Dragon Outcast

by E. E. Knight

  SiDrakkon left the banquet almost immediately. The Copper grabbed a dropped mouthful or two but kept away from the throngs. They dragons either asked idiotic questions about whether arrow wounds stung much or joked about his bats.

  “You, there,” a cold voice said. “Rugaard. Come and have a word with me.”

  It was Tighlia, and her scales were up and out as though she were expecting battle. She led him to a prominence looking out over the south end of the Lavadome, where fewer orange streams lit the crystalline surface.

  “Hurry along now and sit beside me. Yes, close to the edge, so you have a good view. Oh, don’t blanch; I’ve never pushed anyone to his death, and I’m not about to start tonight.

  “I like this view. There was never the fighting at the south end of the Lavadome that there was at the north. Just a few thrall hills and livestock pens and mushroom fields. No memories of where friends died.”

  “Was this what you wanted to speak to me about?”

  “No, outcast. My time is too valuable. I expect my mate will have you in for a little chat shortly. You might want to tell him that this Nivom fellow isn’t all he appears.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  She scowled. “I know a calculator when I smell one. He weighs everything by his own ambitions. I fear for what will happen if the Tyrancy passes to a Wyrr-Anklene mix. There’s already resentment in many Skotl caves. They will have their turn at the Tyrancy one way or another. Civil war could break out again.”

  “Why do you tell me this?”

  “Because, oddly enough, I think you’ve got the simpleton’s faith. The same as my mate has. You’re duller—and uglier, certainly—but I believe you think of dragonkind first and yourself second. My mate has that quality too.”

  “He has all a dragon’s virtues—”

  “Oh, rot all that tripe. Virtues? What’s the first of them?”

  The Copper thought for a moment, remembering his lessons. “Destiny. The gifts of the four Spirits in shaping—”

  “Mythological balderdash that lets dragons with nothing to offer the world get puffed up about themselves. Next!”

  “But everyone knows—”

  “No, they don’t. That’s the problem. Let’s have another; your tongue’s slow as your wit.”

  The Copper stiffened. “Courage to—”

  “Courage? Exhibitions of courage have killed more dragons than spears. Give me a dragon who sneaks in when the warriors are otherwise engaged and visits the cribs of the hominids; they put up as much of a fight as squalling babes. Next.”

  The Copper found her aroma warm, comforting, pleasant. Almost motherly. She was obviously enjoying this. “You can’t have anything against fidelity to mate, kith and kin. Every dragon in the Lavadome admires your devotion to our Tyr. You and your brother—”

  “You’re not old enough to know better. We’ll talk again when your mating flight was four scale-ages ago, and your precious clutch champion has breathed fire into your face as he drives you away from your hoard. When some bright young thing spreads her wings for you and promises better times, we’ll speak again. Come, come, I’m eager for more.”

  “Serenity.”

  “Now, there you may have something. It’s the dragon who can control his emotions, wait instead of rage, take an insult or a setback with a song—that’s a dragon to be feared. Never let your thoughts past your tongue; never let a competitor know what you really think of him.”

  “Then why do you tell me what you think of me?” the Copper asked.

  “Because you’re the sorry, sawed-off tail-tip of the Imperial line, not a competitor. Go on now; you’ve scored a hit. Press home.”

  The Copper thought it over. Tighlia was mistress of a thousand details in the Imperial Resort, from arranging matings to seeing after the quality of her mate’s kern. “Diligence. It’s attention to detail in the routines of—”

  “Oh, and now you’ve gagged on it. Strained at a bat and swallowed a warthog. I’m devoted to idleness. Adore it. Gives one time to think. You’d be amazed how few dragons sit down and just think these days. Don’t look cross; I’m giving you medicine that tastes bad, but it’ll do you good if you have the sense to repeat the dosage.” She tapped her claws on the shining black stone of the rock. “I’m waiting.”

  “I was going to say charity to those in your thrall, but I expect you’d answer that the more you task them, and the greater they fear you, the better the results.”

