by E. E. Knight
HeBellereth had the sense to empty his fire bladder in one long pass over the city and returned, setting the blighters to work fastening shut the holes in his wings with bits of leather and wooden pegs.
“They’re ready for dragons, all right,” HeBellereth said, wincing as a bone needle passed through his wing skin.
SiDrakkon alighted and the blighters ran from his growlings. He knocked over a tree with his tail and tore apart a meat-smoking hut.
“With four more dragons I could have done it,” he raged. “Three to go in and draw fire, and the rest to attack the war machines before they could be reloaded. Only four more!”
Nivom had a few words with HeBellereth and approached SiDrakkon. “Your honor, we can still try the rocks. HeBellereth is willing, and he wasn’t injured.”
“I should think not, the way he dropped his flame and flapped away. Yes. Send him back over there. I’d like to see that.”
Nivom set the blighters to work at the rock pile. There was a good deal of cheering and horn blowing from the other side of the river, and the men ventured from their gates to swarm over the corpses of the young dragons like hungry ants on a bit of dropped fruit.
HeBellereth waddled over to the steepest part of the hill, and the blighters, who’d rolled a more or less round boulder into position at the edge of the cliff, jostled for positions to watch.
“No. He’ll never get off the ground with that. It’s too big,” SiDrakkon said.
HeBellereth clutched the boulder against his chest, wrapping his front limbs about it, spread his wings, and launched himself off the cliff.
SiDrakkon, who hadn’t seen the stunt, stood with mouth agape as HeBellereth picked up speed down the steep hill. Then he leveled off, shooting down the river.
“He’s going downstream,” SiDrakkon said.
“Just watch, your honor,” Nivom said. “He just needs a long, straight run. We’re going to try for that ramp leading up to the main gate.”
HeBellereth shrank to a hard-to-see shadow against the night sky, banked, then rose a little using his momentum, and for a moment the Copper could see him framed against the low-hanging moon.
The dragon adjusted his course, rose with a few strong flaps, and then extended his wings as wide as he could and began a long glide toward the city.
“His idea, the glide,” Nivom said. “Oh, I can’t wait until I get my wings, can you, Rugaard?”
The Copper didn’t say anything. There was a chance, he supposed, that his wings would come in properly. The injury from that foul human seemed so long ago now.
Then HeBellereth was over the ground. Several arrow-flights away from the city walls, he released his boulder and soared off across the river, skimming the surface low enough that his wing tips broke the surface as they beat.
His stone bounced twice up the causeway. The first time its trajectory was almost flat; the second it must have caught on some projection, because it flew almost straight up. It struck hard just over the gate.
“Well, that didn’t seem to do much.”
“The angle was wrong,” Nivom said, sounding a little doubtful. “It took a bad bounce.”
HeBellereth came up and rested for a few minutes. Nivom helped the blighters select another stone and roll it into position.
“You’re wasting your time, I think. But if it amuses you…”
“Not an arrow struck home,” HeBellereth said. “Attacking a town is hatchling play if you can keep your scale to the wretches.”
“I found a rounder one,” Nivom said, returning with the blighters rolling the stone to the edge of the bluff. “If only we had some dwarvish stonecutters. Rounded stones would fly truer.”
HeBellereth repeated his performance, falling, then turning downstream and banking once again for the drop. Nivom held his breath as the stone was loosed. The Copper noticed Fourfang and Rhea crouching in the underbrush, clear of SiDrakkon’s eye, watching as well.
This time the boulder stayed low as it bounced. It hit the tower next to the gate, and they heard a series of shouts and crashes from the buildings in town.
“Did it! Did it!” Nivom said. “It punched straight through; did you hear?”
SiDrakkon resettled his wings. “So you made a peephole in the wall. Much good it does us.”
“Let me take that big, diamond-shaped one,” HeBellereth said, panting a little. “Just let me rest for a moment. They’re shooting at me as I pass the wall, not as I approach. I think I can release it closer.”
“If you think you can do it,” Nivom said.
