by E. E. Knight
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 in 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 irresistable 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 regrown 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 Lavadome, 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 Lavadome in company with her brother.
She couldn’t help but see it, as they arrived during a hatchling viewing in the gardens atop the Imperial Rock.
The pr
oud 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 tailvents 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—”
“I don’t think it’s likely I’ll mate anytime soon.”
“In theory—”
“Our hatchlings would be able to produce more hatchlings, so of course we’re still the same species.”
“Perhaps, if Anklemere had lived long enough, the dragon lines would have become truly estranged.”
“Just as well he didn’t. We have problems enough.”
“Oh, the Wyrr and Skotl and Ankelenes cause enough grief. The slight differences just give them that much more reason for faction and clannishness. Like sea-elves and forest-elves and bog-elves, or all the fall-foliage colors of humankind. I imagine dwarfs fight over something, too.”
“Bearded and unbearded females, I’ve heard.”
The shared a chuckle. “But back to your story.”
“Yes, well, the smallest number of refugees from Silverhigh fled to the old winter palace in the north. It’s a region few hominids dare approach. Volcanic activity keeps the vale itself hospitable enough in the winter, but there are only a few months in summer when men may approach it overland, and even then they have to wade across marshes filled with disease-carrying insects. They say you can find bones of every great hominid empire in those bogs—I’ve seen a jeweled chariot of the blighter kingdom of Old Uldam myself, when off exploring. I was born to that little clan of dragons, where we first met.”
She nudged a wayward paving stone back into place. “Yet you are also known in the Lavadome.”
“The dragons made cautious contact—we’d practically died out at the old Winter Palace in the Sadda-Vale. The trolls are a nuisance and have killed their share of drakes and drakka, or the more adventurous had struck off for better hunting. But through NooMoahk, back in his younger days before he became addled and obsessed with that cursed crystal, we learned of the dragons in the Lavadome.
“It became a tradition for at least one drake or drakka to be exchanged. In the middle of the clan wars between the Wyrr and Skotl—at first it was just the two of them, with the Ankelenes ostensibly neutral, the tradition was stopped. It only restarted again after the wars were over and Tyr FeHazathant and his mate calmed things down.
“I was both the first and the last of that old tradition. Scabia sent me because she thought me obstreperous, and the Lavadome would knock some discipline into me. In exchange we received NaStirath, who I believe you met in the Sadda-Vale when you were seeking allies to avenge your family.”
“Yes, though it was a bloodless hunt. NaStirath was quite possibly the silliest dragon I’ve ever known.”
“Somehow the Lavadome managed to spare him, yes. But he did learn to flatter there. Scabia enjoys hearing him prattle about her greatness.”
“So you weren’t originally from the Lavadome.”
“No, but I grew to love it as if I’d been hatched there. It felt like home, more so than anywhere else I’ve lived. Mystery and history and secrets, there’s more worth finding there than I could discover in a lifetime. But it was only home for a while. I went into the Aerial Host more for mnemonic powers than athletic ability or fighting skill or what have you. If you don’t mind listening to me sing my own praises, Wistala, I’m good at finding my way around, even by dead reckoning. I was usually flying scout—this was in the days when the Lavadome was reestablishing upholds that had been lost in the civil wars—and made excellent maps.
“Well, I found myself giving advice to the commander of the Aerial Host, FeHazathan’s clutchwinner AgGriffopse. I’d lay out enemy positions, or find a new route to an objective, a few times I even scared up allies—AgGriffopse would base his battle plans on what I’d discovered and we’d usually win without too much fighting. There’s a rumor in the Lavadome that AgGriffopse and I were enemies from the very start, but that’s not true. He usually sent me back to report his victories, the tradition then was that report running was a mark of high distinction, given only to dragons of sense and ability, because the Tyr would question them and form judgements and give orders based on the reports. I repaid AgGriffopse with my loyalty, always giving him his proper due.
“When he started assisting his father in Tyr duties, I took over the Aerial Host. My name back then—oh, it doesn’t matter. I’m DharSii. I like it better anyway.”
He watched a new stream of molten rock start down the side of the Lavadome, bright and almost yellow in its heat. “My command of the Aerial Host is better remembered now than I thought it at the time. While living it, it seeme
d as though I was making one dreadful error after another. Each victory seemed to cost me dragons, yet when we’d return to the Lavadome we flew around the Imperial Resort to roars of praise. Seems a hundred years ago. Perhaps it was.”
“You don’t look so old.”
“It’s the waters of the Sadda-Vale. I think that’s why the summer palace was up there; they’re filled with minerals dragons need, I believe.”
“I could use a few mouthfuls I think. All this back and forthing and keeping everyone placated—it would tax old Rainfall’s patience.”
“You must tell me more of him, sometime.”
“Finish your story.”
“It’s not a happy ending, I’m afraid. AgGriffopse and I became, I suppose you would say, rivals. The Tyr liked us both a great deal, I believe. His blood called to AgGriffopse, but I’d like to think that part of him considered me as a possible future Tyr. You always want to look back at yourself in the best possible light, but I find myself unable to do that. I believe I was ambitious, perhaps too ambitious.
“The Tyr had a daughter, as well. Enesea. She was silly and headstrong, decent looking enough but a little on the weak side—never flew for exercise, in that she resembles our friend Imfamnia. Not surprising, Enesea being her aunt.
“If ever a dragon courted, so I courted Enesea. I gave her merits she didn’t deserve, though I will admit she always made me laugh. In the right way, through wit, not in the wrong way, through foolishness. She enjoyed mentioning other young dragons as rivals, but I believe in the end she would have had me. Not from affection or real respect based on knowing each other’s strengths. No, it was status. My position in the Aerial Host made some of her friends sigh and hoot and ripple-wing when I was about, and she enjoyed their jealousy to the fullest.
“I was working myself up to sing my lifesong to her—an old-fashioned proposal is best, don’t you agree?”
