Dragon Outcast

by E. E. Knight

  He woke, his face wet. His eye rolled this way and that, but his vision was misty.

  “Give him another,” NeStirrath said.

  Krthonius spit another cheekful of water on him. Thralls were huddled all around, and Harf was counting knocked-out hatchling teeth from hand to hand.

  “Did I cry settled?” the Copper croaked.

  “No, we did,” Nivom said. “You’d gone dark and wouldn’t let go of Aubalagrave’s dragonhood.”

  “Hope his mate can fall sideways on the wedding flight,” Krthonius said.

  Aubalagrave sat with his hindquarters in the coolest part of the pool, his face contorted.

  “Good fight, Rugaard,” Aubalagrave said between quick breaths. “Good fight.”

  The bats had their fill of blood for once, that night. Even Thernadad finally gave up, crawled a length or two away from the Copper, too swollen to fly, and went to sleep. Harf made to swat him with a waste scoop, but the Copper threw a protective sii over the bat.

  The next day he could hardly see. He looked at himself in the polished black rock just beneath the lamp and a frightful, swollen face looked back out of the reflection-world, every scale out of place. He was excused all duties, given an extra ration of meat and ore, and as the other three had bites and bruises enough for a whole sissa of Drakwatch, NeStirrath called for a lesson day.

  To NeStirrath’s considerable vexation, the Tyr decided to pay a visit.

  A pair of broad-shouldered blighter thralls led the way, with dragon-headed incense burners letting out of trails of rich-smelling smoke, equal parts spice and oil. The Copper smelled it a long way off and felt better disposed to the world and his aching body. He managed to climb off his shelf and join the others in the common room by the drinking and bathing pools.

  NoSohoth led the way, and immediately went to NeStirrath’s side and led him in a bow to the Tyr. The Imperial retinue flowed into the common room, and attendant thralls shrank into the corners.

  NeStirrath pointed his charges into a line behind him.

  “Always good to smell drakes again,” the Tyr said. “There’s too much drakka scent about the upper levels. I grow tired of the eternal bloom of females. Drakes and blood…well, what’s this?”

  Behind the Tyr the Copper saw a forest of legs. The sleek young golden drake was there, and another, sort of a reddish-purplish color that reminded the Copper of the radishes the thralls chewed to wash the dragon-smell out of their mouths at the end of a long day.

  “And I thought it was just thralls making stories up, as usual,” the Tyr said. “There was a fine old fight down here, wasn’t there?”

  The golden drake walked the perimeter of the Drakwatch caves, peering into the eyes of the skulls and fighting yawns all the way.

  The Tyr shifted so he could make room for the dragon behind. “You should know what’s going on in your own caves, SiDrakkon. I know you’ve got other titles, but as my mate’s brother you’re also in charge of the Drakwatch.”

  The radish-colored dragon just glowered.

  “Simevolant, stop idling and come have a look at these drakes.”

  “Yes, Grandsire.” Simevolant, the golden drake, approached the line of bruised and bashed drakes. “Impressive specimens. A credit to the Drakwatch. But glory does bring out the ugly, doesn’t it?”

  The Tyr looked sharply at NoSohoth. “I’d like a little more ferocity on the Rock; a dragon should fight with tooth and claw, not tongue. Too much of that. What’s this, old friend? Is that a lump on your jaw? Don’t tell me you were involved in the fracas.” The old dragon chuckled.

  “I was pulling them apart and your young ward there loosened my teeth for my trouble.”

  “Is that…er…” the Tyr said, looking at the Copper.

  “You decided to call him Rugaard, Grandsire,” the bright young Simevolant reminded the Tyr.

  “Rugaard, yes. I’d hardly recognize you. You’re beginning to fill out a little.”

  “It’s the swelling, I think,” Simevolant said. “Most hatchlings are ugly, but they get better proportioned as they age. I do believe you’re getting worse, Rugaard. Someone should take some studies of you for posterity.”

  The Tyr ignored the byplay and tapped radish-colored SiDrakkon with his tail.

  SiDrakkon sniffed all the drakes. “There’s an opening for a messenger in Deep Tunnel. Which drake of these is your fastest?”