This boulder was a little larger than the others, and the watchers heard tree limbs snap as HeBellereth passed over them. On this flight, rather than releasing it low over the causeway, he altered his wings so he rose, and released the boulder on the upswing. HeBellereth executed an elegant turn, keeping his belly away from the city walls.
The boulder transcribed a short arc and struck the wall with a crack the Copper felt all the way across the river. The gate tower shuddered, then toppled backward with a long, groaning crash, sending up a cloud of dust.
“I’ll be gutted,” SiDrakkon said.
The gate crumbled next; then a piece of wall where the tower had been attached fell away. A huge, crescent-shaped gap opened up.
The Copper roused Fourfang with a poke of his tail and sent the blighter to give a message to the king.
HeBellereth returned, a big chunk of his wing flapping as he landed. “Stitchers!” he roared. “They punched a hole in me with a rock of their own,” he said as the blighters went to work.
“You’ve done enough for now. Rest,” Nivom said.
“I’m getting the wind under me now,” HeBellereth said. “I’ll bring down another section of wall before you can recite Ryu-Var’s Tally of Drakine Virtues—if I can get this wing fixed.”
“Can you teach me how to do this, Nivom?” SiDrakkon asked.
“It takes practice. Some days of work,” HeBellereth said.
“The cheering and horn blowing have stopped over there, I notice,” the Copper said.
HeBellereth put in a long night, making two-score or more runs. Some simply missed, or the boulder bounced wrong, or it did no apparent damage. But by the time dawn came up the town looked very different. The smooth stone wall had been opened in three wide sections, the entire gate area lay in ruins, and the southernmost tower had collapsed, leaving a whole quarter of the city undefended.
The humans were frantically arranging the rubble to form an improvised wall.
But the real blow to the Ghi men came at dawn. The sun came up to reveal the king’s army camped south of the city, the hillsides thick with squatting blighters that made them look like vast melon fields. The tribes howled and clashed their spears against their leather shields, setting up a steady, doom-laden thrumming that echoed from bluff to bluff in the river valley. The Copper wondered if any human in those closely packed streets counted on still drawing breath by the next sunset.
Rhea stood and watched through the night, trembling and crying, and refused any food or comfort.
In the end, the king sent forth a messenger once again, announcing his presence and leaving it to the Ghi men to decide. They met on a hilltop thick with fuzzy fruit the blighters called “sweetdrops,” and the Peace of the Sweetdrop was announced.
The Copper, though cynical about such arrangements, had to admit that the terms were very advantageous to Bant. NiThonius himself advised the king on the whys and wherefores.
No Ghi man would come south of the Black River without seeking the king’s permission.
The Ghi men would keep their mines and saltworks, but pay over the worth of one burden out of ten extracted from Bant in the form of coin, goods, or thralls. Value of goods or thralls would be determined by the king’s representatives at the mines. New mines and works would be opened only with Bant’s permission.
As a sop to the Ghi men, the Black River would be considered open to commercial traffic to the sea, and tra
ding posts would be kept, along with sufficient garrisons to defend them from bandits.
The Copper wasn’t sure that there could be a permanent peace with hominids—either abject submission into thralldom or the peace of a corpse was the only practical alternative—but even the historian Rethothanna chuckled when he said so on his return to the Lavadome. Though she knew the evidence flanking his arguments better than any, she said, “We must make do with fortune when it favors us.”
The mighty—and now newly victorious, thanks to the events in Bant—Tyr heard the report in the shadowy gardens of the Imperial Resort atop Black Rock, with accompanying songs and stories of the returned Drakwatch, the lone Firemaiden Nilrasha (whom the blighters, even in the Lower World, forever after called Ora), and his mate-brother.
The march back had been one of the most pleasant experiences of the Copper’s life. The blighters sacrificed bullocks to the dragons all along the way, and held bonfires in their honor, where the tribal youths and maidens danced until they dropped in exhaustion. The king’s praise-singers wore out even their iron throats describing the victory, and the Firemaids at the entrance to the lower world bowed at head and tail as their contingent passed.
