by E. E. Knight
It wasn’t HeBellereth.
HeBellereth fallen, the Lavadome overrun—and I’m responsible , Wistala thought.
The dwarfs, in open ranks, formed a crescent around Imperial Rock. From the height, they reminded Wistala of ants among the beetles of their war machines.
They’d taken captives. Thralls mostly, but also a few drakes and drakka. They had them bound, carried on poles, heavy axmen to either side.
“Parley!” a great fat dwarf with a booming voice shouted. His beard glowed redly.
Wistala and a few others cautiously looked over the edge of the gardens. Parley, when by appearances they were charging toward victory.
But appearances could be deceiving. Wistala was reminded of her first battle with the Firemaids, when a last, suicidal charge by starving demen had been turned back in the Star Tunnel by a few disciplined dragonelles and drakka. These Wheel of Fire dwarves had a ragged air about them, their shields and helmets were patched and dinged, and hardly a beard among them glowed. Only a dwarf who’d suffered a prolonged period of poverty let his beard go dark, without even sugar-water to keep the lichens they cultivated in their thick beards thriving.
Was this attack also a last, desperate gasp of a dying nation?
“We come only for Wistala, who betrayed our king to his death. Give her to us, and we release the captives!”
That may be, but bearer-dwarfs and slave blighters hammered and notched together war machines just behind the first rank of fighters.
“Give us Wistala!” a chorus of dwarfs called.
“Wistala! Wistala!” they chanted. One of the war machines fired a helmet full of burning coals that exploded when they struck Imperial Rock.
“Do it,” a court dragon named CuRemon urged. “All they want is you. Trade your life for all of ours.”
“You think the dwarfs would stop with me?” Wistala asked.
“We’d only be one dragon less in finding out,” a drakka said.
“Stop that, now,” NoSohoth said. He turned to Wistala. “Don’t listen to them. The Tyr doesn’t negotiate with invaders—unless it’s terms of their surrender.”
The dwarf crescent was spreading. And thinning.
She tried to pick out detail on the dwarfs but only had a vague impression of heavy armor and beards. They moved deliberately, trotting, but they must have been very tired. What faces they could see were thin and haggard.
They’d come a long way, quickly, fighting hard against the current, and then they’d battled their way into the Lavadome. Dwarfs were famously indefatigable, but if she could break up their attack somehow—
“NoSohoth, I’ll lead the demen in an attack on their left. When we engage, have the Drakwatch attack.”
“But that’ll leave no one to defend—” CuRemon sputtered.
“No one? The Imperial Rock is full of dragons, Wyrr, Skotl, and Ankelene. They’ll have to fight for once. Even dead, some of them are so fat they’ll plug up the entrance until the dwarfs drag them out.”
“You hear me,” she told the spectators atop Imperial Rock. “You look like dragons and speak like them. Let’s see you fight like them, for once in your pampered lives!”
They grumbled, but a few made for the passageway down. Odd that they were more outraged at the Queen-Consort upbraiding them than a band of invading dwarves wrecking as they came. Maybe her parents had a point—if the tales about their origins were true. Dragons shouldn’t allow themselves to get too civilized.
Hurrying to the other side of the Lavadome, she spread her wings and—
“Wistala, don’t, it’s too heavy!” NoSohoth shouted.
Remarkably, her wings didn’t fold on her. Of course, she always had been a strong dragon. She glided down toward the Ankelene pyramid. She tried a few experimental beats—she might be able to hold herself up, even in the Tyr’s armor.
The Tyr’s demen legion were arrayed around the Ankelene Pyramid, defending the archives and workshops and healing nooks.
She called on the demen to gather.
“This is the day, demen legion,” Wistala said. “The enemies of your blood stand before you!”
“Yes, the dwarfs, who slaughtered your females and children in battle after battle.” Wistala knew little dwarf/demen history, only that their wars were long and bloody, with entire communities slaughtered in raid and counterraid. Life was as hard as stone in the Lower World.
The demen started up an eerie hissing that wasn’t quite a whistle, and clacked their spines together. On a demen it was hard to tell where limb and carapace ended and armor and weapons began. Wistala thought it sounded like a swarm of insects.
