Dragon Outcast

by E. E. Knight

  “Who were your parents?”

  The Copper wondered if the truth would be a mistake. Something about the friendly stare of Tyr made him tell the truth. “AuRel and Irelia, sir.”

  The dragons looked at each other. “Irelia? That’s no staion-name. AuRel…hmmm, what line?”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “I don’t know, Tyr,” NoSohoth corrected again.

  “I don’t know, Tyr,” the Copper repeated.

  “He’s lying. He’s an outcast; I’ll put my fringe on it,” a hard-edged voice said. A beautiful green dragon joined the others in the garden. She was rather fleshless about the hips, more so than Mother at her hungriest, and had startling violet eyes.

  The dragons and avians dipped their heads at her approach, save for the Tyr, who tickled her under the chin with his tail. The golden drake in the garden bowed especially low.

  “Now, Tighlia, how could you know that?” the Tyr said. “Do you know his parentage?”

  “No. If I had, I’d order them to have such a cripple drowned.”

  “Then do be quiet. I let you have your way with the drakka, don’t I? Let me see to this drake.”

  He looked back at the Copper. “You found your way here through the Lower World? Down a river thick with dwarf trunks and demen boats?”

  “Yes, Tyr.”

  “You’re a drake of singular purpose,” Tyr said. “What did you expect to find here? Safety?”

  The Copper wanted to tell the Tyr all about his dreams of protecting his kind from lying, torturing assassins, but when surrounded by all these great dragons, it seemed a silly hatchling fantasy.

  “Have you had anything to eat this morning, my love?” Tighlia asked.

  “Hot watered fat and a fresh sow’s head.”

  “And your kern?”

  “Haruuummm…”

  Her claws rattled the river-smoothed rocks in the walkway between the door and a garden pool. “I’ll roast your cook. What you need is an elf, not that blighter.”

  “But he can braise an ox so that it melts—”

  “You’d sleep better if you’d just listen. And there’d be less groaning at your eliminations.”

  “Tyr, I must get back to my command,” Yarrick said. “I won’t rest until I see the drake here settled here in the Imperial Resort.”

  “What? A half-starved, bedraggled stray here?” Tighlia said. “The bones of my grandsire will crumble.”

  The Copper wondered at her hostility. Did she know more of his deeds than she would admit? Why would she not tell the truth, if she knew it, as she was so clearly against him?

  “Why, I think that’s a fine idea. We could use some new blood on the Rock.”

  “Quite right, Grandsire,” the golden drake said. He crinkled up the corners of his mouth at the Copper, who started, fearing a bite.

  “Perhaps we could discuss it later, at feast,” NoSohoth said.

  “Delay, delay. You always counsel delay,” the Tyr said. “No, I like the idea. I’ll have him.”

  “CuRassathath over by Wind Tunnel and his mate are barren,” Tighlia said. “He could go and live with them. They’ve a lovely hole.”

  “There was a time when brave deeds merited a place in the Imperial Resort,” the Tyr said. “I’d like to restore the tradition.”

  “You’re always cross and impulsive when you haven’t eaten properly,” Tighlia said.

  “I’ve not been cross in years. Cry settled, for I’ve made a decision. NoSohoth, get it inscribed at once. This lad…Oh, dear, what was that name…?”

  “I’ve no name, Tyr.” His wound throbbed, but he did his best to stand straight, neck up and head alert.

  “I told you. An outcast,” Tighlia said. “And you wanted to settle him in the Black Rock.”

  “Now, lad, take heart. You’re not as forlorn as you’d think; it’s happened several times in my lifetime. Why, I could tell you stories—outcasts tend to be lucky, for a start, and I’ll take a lucky dragon over the quickest tongue or the stoutest scale. You rate a name for your deeds this day, and a good one.” He looked around. “What shall we call him?”

  “Cripple,” Tighlia said. “Half-wit. Both highly appropriate names. Look at that eye and tell me he wasn’t cursed in the egg.”

  “How about MiKalmedes,” the golden drake said. “He was a copper, wasn’t he?”

  “Insolence!” Tighlia spit. “You flakescale. My own grandsire and one of the founding—”

  The golden drake scratched himself behind his griff. Loose skin and bits of scale-edge wafted toward Tighlia.