Even SiDrakkon was in a good mood for once. He let Rhea, easily the most comely of all the thralls in their party, ride on a strapped-down cushion at the high ridge of his back and wave at the garland-throwing crowds.
Though the Copper asked several dragons, none could tell him anything about his strange failure of flame. He could bring up tiny wads from his fire bladder, which when spit would flare after a moment. As an experiment he brought up every drop he could squeeze out. It just splattered and gave off a sulfurous, oily smell.
He finally realized he had one more crippling injury to add to the others. At least this one wasn’t visible. No dragonelle would flutter her eyes in amusement.
Even wise old NeStirrath could only guess that it had something to do with the injury to his fire bladder, from the fight with the demen over the griffaran eggs. NeStirrath had a thrall touch a torch to his spew, and it burned brightly enough, but wouldn’t ignite on its own if he brought it up in any quantity.
To celebrate the victory in Bant, the Tyr commanded a garden-filling banquet, inviting not only the dragons of the Imperial line but the chief dragons of the other hills of the Lavadome.
The Copper made no effort to color his scale; he just had Rhea make it as clean and even as possible. She tried covering his bad eye with a bit of red silk she’d taken off one of the Ghi-men bodies, but the result made him look like he was flaunting an injury, so he told her to keep it.
This banquet was more splendid than the last. The great dragons brought their own thralls to help attend them, and offered up whole bullocks and hogs and bone-crusted river fish as long as a drake and wine aged in artisan glass to the Tyr to add to the gorging and merriment.
The Copper kept to the edges of the banquet this time, in no mood for gorging himself as Simevolant made jokes about the walls of a Ghi-men city being brought down by HeBellereth’s tailventings rather than stones.
Fools! Just because they happen to be safe and well fed now, that does not mean things will always be so comfortable. The bones of four dragons are being nibbled at by those tasty fish of the Black River, and all they can do is laugh over jokes about bodily functions.
He passed the time with Rethothanna. She questioned him closely about conditions in Bant, and especially about the weight and composition of the stones.
“They were reddish, some sparkle to them. I can’t say more,” he answered. “The Ghi men made use of them in building their walls, homes, and the ford, by the look of it. There were cuts in the hillsides to extract it.”
“Iron balls would be better. I’ve heard of the dwarves using them in warfare against dragons. They attach them to harpoons and then bring the dragons down with their weight.”
NoSohoth approached and gave the briefest of bows to Rethothanna. “Famed historian, beloved of the Tyr for her wisdom. May I tear Rugaard from you for a moment? A small question has come up regarding events in Bant.”
Rethothanna bowed deeply, not so much to NoSohoth but to the command of the Tyr. “Off you go then, Rugaard. Though personally I’d rather be dropped into a dueling pit.”
The Copper approached the great dragons, perched on benches above the banquet pit, braziers all around burning oliban. The Tyr and his mate, with SiDrakkon on one side and Nivom on his other, clustered about with the three granddaughters of the Tyr. The Copper limped up and made a greeting bow.
The Tyr looked from one wingside to the other. “Ahh, er, Rugaard, we’ve run into something of a question that I was hoping you’d help us with.”
“Of course, Tyr.”
“I won’t have lies spread about my brother, whatever the source,” Tighlia said. “This half-wit can’t tell vermin from griffaran.”
The Copper felt a quick flush. How good it would be to attend a banquet like this with Zara. Her eyes would burn like the sun, as Tighlia’s did, when others made jokes. He didn’t care what Tighlia thought of him; he rather admired her for her defense of her brother.
The silence, threatening from SiDrakkon, cautious from Nivom, put Rugaard on edge.
“Please be quiet, my love,” Tyr said. “Rugaard. It seems negotiations were made possible only by a good deal of damage to the walls of that stone city on the Black River. Can you enlighten us as to how that came about?”
The Copper wondered if he could be challenged to a duel over his answer. “I believe so. HeBellereth knocked them down by dropping stones.”