  “Now you’re learning. Maybe you’re not hopeless after all. There’s only one left, so I’ll save you the breath. Strength. Strength I believe in. But I’m not talking about roaring and stomping and being able to knock down trees with your tail. That just brings the foemen. Intellectual strength to form a plan, physical strength to carry it out, and moral strength to see it through—those are virtues indeed. That alone will take you farther than the rest of your Drakwatch ideals put together.”

  “Why do you tell me all this, Granddam?”

  She winced as though struck. “Tomorrow a messenger will come for you, asking for a private interview with my mate. He’s going to give you a new position as a reward. An important one. I don’t want you buggering it up and making slippery bat droppings out of it. Husband your strength and display serenity, and you’ll do well enough.”

  “Thank you, Granddam.”

  “That’s not all. My mate may ask you about SiDrakkon and matters in Bant. Praise him and you’ll find me grateful. Those who are good to me make no complaints about my kindnesses in return. But guard your tongue against any slanders, if you know what’s good for you.”

  “I have no slanders to offer, Granddam.”

  “That’s a clever answer, drake. Be equally clever when you talk to my mate tomorrow.”

  He spent a restless night in his cave, listening to the bats go in and out. Two new litters of hungry young bats suckled at a vein on his inner saa, leaving him rather dreamy.

  He rose early and had a hearty chicken-and-kern breakfast brought by Fourfang, who burped and vented all while arranging the platters, proof that he had filched a hearty portion for himself.

  “Let me smell your fingers, Fourfang.”

  The blighter shrank away. The Copper clacked his teeth together. “Your fingers or your head. Which will it be?”

  Trembling, the blighter held out his hairy hands. The Copper sniffed them.

  “I thought so. Don’t go digging around in my dishes before I’ve eaten, or I’ll bite few fingers off next time. Wait until after I’ve finished, like Rhea. Don’t I always leave generous portions?”

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “You’re not the cleanest with your hands, Fourfang. Your always either digging in some orifice or scratching scabs. In either case I don’t like the residue in my food. Just the other night I was offered an elf to take your place.” Which wasn’t true, but Fourfang couldn’t know that.

  “I hope to see some improvement in the future, or I’ll have to make changes. But I hate unpleasant talk at the beginning of the day. Draw some water and take care of these bat droppings, won’t you?”

  Fourfang showed admirable energy in getting a bucket and a bristle. The Copper watched the blighter work while Rhea cleaned and filed his claws. Fourfang scrubbed his hands in the bucket after finishing the floor.

  “Much better. Now go down and get yourself a dried apple. One for Rhea, too; I think she’s exhausted from all the travel.”

  The quick elf messenger came from the Tyr before Fourfang returned from the stores. The Copper followed the messenger up the winding air shaft and through the Gardens, where Simevolant was lounging, eating honeyed beetles.

  “Come over here, Rugaard. The shadebells are blooming. You must see them. You don’t posses any beauty, but you have an eye for it. Oh! What did I say. An eye? I beg your pardon.”

  The Copper wasn’t in the mood for Simevolant’s jokes. “I’m on my way to the Tyr. He summoned me.”

  “Oh, he’s arg
uing with SiDrakkon; you’ve time to spare. Speaking of which, look at the purples; doesn’t it rather remind you of SiDrakkon when he’s angry?”

  “A striking color,” the Copper said.

  “I’ve been staring at these flowers all morning. You know, no two are alike? Why do flowers differentiate? The petals are just going to drop in a little while anyway, and unless you get right up under them, it’s hard to tell. I wonder why they bother.”

  The elf cleared his throat.

  “Don’t make noise, you,” Simevolant said. “You’re wilting my flowers. Look, that one’s gone all sad. I’ll have your hair plucked out by its roots for that.” The golden drake stood up.

  “I can’t keep our Tyr waiting,” the Copper said, putting himself between the drake and the elf. “I must be off, cousin.”

  The elf led him past the Tyr’s outer chamber, where messengers, many either bearing gifts themselves or with thralls to carry the load, waited. Curtains blocked the far end, and the elf slipped through them.