  “Krthonius, with the big haunches, there,” NeStirrath said.

  “Good of the Empire, now, think for the good of the Empire,” the Tyr muttered.

  “Why won’t you let me make a decision? It’s my responsibility!” SiDrakkon sputtered.

  “Imperial messengers do a lot more than just memorize reports and run,” Tyr said.

  “I should know. I was one,” SiDrakkon said.

  The Tyr’s jaw tightened; then he relaxed. “And a fine one, too. So you know that sometimes they are asked for an independent opinion of the situation in some distant, tight corner, or even to assume command if there’s been an unexpected death. That requires sound judgment.”

  “Nivom’s very bright, Tyr,” NeStirrath said. “Best memory of the bunch. Aubalagrave is strong and clever in a fight.”

  “Who’s in charge of the Drakwatch?” SiDrakkon roared.

  “Bearers, more oliban there; fire bladders are starting to throb,” Simevolant said.

  The thralls with the smoking dragon heads extracted some milky chips from pouches at their waist and dumped a small handful each into the dangling brazier. The rich, aromatic smell filled the cavern, and one of the blighter thralls sniffled.

  “Honored friend,” the Tyr said to NeStirrath. “Let’s say we were at Three Tunnels again, with the blighters hip-deep all around and battle horns blowing. Which of the three would you want with us? Good of the Empire, mind.”

  “Little Rugaard, there. Kept his teeth dug in, even when he went unconscious. He’s no duelist; he fights as though his neck were on the line.”

  “Does that help, SiDrakkon?” the Tyr asked.

  “Why do you even drag me along if you’re just going to have your way anyway?” SiDrakkon said.

  “The decision is yours.”

  “I’ll have Nivom. A mixed message can lose a battle.”

  Nivom straightened, and his pink eyes shone. The Copper felt his joy and gave a little prrum for him.

  “As I said, the choice is yours,” Tyr said. “I’m sure you’ve made a good one.”

  He turned to the bruised drakes. “Don’t worry, you others; there’ll be for you glory enough in your turn. It’s always the ones that you’d never expect who become legends.”

  Chapter 13

  The Copper remained longer in NeStirrath’s part of the Drakwatch caves than most. Krthonius joined an Upper World sissa who patrolled the plateau on the rocky slopes covering the Lavadome. Aubalagrave served on the river beneath the wings of the griffaran, as part of a new aquatic sissa protecting their nests from raiders.

  Drakes came and went. They usually had only one or two others, and never more than six. Each time a review was held, SiDrakkon or one of the wingless Drakwatch leaders walked up and down in front of the drakes, and each time a drake left. Once, after a bloody battle with a company of elvish mercenaries that resulted in the destruction of a sissa before help from the griffaran could arrive, they took every drake out of the training caves—except for the Copper.

  He practiced leadership of his drakes under NeStirrath’s tutelage. He learned to praise in public and reprimand any first offense in private. He rewarded group efforts with group plea-sures: After particularly successful brawling raids on the ore bins of the Firemaidens, he’d let his drakes have a “sun day” on the water ring. Of course, the same went for punishments. When his drakes woke to find their own ore supply emptied in a stealthy Firemaiden raid in return, a taunting note reminding them that a drakka named Nilrasha had left a noisome present in the washing pool, he gave the Drakwatch thralls a rest day and set
his drakes to work cleaning out the thrall pens, washing and airing bedding. His bats got their fill of bedbugs.

  After the drake who’d fallen asleep on watch fished out the turd with his lips, of course.

  The bats thrived, and grew to know Imperial Rock better than the Copper did, for they flew around the upper levels, hunting insects, or flitted out into the Lavadome in search of tied livestock.

  The adult bats aged quickly, in the manner of rodents. Mamedi dropped eventually. Thernadad grew old, almost blind and deaf, but his appetite, and that of his brother’s, never flagged.

  The trio of young bats—the Copper called them Big Ear, Spike Hair, and Wide Nose for their most prominent features—grew into truly colossal bats, bigger than Thernadad and his brother put together. The Copper suspected they sneaked dragonblood when they could.