“We fight, we drink blood?” their general asked.
What had started as a victorious drink of blood every now and then had grown into a need terrible and desperate. Wistala wondered how they’d ever sate their appetites after a battle again. The idea was to lose less dragons, not more.
“You can drink from my own veins,” Wistala said. “Form for an attack!”
LaDibar and a few other Ankelenes stood at the top of the stairs leading to their hill. “If you take the Tyr’s legion, who—”
“Arm your thralls and make your own flame,” Wistala ordered. What had happened to dragons over the years in the Lavadome?
“Follow me,” she said, trotting around to the west side of Imperial Rock. Instinctively, she flapped her wings and the next thing she knew she was aloft.
Perhaps a heavier male dragon couldn’t fly with the Tyr’s traditional battle armor on, but she could. Hard flying with the armor—it cut the wind and made it harder to push through the air with the proper lift.
She circled back and the demen cheered.
A knot of dwarf-warriors, coming around to encircle Imperial Rock, saw the oncoming demen. She couldn’t read their expressions, but they were clearly shocked to see demen formed up and ready to fight for the Lavadome.
One of them raised a metallic tube, with smaller vessels and cylinders attached, capped with a bellowslike structure.
Wistala couldn’t identify it and certainly didn’t wish to see its effects. She folded her wings and dropped, spitting fire that fell only a little faster than she did. Her nostrils were well-scorched by her own flame.
The war machine sparked and sputtered as it burned, shooting thin projectiles in all directions.
The dwarfs fell into a defensive line and the demen washed over them like an incoming wave. The first demen in line locked limbs onto the dwarfs’ shields, the second braced himself low to keep the others from being shoved forward or pulled back, and the third ran up and over the backs of the second and first ranks.
The dwarf line disappeared under a carpet of demen as they rushed up and over. The dwarfs fell back.
A dwarf-leader called on his signalman to wave a banner. Wistala swooped down and struck hard with her tail, sending both rolling and craking like a pair of dropped melons.
White sparking streaks surrounded her and Wistala felt a stabbing pain. Her wings were holed in a dozen places. She came to earth in a mushroom field, sending the growths up in a shower of fertilizer.
She’d been struck by nine or ten shafts like heavy crossbow bolts. They stank of sulphur. Luckily none caught her under the throat or in her wing joints. Three pierced her chest armor and ground a claw’s width into her scale. If it weren’t for the Tyr’s armor—
Dwarfs charged from three directions, axes and spears aiming.
Still stunned from her hard landing, she reacted more slowly than she should have. She lashed out, put a wall of flame in front of two. They came through anyway, ignoring the pain of burns, and buried their weapons in her flanks.
She struck back with tooth and claw, smelling blood, sending her opponents into the next life in pieces.
Her vision red, roaring and fighting, she saw the dwarfs setting up a larger war machine, something shaped like two crossbows stacked atop each other.
The war machine disappeared, immolated by twin str
eams of dragon fire.
SiHazathant and Regalia came around in a tight turn, riding each other’s air.
“Now, Firemaids! For Tyr and home-cave!” Regalia cried, leading her brother in for another pass.
Later, Wistala was told that while the demen struck the dwarfs’ right, the Firemaids struck from behind. The remaining dwarfs shifted to support their center, and that’s when the Drakwatch advanced, advancing behind and through their own flame.
Wistala’s perception was correct: the dwarfs were exhausted; the attack was a last desperate gamble to avenge themselves on a dragon who’d humilated them twice. According to dwarfen legend, the Lavadome was beard-deep in gold ingots and stolen jewels, but there’s no accounting for folklore.
AuRon’s son AuMoahk, who was studying remedies and medicines under the Ankelenes, sniffed at her armor and wounds. “We should put some salve on your nostril burns. In the Aerial Host those are called ‘warrings.’ ”
“It wasn’t the fight they were after so much; it was all that dead dragonflesh on the ground,” old Rethothanna said. “Look at ’em go.”