  “Stop quarreling,” the Tyr said, and the others fell silent in an instant. “He’ll be Rugaard.”

  “Tyr, your own grandsire by the female?” NoSohoth objected.

  “He was wounded at hatching, and he turned out all right. His jaw never grew quite right, of course. Not much in the way of wits, but a fierce fighter, and he gave the demen what-for. I think it suits him. How do you like that name, hatch—er, drake?”

  The Copper’s hearts swelled. Not just a name, but a name from an illustrious line! “Thank you, Tyr.” He wanted nothing more that instant than to devote himself to this great dragon’s will and prove himself worthy of the compliment.

  “Grandsire, lad. Grandsire from now on. You’re the Tyr’s ward now. Be worthy of your new heritage.”

  “Grandsire,” the Copper said. The golden drake was turning up the corners of his mouth at him again.

  “See that he’s given a lair,” the Tyr said. “Not in the nursery, now—a battle-scarred dragon deserves a real chamber of his own. I know—have him join the Drakwatch. Give him a chance to prove himself to you doubters. Attend to it, won’t you, NoSohoth?”

  The female checked a loosened scale on the Tyr’s haunch and shot a look at NoSohoth as he bowed to the Tyr.

  “A fine addition to the family,” the golden drake said, rolling so he came up with flower petals caught in his scales. “We won’t want for entertainment as long as he’s around. I can’t wait to see him limp his way through a court dance.”

  Chapter 12

  NoSohoth led the Copper through what seemed a maze of tunnels, beautifully sculpted, with dragonscale patterns on the rises and drops to help the claws find purchase. The rock inside was shiny and black, with veins of white where it had been left natural, but in many places, like projections and corners, it had been coated with metals or ceramics in intricate designs. The floor wasn’t quite smooth, the better to give dragonclaws places to grip, but it was polished. Splashes of water from drinking trickles looked like blood.

  Turns, drops, and climbs were marked by burning fat-lamps.

  “Don’t you use moss?” the Copper asked.

  “What is this, a mining camp? You’re in the Imperial Resort. Besides, there are other advantages to lamps. Smell.”

  Some kind of substance had been thrown into the mix to give a pleasing, relaxing aroma.

  “What’s that burning, sir?” the Copper asked.

  “You’re a polite hatch—young drake. I haven’t heard ‘sir’ from the Imperial lines in three sets of scale. You’ve never been in the Upper World?”

  “No. I’ve seen shafts of sunlight; that’s all.”

  “The smell’s hardy pine. It has an oil that’s useful in a variety of ways, a solvent for a start. We put it in the fat-lamps. Some mint and rosemary are added to the oil. Eucalyptus is even better, but hard to come by these days. Otherwise the dragon-smell can get thick in here. Drakes get aggressive, and the drakka play up too much, and dragons who should know better get to dueling. We dragons are thralls to none but our noses.”

  The Copper had no idea what “eucalyptus” was, but had more important questions on his mind. “I like the smell of dragons all around. I keep fearing I’ll wake up and be alone again.”

  “I wouldn’t mind a year or two alone, myself. Now, let’s see, plenty of empty space on this level, as it doesn’t have much in the way of egress. Everyone in the Black Roc
k thinks they’re born deserving a gallery with its own trickle.”

  The Copper gave up counting passages and turns by the time they descended a third time.

  “You’ll learn your way around soon enough,” NoSohoth said. “If you get lost, just remember always to go from smaller to larger. That’ll get you to the Central Spiral.”

  “That big downshaft with the columns?”

  “Yes, where we first descended. Just ask a thrall; they all speak Drakine. More or less. They’ll put you right. If they don’t, you’re free to eat them.”

  The passage rose and then fell away to a wider, lower tunnel. There wasn’t so much frill and decor along the passages now. Hominid skulls lined the wall here, grouped in threes and sixes and nines, grinning at him from beneath a coating of bronze or pewter.

  “This is the old Drakwatch level. When I was your age, we had an elvish sorcerer who could make these skulls talk. The stories they told! Plenty of room here; there’s just old NeStirrath and some orphans from the provinces adopted into the Rock. Here, this one’s got its own passage, which is nice. Can’t stand sleeping with air on more than two sides, myself. And room for growth.”