  NeStirrath had him apply his energy to the drakes as a sort of assistant, saving the old dragon’s saa wear on the longer hikes and expeditions.

  The Copper made the best of his time, plaguing NeStirrath with questions about the Lavadome, draconic history, even how he came to lose his wings.

  “It was in the civil wars, of course. Dragon family against dragon family, a terrible business. It was an aerial duel. A Skotl-clan dragon named AgMemdius tore into my back. Most dragons would be satisfied with just crippling a wing, but he wanted me to fall to my death. The Tyr himself pulled me out of my fall, and we splashed into a lake together. In the end we reconciled only when the blighters rose.”

  “How did the Tyr come to lead the dragons here?”

  “Strange you should ask that. Rethothanna is creating something she calls a history—it’s like a lifesong, only you sing it about someone else—and she’s on me like a leech. Seems a waste. If you’re so wretched you don’t have any deeds to sing of, better to die trying for a few lines of your own than reciting someone else’s laudi. Anklenes,” he finished with a growl.

  “What does she want from you?”

  “The lines of my lifesong about the war between the Skotl and the Wyrr and the Anklenes. I hardly know her, and here I’m supposed to spew out my lifesong as though she were my poor Esthea? Just seems wrong.”

  NeStirrath always darkened at the mention of his mate. The Copper didn’t know the circumstances, only that she was dead.

  “Tell them to me, your honor. I’ll go over there and deliver it for you, and bring back any questions. I’ve been curious about their hill; I’d be glad of the errand.”

  “Dragons set too much on appearances. Why not? You’re practically a son to me. We’d have been proud to hatch you. You’re a quality drake. I feel much better now, having one I can trust. Among dragons trust is more seldom shared than even gold.”

  The Copper gulped. Usually NeStirrath was finding fault with the sharpness of his saa, or telling him to always poke his head over a ridge’s crestline and examine the other side closely before crossing, lest game be scared away or enemies forewarned, or barking at him to take brief naps when in the field and save real sleep for safe, well-guarded caves.

  “I’m not much for wordplay—that’s an Anklene pastime—but here are the parts:

  When CuTar’s sons in battle met

  One perch but we nine who sought

  Two-score dragons fell to earth.

  In Rednight’s reckoning fought

  Three lines at war for power’s pride

  Black murder just a tool

  AgMemdius struck, my hatchlings died

  A bloody cave I found

  An anguished roar, a wish for death

  I sought my bloodstained foe

  And over Kog’s hill, trading breath

  We perished, each aflame…

  It went on for quite some time, about how the dragons fought to rule the great cave. Meanwhile an alliance of dwarves, demen, and blighter thralls took advantage and struck, attempting to recapture the Lavadome. But a dragon named FeHazathant rallied them, made peace between the lines, and organized the dragons according to their abilities.

  Old RaHurath, unable to fly without first dropping from a height, called on his old friends the griffaran, who helped turn the tide when the dwarves attacked Imperial Rock. FeHazathant himself, hiding a grievous spear wound, flew from point to point, rallying dragons and convincing them to abandon their caves and treasures for a last stand atop Black Rock. A beautiful dragonelle named Tighlia went bravely into the blighter camp, ostensibly to negotiate, but instead sowed discord between the blighter army and their allies, so they quit the battle with cries of “betrayal” when they suffered a reverse. EmLar, a slender, scaled gray born an Anklene thrall and a grandsire of Nivom, was put in charge of the drakes. He had them bury themselves in the gravel of the lower passages. The drakes trapped the demen’s storming column, collapsing a wall that trapped half the demen forces inside the rock, and took turns volleying flame at any others who tried to get in to reinforce them.

  “They died in these chambers. That’s where we got many of these skulls.”

  The Copper repeated back the song. NeStirrath corrected him, and he repeated it back again almost perfectly. The first few lines still intrigued him.

  “You wanted to be Tyr?” he asked.

  “I was young. I wouldn’t take it now if it came with a river of gold. Dragons are always quarreling, and no matter how wisely the Tyr settles matters, both parties grumble and blame his judgment.”