Wistala thought his legion looked like ants stripping the corpse of some small lizard.
The Ankelenes and Rayg took great interest in the detritus of battle. They examined the tree trunklike boats, driven by ingenious underwater wings that revolved and steered by fans that allowed them to come up against the flow of the great underground river.
“HeBellereth still lives!” a white-eyed member of the Drakwatch squeaked.
“Did I win you enough time?” Wistala asked.
He was in ruins. Scale riven in too many places to count, a small lake of his own blood surrounding him. He’d used his wings to shield his throat from ax blows. They were as broken as felled trees and in tatters. He’d no more fly again than Nilrasha would. He’d also lost over half his tail. It lay further down the tunnel like a beheaded snake.
Wistala managed to find a few words to answer. “Yes, you did, great dragon. Your deeds will become legend in the Lavadome and the Upper World.”
“Glorious,” HeBellereth said. “Those dwarfs really put up a fight. I’m ready . . . for a good long nap.”
HeBellereth shook his head. Wistala realized he was trying to raise his neck but was unable. “You’ll need to replace me. My slipwing, BaMelphistran, is a good dragon—assuming some pirate arrow hasn’t killed him, that is. In his place I’d put young FePazathon, he’s a cool head for a Skotl. Oh, and a new messenger I suppose. That young AuMoahk might do. He’s bright as an Ankelene, and eager. He carries Gunfer into battle and they’re fast friends.”
Wistala wondered. AuRon wasn’t overly happy with his family becoming entwined in the tendrils of Lavadome politics. To put one of AuRon’s on the path to leadership of the Aerial Host should make him proud, but . . .
Demen had fallen to their knees and were lapping up blood with eager hoots and whistle calls. Others gathered, drawn like ants to honey. One clacked his jaws and approached HeBellereth’s severed tail.
“You’ll keep away!” Wistala roared at the gathering demen.
They backed away from her fury. Wistala almost spat fire at them—but then her empty firebladder only produced a rather thin, smelly liquid and the effect would be more comical than intimidating.
HeBellereth was a tough old dragon, and incredibly, he didn’t die. But he lay in the tunnel he’d defended with his blood for days with support flowing from two directions, being brought water from the river ring and food from the Lavadome. An honor guard of the Drakwatch stood there at all times, listening to his breathing and licking out his wounds.
When he took his first halting steps to drag himself out of the tunnel Wistala confirmed his orders in the Tyr’s name for the new arrangement in the Aerial Host at a celebratory feast of fresh beef and pickled dwarf hands and feet. He could hardly deny the new position for AuMoahk out of vague suspicion. Apparently the young drake had distinguished himself adventuring on the Sunstruck Sea with his rider, so it would be doubly strange to not recognize achievement.
She watched NoSohoth paint new laudi and messenger insignia on the youngster.
However AuRon might feel about it, Wistala’s brother’s offspring were doing well in the Grand Alliance. Perhaps too well for their own good. Already there were whispers that the Copper was starting his own line to supplant the old and venerable Imperial Line.
AuRon looked forward to an evening with nothing more serious on his mind than deciding whether to have leftover mutton or fresh chicken for his evening meal.
Dairuss sweated under the late spring sun. Sheep were being shorn, rows of crops planted, the winter’s craft goods and woodwork were being hauled to the markets and boat landings for sale or transport, and Hypatian salt was cheaper than at any time in living memory.
Until their white-scaled neighbor decided to drop in. AuRon watched NiVom circle his resort, now with a comfortable wooden outside sleeping area added so he and Natasatch could sun themselves as they napped.
NiVom landed, dancing on sii and saa with impatience.
“AuRon, I’ve just heard some news. There’s been a catastrophic attack on the Lavadome. Dwarfs, I believe. Dozens are dead, especially among the drakes and drakka. Our Tyr has failed us with tragic results, and we must act. Will you fly with me?”
“I’ll fly with you anywhere, NiVom, but if it’s to fight against my brother—I won’t do it.”
“Dearest, we’ve spoken about this,” Natasatch said. “I’ve told Imfamnia we’re with them. You have our support, NiVom, if the other Protectors believe another Tyr could do better.”