  A few moments later the Copper heard a heavy tread, and before the curtains could even be opened SiDrakkon stormed out, glaring. The Copper shrank against some baskets of metal rings to clear his way, but SiDrakkon was staring at something only he could see.

  The elf gestured for the Copper to come in.

  He passed through a door of stone and steel that turned on a central pivot, and two blighters rushed in with braziers burning incense to clean away the angry smell within.

  The Tyr’s audience chamber was roughly oval, with the door at one end and a shelf at the other. A cascade of gold coins and two waterfalls of silver made it look as though the Tyr reclined upon a mountain of gold. The walls were stacked with glittering, polished samples from the Imperial horde, the metallic art of a thousand or more years, coin, cup, statue, and frieze. Curtains hung thickly about the back of his shelf, and pleasing aromatic fragrances emanated from behind them.

  Polished wooden shafts like ribs ran up either side of the chamber, joining at a peak in the top. Captured banners, some tattered and stained, hung here. Above the banners were four members of the griffaran, with polished metal talon extenders on their formidable feet. They sat on perches in the shadows above, vigilant as hawks. They looked strong enough to tear him into quarters of twitching dragon meat.

  One of the griffaran let out a friendly click from the side of its mouth, and its fellows looked down at him.

  “Ah, Rugaard, don’t let the bodyguards worry you. Come forward, and we’ll talk.”

  The Copper smelled NoSohoth somewhere, perhaps behind the heavy curtains surrounding the Tyr’s shelf.

  “What service can I do you, your honor?”

  “I should be asking you that, drake. Take a mouthful of gold. No, don’t pretend; just enjoy. I’ve more than I could ever eat if I live to be another thousand.”

  The Copper swallowed a mouthful of coin. The heavy yet soft metallic taste made him feel pleasantly fierce, ready to take on anything the Tyr asked of him.

  Which, he supposed, was the point.

  “I wanted a quick chat with you without a dozen ears listening to every word.”

  “Yes, Tyr?”

  “According to Nivom, you’re one of the better drakes in the Drakwatch, yet you always get overlooked because of your…well, let’s be frank about it, your injuries.”

  The Tyr stood on his shelf and turned, as though finding a more comfortable spot from which to speak. The Copper marked heavy scarring, as from a burn, on the inside of one saa. He’d never seen the injury before, but then, the Tyr always rested so it was hidden against his underside.

  “It is a wickedness that dragons count so much on appearances. That’s the way of the world, and there are some things that just can’t be changed. But you’ve got nice teeth and some impressive horns coming in. Hopefully they’ll draw attention from the rest as you grow into your wings.

  “I’ll tell you this, Rugaard: It’s something that impressed me about you from the very first. You get around very well, considering that sii. There are dragons who’d play it up to inspire pity, and tell their tale of woe at every pause in the conversation. But now my hunt’s lost the game trail. Oh, yes. Obviously, you’ve done well as a courier, my eyes and ears and all that, and you’ve shown good judgment, which is worth a whole set of limbs.”

  “Thank you, Tyr.”

  “Do you know anything about our Uphold in Anaea?”

  “We…the kern comes from there, does it not?”

  “Do you like kern?”

  “Not much. It fills one up, I suppose.”

  “That’s how I feel as well. There are two varieties, yellow and orange, as you’ve probably seen when it’s mashed. The orange variety is rarer. But there’s something in kern—it keeps dragons who live long underground healthy. Without kern, scale doesn’t grow right, the teeth loosen, eyesight fades. Why, I’ve even seen an old darkwhittled dragon or two missing claws and teeth. These days it’s often overlooked, because we either eat it directly as mash or get it through livestock, but in my own grandsire’s generation darkwhittle was a very plague.”

  “I’ll be sure to pay more attention to my ration,” the Copper said.

  “And it’s quite cleansing. I think half SiDrakkon’s problem is that he doesn’t eat his unless it’s in a chicken’s stomach, and he’s always blocked up. So the pressure builds and he explodes out the other end.”

  “I know it’s a long road to Anaea. Will I have a guide?”

  “Yes, the Drakwatch is in charge of patrolling the road, and there are Firemaidens at a couple of key points as well. We’ll get you a guide.”

