned to her work crew having wandered, by her own account, in search of a hammer. But these minor mysteries were distractions.
Korda’s insurrection began mere minutes later, as second bell sounded.
The goal was twofold: first, to capture or kill as many cats as possible; second, to take Convenor Zishun prisoner. Korda reasoned that without Zishun, the mixed beings’ rebellion would be thrown into chaos.
The attack’s first wave targeted the mixed beings near the stage. A group of guards and others deputized into service ran at them, shouting and wielding improvised swords and spears. As cats from all across the Citadel surged forward to repel the attack, Korda tipped over the tables where the masters were working and pulled them into this improvised fort for cover. Davix followed suit, knocking over his desk and dragging Grav’nan-dahé down behind it. The last thing Davix saw before they curled themselves into hiding was Korda racing across the courtyard toward one of the corner towers.
The brutal battle of claw and cudgel filled the air with screams and flying blood. The odds of success for the first wave soldiers were practically nil, but their attack was just a feint. Within minutes, the soldiers of the second wave struck. They had used the distraction of the missing people to get into position up on the walls, in two of the corner towers, and behind a stone storehouse near one of the bunker entrances. From these positions, they prepared to fire a coordinated volley of arrows down on the cats clustered together in front of the stage.
From the high window of the redward tower, Korda shouted, “For the dragons of Fire!”
Arrows were striking Davix’s tipped desk with ringing thuds. Even so, he peeked around to watch the battle when he dared. He wished he could join in, but he was a scholar, not a warrior. He had no training and no weapon at his disposal other than a large book of ancient furniture design. Still, he was prepared to hit any cat or mixed being with it should they invade the shelter and threaten him or the Prime Magistrate.
Davix spotted Tiqokh in the middle of the melee, clambering awkwardly to his feet, his arms still bound to his side. Run, Davix thought, but he stood his ground, bending forward, face twisted and straining, as cats and humans fought around him. Suddenly, with a cry louder than the sounds of battle, Tiqokh raised himself up. The ropes holding him snapped, torn apart by the new wings bursting from his back. With a shower of gore, the wet wings spread wide, glistening. Tiqokh grabbed a spear from a fallen human and began battling three cats, killing one with his first strike.
Hope soared in Davix. He began to believe the t
ide would shift and the People would win the day. But it wasn’t meant to be. An octona of Etnep House, a most bookish of mixed beings, climbed onstage. Standing behind a bidahéna who protected him with an enormous shield, the octona pointed out every secret hiding place of the second wave guards. Cats immediately bounded across the courtyard and attacked these positions.
Davix peered over the edge of his shelter and caught Tiqokh’s eyes.
“I am yet too weak, Davix,” he called. “I’m sorry. Don’t give up.” He delivered one final blow to the last cat fighting him and leaped into the air, his new wings carrying him shakily over the walls of the Citadel.
With the second wave soldiers under siege, Korda’s plan collapsed, and the battle was over in minutes. Three members of Defence of Realm were dead, as were four of the deputized volunteers. And then the final humiliation—Korda captured in her command tower by the bidahéna Kror. The great winged creature disappeared inside through an upper window and emerged moments later holding the Defence Master immobile in his mighty arms as he flew to the stage. Zishun, not appearing to be overly distressed by the whole incident, climbed the steps to join Kror.
A wave of nausea washed through Davix as Korda was shackled in irons. Cats in front of the stage hissed and clawed the air in her direction. She ignored them, her face revealing no emotion, but Davix hoped she was furious inside, swearing revenge against the traitorous mixed beings.
Zishun put a hand on Korda’s chin and gazed into her controlled face.
“You probably think I am upset by your revolt, Koras-inby-kir. On the contrary, I believe it proves your bravery and spirit. You, of course, miscalculated. Your battle strategies could easily be predicted by those mixed beings who are familiar with the history of Defence of Realm as recorded in the DragonLaw. In fact, we were expecting this attack as early as yesterday.”
Davix wished she would spit in his face.
The Dubious Gift of Dragon Blood Page 28