AuRon stiffened. How much of this was playacting, how much was real? Well, they’d take their roles. “My mate has her own mind about politics, as you see.”
“Well, AuRon, you’re still welcome to come, either way. I’ve asked some other Protectors to meet in the Lavadome. Perhaps you can talk some sense into Tyr RuGaard.”
“You mean to attend to matters in the Lavadome, or use his sense to relinquish the throne?”
NiVom sniffed the wind. “The fastest way may be to fly straight to the south entrance. I can’t predict what the other Protectors will say, but many have told me privately they believe it’s time for a change. With luck, there’ll be no fighting. Too many Tyrs have fallen in a bloodbath. I’d like this to be different. Spilled blood always leads to bad blood.”
Fine fellow, that NiVom, AuRon thought. According to Imfamnia, he’d been intended to be Tyr at some point, but other, ambitious dragons had fomented a plot against him. Perhaps he should have been Tyr. Why the Spirits put the burden on his brother’s uneven shoulders he never knew.
The choice of mutton or chicken would have to be left with Natasatch.
“Farewell, my love. Do your best for King Naf until I return.”
“I would tell you to be careful, my love, but I know you. You’ll take the safest road again. I hope it leads you back to our door.”
Chapter 16
Wistala had all manner of important news to relay to her brother.
First she had to track him down.
At the Lavadome they told her he’d gone to see Nilrasha in her eyrie. Nilrasha said she’d just missed him; he’d visited for a few days to forget his worries, but then had gone up to see NoFhyriticus in Hypat.
Wearily, Wistala flew north, glad that she enjoyed the exercise of flight.
The Tyr’s banner was flying over NoFhyriticus’s resort in Hypat. At last!
Hypatian workmen were still building it, of course, though in size, if not in height, it now equaled the Directory. All this for one dragon!
It resembled four pyramids joined by long, column-filled walkways wide enough for two dragons. In the center was a vast courtyard, open to the sky, with a feeding pit leading down to the kitchens. Each pyramid housed a sleeping chamber for a dragon or two, and bedchambers and work-rooms for servants. Terraced gardens built from bricks of destroyed structures from the Red Queen’s siege of H
ypat surrounded the resort. The gardens were fed by two vast pools, probably both freshwater, judging from the plants lining the rims.
The lushness of the gardens let her guess where the servants spread the dragon-waste. No need for mushroom and low-light tubers to feed livestock here.
She was greeted by a young drake who served as NoFhyriticus’s assistant. As he bade her inside to Tyr and Protector, thralls announced her presence.
Rich curtains adorned the walls of NoFhyriticus’s resort, polished lamps threw light on scrubbed floors. Pools filled with fragrant flowers added their notes to the heavier dragon smells.
“Ah, my Queen-Consort,” the Copper said. “You’re just in time for dinner.”
“Your resort is coming along splendidly, NoFhyriticus,” Wistala said, trying to find polite words as he showed her around. They could use some of this stone in the north to build watchtowers against the barbarians, or on the proposed wall to cover the Iwensi Gap where the Falngese turned west to flow into the Inland Ocean.
“It serves its purpose,” NoFhyriticus said. His gray skin was painted in elegant Hypatian designs, his claws painted like a Hypatian Directory banner. “The Hypatians always come away impressed. It projects an air of stability and permanence.”
It projects an air of indulgence, Wistala thought. And close-packed humans. How many servants had he picked up over the years?
Thralls, thralls, thralls. Thralls to part curtains, thralls to light and extinguish flames so they traveled on an ever-unrolling carpet of flickering light, and an entire train of thralls each carrying three fat cushions atop their heads, so when they finally sat down and rested they did so with joints, head, and tail protected from contact with harsh flooring by combed sheepskin and thick coconut matting.
“Many mouths to feed,” Wistala remarked.
“What, am I hosting more than my Tyr and Queen-Consort tonight?”
“No, I meant your servants.”
“How do the Hypatians feel about you keeping so many thralls here?” the Copper asked. “You must have the population of a town.”