  “What am I to do there? I hope the supply isn’t threatened.”

  “Oh, no, no, nothing like that. It’s just that old FeLissarath and his mate deserve more help than they get, and I’d like to relieve some of their burdens. They’ve done their bit. Responsibility wears after a while. And they are cut off from society at the end of that long, dark road. They deserve to start taking an honored place in society here if they wish.”

  The Copper bowed. “I’ll do my best, Tyr. Nothing shall threaten the supply of kern.”

  “Then my mind shall be at ease. Let me tell you one more thing, Rugaard. I just said this to Nivom, by the way, so I apologize if it sounds practiced. The great dragons…well, they’re fine warriors and all that, but it’s the dragon that can handle the problems of peace that keeps an empire going. The greatest warrior fights least and all that. Do you understand?”

  “I’m not sure that I do.”

  “You will. In time. Now, no hurry about your departure. You have a good rest. Another mouthful of silver and gold before you leave this room, as well. Can’t be too careful where your scale is concerned. If you have any needs for thralls or anything, just see NoSohoth; he’ll attend to it.”

  “Thank you, Tyr.”

  “Oh, one other question. About the fighting in Bant. How much did you see of it?”

  “I was there for the attack on the tower under construction. I missed much of the first attack on the city on the Black River, but I was there for the rest of it.”

  “You know, it’s odd. SiDrakkon was in the thick of battle, from his reports—battle that cost the lives of four dragons. Yet there’s not a scar on him. Three engagements with heavy fighting would leave most dragons’ wings in tatters, yet he’s hardly holed. Did he lead his dragons against the Ghi men the whole time?”

  The Copper wondered just how he could shade the truth. “He struck fast and hard. His attack on the first tower was brilliant. I saw him personally burn war machines on the first attempt to take the fortress. Even though we were thrown back, the campaign ended successfully. He deserves his share of the glory.”

  “I don’t like dragons taking credit for the courage of others, you know. Don’t like it at all. Anything to add? Just between the two of us. If you’re worried about my mate, I don’t tell her everything, you know.” He winked.

  “No, Tyr, not
hing to add.”

  “I won’t press you. Visit anytime, officially or unofficially. I enjoy the presence of virtuous young drakes. We need more of your sort.”

  The Copper left and saw NoSohoth in the outer room, organizing the visitors to the Tyr.

  As he descended into the rock, he became lost in his thoughts. He should pay a visit to the Anklenes and learn about the conditions on the road to Anaea. Find out what he could about the kern trade. He had a vague idea that it came in on pack animals. It wouldn’t hurt to ask a little of the history of Anaea as well—he wondered how somewhere so far away even became an Uphold.

  Fourfang was waiting at the outer entrance to his cave. The blighter almost danced with anxiety.

  “Bad! Bad news! Drakwatch came, took Rhea! Took Rhea to SiDrakkon, your honor. I think he eat her!”

  Chapter 19

  The Copper had been to the outer chambers of SiDrakkon’s cave only a few times to deliver routine messages concerning the younger Drakwatch trainees. He occupied one of the highest levels, practically a whole sublevel of his own, on the well-watered eastern spur of the Imperial Resort.

  SiDrakkon’s doorwarden thrall, a rather fleshy human with a shaved skull, begged him to wait and disappeared inside.

  SiDrakkon’s mate, an almost gruesomely thin dame with tired golden eyes, greeted him. “I cry welcome. You’ll find my mate in his wet grotto. He’s in one of his moods.” The Copper had no idea what her name was, so he simply bowed.

  “I’d be grateful to be shown where that is, honored dame.”

  “Just follow the sound of water.”

  He could hear splashing, and the babble of human voices, and a plucking sound of some musical contraption or other that grew more distinct as he passed a burning brazier or two throwing off expensive smelling scents. SiDrakkon’s mate dropped some fragrant leaves on the flames and took a deep lungful.

  A curtain blocked further progress.

  “Your honor,” he called. “It’s Rugaard. Your mate admitted me. I wish to speak to you.”