  “How might I learn more about this RuGaard, sir?”

  NoSohoth stopped for a moment, raised his head up, and spit into a wrought cup connected to a larger pot. The flame lit the passage. The skull of a creature with four horns projecting from the temples and two shorter ones out of the jaw decorated the entrance.

  “A young drake should look to his duties.”

  “Isn’t my first duty to learn about the heritage I’m charged with defending?” He was rather proud of that little speech.

  “Hmmm. That eye is deceiving. You have some wit about you.”

  The Copper thought it better not to reply beyond a “Thank you, sir.”

  “Listen to the storytellers, then. If you’ve a taste for the exotic, you could read some of those old scrolls and things the archivists keep. The Anklenes keep their traditions, as undragonish as they are. They live in the Marble Slope, just on the other side of the Gardens.”

  He led the Copper to a climbing wall. “There’s a shelf on top. How do you like it? I hope that’s not too difficult a climb.”

  The rock reflected just enough light for him to see the interior. Though the entrance was cramped, the cave opened up nicely. No air moved, and the dragons’ thickening odor made him nervous. He felt very small among the echoes of their shifting scale.

  “It’s quiet. Is there a trickle?”

  “There’re downspouts with water in the common pool. Let me show you.”

  NoSohoth backed out into the passage, turned, and led him down another length or two to a graveled chamber. Four burning lamps illuminated a pool fed by a spiral of sculpture that reminded him of…of trees, yes, that was what they were.

  His guide loosed a strange, whistling cry. “He must have the drakes out on a circuit.” What the Copper guessed to be a a blighter and a human with one hand were cleaning the gravel with strange implements and a tub of water. They scrubbed harder.

  “Ka! You there. Man!” NoSohoth said.

  The man, a rather hairy and stooped-over specimen, looked at the blighter and came forward. Trembling, he held out his tool, a stick with what looked like straw bundled on it. The straw smelled rotten.

  “Please? Need fix,” the man said, in rather wretched Drakine. He shut his eyes as he spoke.

  “Never mind that,” NoSohoth said. “Thrall, you’ve just been promoted. You’re this dragon’s servant now.”

  The man opened his eyes and bobbed.

  “Do you know the duties of a servant?” NoSohoth asked.

  “Get food. Get water. Get ingot. Clean scale. Clean teeth. Very good, I clean the all,” the man said. At least the gibberish seemed that way to the Copper.

  “What’s your name?” NoSohoth asked.

  “Harf,” the man said.

  “He belongs to you now,” NoSohoth told the Copper. He took a chain out of his ear and hung it around Harf’s neck. A piece of dragonscale edged in bronze hung from it. The man examined it, openmouthed. “And, Harf, do something about those bats, will you? They keep getting in here.”

  Harf let the piece of scale go. “Clean bats. Yes.”

  “Vermin.” NoSohoth snorted. “Good man. Young Rugaard, just obey NeStirrath and no harm will come to you. Understand? My apologies, of course you do. If you need anything, just ask your thrall.”

  “Thank you for Harf, sir.”

  “You’ll get on together, I hope. Try to be forgiving with humans; they’re intelligent enough, but terribly lazy.”

  “Why did you choose him instead of the…the blighter, sir?”

  “You’ve both got a bad limb. Honor and glory, young Rugaard.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  NoSohoth turned and stalked out, sniffing the air around a crevice concealing the bats. The blighter looked at Harf and made a chopping motion at his neck. Harf showed a mouthful of brown teeth and patted his belly.

  “My prince want food?” Harf asked, holding up his neck marker so the Copper could see it.

  “Yes. And be quick.”

  Harf disappeared in the lurching, two-legged run of his kind. The Copper wondered how he didn’t fall over. Humans struck him as half-finished—and the completed half wasn’t much to look at. Badly balanced, thin-skinned, just the odd patch of hair on their heads that seemed to do nothing but get in the way of their eyes, nostrils, ears, and mouths, and they smelled like wet bats. The Air Spirit must have had his mind on other things as he created them.

  After a refreshing sleep he explored his new home caves. The wound over his firebladder wept a little clear fluid, and felt tender but not painful. A projection of rock, like a long limb, reached out from the wall and almost to the pool. It smelled strongly of male dragon.