“Bravely done, yes,” the Tyr said. “But how did all that come about?”
“The idea was Nivom’s. He and HeBellereth worked on it for days, practicing, and he put the blighters to work finding the right kinds of boulders and gathering them. The night of the battle SiDrakkon ordered the actual attack, and of course he was in command at the time.”
“Ha! See, the victory is mine,” SiDrakkon thundered.
The Tyr flapped a wing. “Quiet now; don’t intimidate this drake. Now, Rugaard, correct me if I’m wrong, but the stones were used only after an attack had failed. An attack that cost the lives of three dragons. Am I wrong in any detail?”
“The last thing I’d wish to do is correct my grandsire,” the Copper said.
The Tyr snorted. “Yes or no, do I have it right?”
“Yes, great Tyr.”
Nivom seemed to swell. SiDrakkon’s tail knocked over two braziers, and thralls rushed forward to right them and pour water on the smoldering coals and incense.
“Is that all, Grandsire?” the Copper asked.
“Tyr, this fool had a thrall run away on him, I believe,” SiDrakkon said. “Escaped into Bant. A man named, er, Harb.”
“Harf,” the Copper corrected, wondering how SiDrakkon knew that.
“Don’t bother me with trivia,” the Tyr said. “I know your games, SiDrakkon. I want to know the truth about events in Bant, not the comings and goings of dropping scrapers.”
“I’m sorry for his escape, Tyr,” the Copper said. “Should I have chased him down?”
“Never mind that. There’s one other question. It seems after my mate’s brother lost two dragons on the first assault on the fortress, he gave orders for a retreat south. Why weren’t those orders followed?”
“We were in a strong position, Tyr, and the Ghi men had lost much of their cavalry.”
Tyr cocked his head. “According to some, everyone was ready to quit the hill until you said you’d stay by the wounded. HeBellereth insists that it was you who wanted to stick and fight.”
“HeBellereth was badly hurt at that point. I helped look after his wounds, so that could be why he remembers me. Nivom was in command, Tyr. The glory and honor of the victory the next day belong to him—and HeBellereth, of course—for breaking the shield wall with his own body.”
“Someone really must make a song about all this,” Tyr said. “N
oSohoth, call for silence. I want the banquet to hear something.”
NoSohoth raised his wings, which had little chimes looped into the trailing edge. He flapped them, and at the ringing the company turned their attention to him. “Our glorious Tyr asks for silence.”
The Copper slunk out of the way so he wouldn’t obstruct anyone’s view.
“Answer my thoughts, for a change!” Tighlia hissed into her mate’s ear. “Let us retire and discuss before you make any announcements.”
The Tyr ignored her. “Free dragons of the Lavadome and hope of our united lines. Twice now this honored drake at my right side, Nivom, has done great service to all of us.
“First, let it be known that I’m adopting him into the Imperial line. As a son, mind you, to replace AgGriffopse in position if not in our hearts.”
That set the banquet to talking. NoSohoth had to sound his wing chimes again to give them time to settle down.
“Second, I’m getting older and don’t have the attention to detail I once possessed. Nivom will take a few of the lesser responsibilities from my wings, that I might be able to pay more attention to the greater.
“Finally and most pleasantly, he’ll soon be sprouting his wings, and it will be time for him to be mated. I offer any of the daughters of AgGriffopse, the champion of my only clutch, to him, so that we might be joined by more than duty and respect. He can look forward to some pleasant years choosing among my beauties, for their wings are just beginning to bulge.”
The assembly at the banquet liked the sound of that and thumped their tails. Thralls danced out of the way to avoid being struck.
The Tyr’s young granddaughters fluttered their eyes and griffs, save for the sickly one, who shrank behind her longer, stronger, better-fleshed sisters.
“I hope he’s not expecting a blushing maiden,” Simevolant said, staring at them.
The Copper glanced back at his own spine. Two ridges ran down it, parallel to his vertebrae. His were some years off too, but it made him feel better to know that horns and wings were growing.