  The Copper had never been in the strange, smooth hill of the Anklenes before. He and the Drakwatch had seen it from every angle on the ground, and once he’d looked down on it from the Imperial Resort on a botanical tour of the gardens, but he’d never walked past the twin statues of robed hominids, one holding a lamp and the other a quill and scroll, and up to its entrance.

  He paused there and let Harf catch up.

  Flat spaces yawned at the base of the statues. According to NeStirrath, there’d once been statues of dragons crouched beneath the figures on their pillars, but the dragons found the arrangement vaguely offensive—hominids towering above dragons? The statues were moved to more illustrious accommodations on the Imperial Resort. Now they looked down on the Anklene hill.

  The base of the Anklene hill—if hill was the right word, for it was too regular to be a natural formation of the cavern and seemed too big for anyone to have constructed it—was exactly square. It sloped away from its base, at first very slowly, but then the angle increased until the four sides met at the peak. Viewed from the entrance, the peak seemed very high and far-off.

  The hill was coated with pink-white stone, lined and divided like good plump meat. The Copper passed under the statues on their columns and approached the entrance, a portal that mimicked the peak shape of the entrance. He saw—and smelled—lights burning within.

  A human hurried toward the entrance, adjusting his thrall-wrap. He had the potbelly of a thrall who wasn’t worked hard enough, or who perhaps filched food. The Copper gave NeStirrath and Rethothanna’s names, and the thrall led him inside.

  The passages were low and wide within, carved out of a more natural-looking brown stone, reinforced in spots with steel or scale-chipped wood. They’d been smoothed and coated with a paste the color of a hatchling’s belly to make the most of the lights. A similar sort of surface covered the floor, only tiny rounded pebbles had been thrown into the mix. Two dragons could just slip past each other, if they adjusted their stance and didn’t lock wings. The place also had that disgusting wet-bat smell of humans.

  The thrall led him on a zigzagging course like a snake’s trail. It seemed there was only one main tunnel in here, winding upward in a series of turns, opening out on galleries and larger rooms that extended to the hillside. Greenish light filled the rooms that didn’t have lamps in use, and the copper recognized baskets dripping with cave moss hanging from the ceilings. There were thralls, naked from the waist up, who did nothing but carry yokes and buckets of filthy-smelling water. They’d hook a ladder to some eyebolts in the ceiling and climb up, end
lessly watering the thriving moss.

  The thrall fell to his knees at a wide gallery. A female stood within, her heavy haunches to him. She examined a series of pieces of matched paper hanging on a line, with writing scrawled on them.

  “Very well. Put the new page nine in,” the dragon told another thrall. This one was elvish, a female with hair like dead cave moss.

  The prostrate thrall glubbed something out into the set pebbles of the hallway pavement, raising dust.

  “Who? I don’t know a Rugaard-nester.” She turned, showing eyes that struck him as bulging and a little oversize, though her nostrils had an elegant upward curve that reminded him a little of Mother.

  “Rugaard. Sent by NeStirrath,” the Copper said. “I have some lines from his lifesong—”

  “You’re too late,” she said, settling down with forelimbs crossed. “That old fool. This is just like him, making difficulty just when I’d given up. My history’s complete. It’s to be presented tonight; the Tyr himself wants to hear it at the Imperial banquet.”

  “We could present the Tyr with a revised edition later,” the elvish thrall said, in remarkably good Drakine. “You’ll recite tonight personally, won’t you? He’d like a few lines about NeStirrath; they are old friends.”

  The dragonelle ignored her. She swung her neck sideways, another unsettling gesture, for it reminded him of a snake, and looked at Harf and shut her nostrils. She returned her wide-eyed stare to the Copper. “What did you say your name was again?”

  “Rugaard.”

  “I’m Rethothanna. Wait, you’re the one who was adopted into the line three years ago?”

  “Yes.” The Copper wasn’t sure if she deserved some sort of honorific or not. He started to recite the poem while it was still fresh in his head.

  She interrupted him after six lines. “Look at your scale. What’s that servant of yours been doing with his time, the one-handed hominid pastime? The banquet’s in three hours!”

  “I’m…I don’t know about a banquet.”