  A bat flitted past his eye. “The others be frightened, m’lord,” said Uthaned, the active young bat. “They want to know where to go.”

  Harf made a move to swing at the bat with his scrubbing stick, but the Copper gave him a sharp, “No!” He sniffed at Uthaned; the bat smelled exhausted. “That cave with the big horned skull will do for now.”

  “Mamedi is ready to drop, and the three young aren’t used to so much flying. Might we have a taste of generosity?”

  The bats had gotten him here, and food was on the way. “Oh, why not. But let’s go somewhere private. Back to my cave.”

  The bats opened him up front and rear. He did a quick count: only eight left. He couldn’t even remember how many had been with him when he jumped in the Nor’flow, but it was a lot more than eight. Of course, rodents were made for dying.

  “Did y’be seeing those herds of cattle below?” Thernadad said as he sat on Mamedi, keeping her from a trickle of blood leaking from the Copper’s armpit.

  “M’smelling fresh air wafting up from below. We’ve got an entrance near,” Enjor agreed. “Water, too.”

  “Faaaa!” Mamedi said, pushing her bulky mate off and getting a few quick tonguefuls of blood. “Dragon reek so bad in here, m’eyes be watering.”

  “W’be in the happy flapping land,” another bat said.

  “Sharply now,” a deep voice from the outer passage echoed. “Krthonius, what can you say for yourself?”

  Whoever Krthonius was, he didn’t have anything to say right away, so the deep voice bellowed, “Aubalagrave?”

  “Strange smell in the cave, your honor.”

  “That’s more like it,” the deep voice said. “Just because you’re home doesn’t mean you’re safe. Remember that. Many’s the wing-sore dragon who’s lost because he returns to his cave already half-asleep.”

  “There haven’t been assassins in the Lavadome in—” a rather lisping voice said.

  “Thrall revolts. Leadership battles. Cave claim jumping. I’ve seen dragons die in all of them. Any of you lot able to identify the strange smell?”

  “Ummm. Bat?”

  “Yes
.”

  “Here’s a hamcart,” the lisping voice said.

  “Get up to the ceiling and hide yourselves,” the Copper told the bats. With a mixture of burps and flaps, they took off for the deep shadows above.

  The Copper climbed off his shelf and walked out into the light of the passage. He saw a vast, ruby-red twelve-horned dragon. The Red had been maimed, with nothing but a stumplike projection from each side of his spine where his wings should be. Three young drakes, one a dazzling white, the other two blacks, narrowed golden eyes at him.

  “Excuse me, are you NeStirr—”

  “Rough-and-tumble, lads. Here’s our intruder. Give him what-for, but don’t bleed him.”

  The drakes dragon-dashed forward. The attack came so suddenly the Copper’s brain froze, and he could do nothing but hug the floor of the passage before they were on him, each bigger than he.

  The white reached him first. The white had an ugly wound on one side of his face, exposing teeth and gum line. He head-butted the Copper in the snout, then threw himself across the Copper’s neck, pinning his head. The others wedged their noses under his side and flipped him, exposing his belly. They scrabbled at his skin with sheathed sii claws.

  The Copper smelled blood in his nostrils. The larger, heavier drakes squatted atop him; he was as helpless as a lamb in a dragon’s jaws.

  “That’s the style,” NeStirrath roared. “We’ll teach this scat to poke his nose into our home cave. And the Imperial shelf. Bite a toe off, Krthonius. That’ll be a memento.”

  “I was given that cave,” the Copper squealed. He felt a hard squeeze on his left saa.

  “Vent-drippings!” The old dragon snorted.

  “NoSohoth told me!”

  “Your honor, look at the hamcart,” the white drake said. He lisped thanks to his words leaking out of the lipless side of his mouth.

  “I don’t have to look; I can smell it. Oh! Let him up, you fools. Let him up!”

  “He’s in the Imperial Family,” one of the blacks said. The other spit out the Copper’s severed toe.

  “Cry settled! Cry settled!” the deep voice of NeStirrath shouted.

  The pressure vanished, and the Copper rose and saw the black drakes backing away wearily. One had a bit of bloody flesh hanging out of his mouth. The Copper looked down and saw that a toe was missing. Oddly enough, it didn’t really hurt; he just felt a warm, tingling sensation.