Dragon Outcast

by E. E. Knight

  All the dragons were looking at him.

  “What does it matter?” he asked.

  “What does it matter?” Ibidio laughed. “If we ever gain back the Lavadome, I think you’ll find it matters very much.”

  “If we are to do it, we must strike quickly,” NeStirrath said. “Strike before they get organized, and before all here become used to submission to men the way these accursed foreign dragons are.”

  “I have a small force on the Western Road,” the Copper said.

  Others listed a few dragons who could be relied on. NeStirrath could bring together his best Drakwatch. But as they counted in their heads they knew it would not be enough. Not against the training and weapons that had been displayed last night.

  “The men alone, we might be able to handle,” Rethothanna said. “They’re not much without their dragons.”

  “The dragons aren’t much better without men,” the Copper said. “I’ve seen them. They’re not like us. They can’t think for themselves very quickly; they either do what they’re trained to do—”

  “Perhaps we could convince them to revolt,” Ibidio said.

  “Fat dragons stuffing themselves with Anaean gold?” a dragon from the Wyrr hill asked. “You might as well ask a horse to fight its rider. I’m not sure they could even grasp the concept.”

  “Let us meet again tomorrow,” Ibidio said. “Early, around the morning meal. I’ll try to get in and get a feel for the hag-riddens. What’s the matter, RuGaard, not feeling kingly?”

  “I’m being hunted by an old nightmare.”

  The others nodded understanding, but the last thing he wanted was for them to understand.

  The Copper walked back to the Imperial Resort—it didn’t seem like a resort anymore, just a rather dark and forbidding rock—with NeStirrath. They talked of unimportant matters, old memories of training with the Drakwatch.

  He even returned to his old cave. There hadn’t been a member of the Imperial line since him serving in the Drakwatch, and he even caught the faint smell of bats—wait.

  A bat still lived, up in a shadowy corner. Something about the ears reminded him of an old acquaintance.

  “You wouldn’t be related to old Uthaned, would you?”

  “I am Uthaned,” the bat said. It stretched. “You’ve grown considerably, m’lord.”

  “It can’t be. Mamedi and Thernadad’s nephew? Bats don’t live—”

  “They do when they’ve been fed dragonblood. I even talk to Big Ear, Spike Hair, and Wide Nose, as you called them, now and again when they visit.”

  The Copper was relieved to be so pleasantly distracted. “But why are you still here, Uthaned?”

  “The eating is good. These young drakes, they sleep hard after their days’ hiking, and they dream better, down a little blood. They make it up quick enough. And that old one with all the horns and the stumps where his wings should be…well, he sometimes has a draft of wine to help him sleep, and with a bit of a nip he sleeps sounder still. I like to think I’m doing a service—Ah, soft. None have returned yet tonight. I don’t suppose m’lord might spare…?”

  The Copper was thinking back to his own days with the bats. Sometimes they’d left him so listless, and in the mornings if he lifted his head high, he went dizzy….

  He froze. It was like the idea had a glowing aura around it, like the moon’s halo in a mist. He didn’t know exactly what the idea would look like once it took shape, but he knew its rough outlines.

  “Are there any other bats still about?”

  “Another of my cousins still lives near the kitchens, where it’s warm. Then there’s a son of mine, and his family. Oh, and of course—”

  “I need more, many more. Can you go to your relatives and then send them out on the western road? Someone must know where that is.”

  “Yes, bats go to and fro all the time. That message system.”

  “Forget it. At least for now. I need every bat you can scrape up, big and small. But they’ve got to be smart, stealthy, sneaky.”

  “That’s a good deal of flying on my part, m’lord.” Uthaned smoothed down his hair and straightened his ears. “A bat setting off on such a flight needs a full belly, and at my age the wing joints pain me.”

  “Of course,” the Copper said. “You can practice on me. I’ll show you what to do.”

  The Copper walked in the Gardens, thinking. Some of the dragon riders, new to the rock, explored it as well, curious about the underground garden with its strange, spiked, low-light plants, or admiring the view of the lava streams against the dome.

  He saw a glimmer of gold, and turned.

  “Oh, RuGaard. No, don’t sulk away. Your Tyr calls.”

  The Copper turned and approached SiMevolant. He bowed.

  “What does my Tyr require of his Upholder?” the Copper asked.

  “Just a chat. You looked so queer when the governer-general walked out, I thought you were going to keel over like SiDrakkon. Your face looked just like his. Shocked.”

  “I thought you arrived only after he died.”

  “I meant to say after he was dead, of course. Anyway, speaking of deaths, superb job on my sister. The more I think about it, the more brilliant it is.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The choking. I’ve heard all about it. I have my own sources and messengers, don’t forget.”

  “It was an accident.”

  “Of course it was. And if it wasn’t, you’ve got your jade set up to take the blame. You’ve got witnesses from two different species and three lines of dragons that can attest that you were nowhere near.”

  “She was my mate. She was your sister. How can you speak like that about her?”

  “Because she was my sister. Sickly from the moment she came out of the egg and I sat on her while I dined on my late brother.”

  “I’m tired. I must beg your—”

  SiMevolant flicked around the Copper and blocked his path. “Hold. Since you’ve shown such an aptitude for this, I’ve got a list. A tiny list, the briefest of lists; it’ll take you no time at all to work your way down. The first is your old teacher, NeStirrath.”

  “I’ve got a list for you. Traitor. Cretin. Disgrace to—”

  “Oh, please. Look, I’ve got a very clever weapon that will help you.” He reached behind his griff and passed the Copper a silver tube, very much like the ones SiDrakkon had kept his oils in. “It’s a dwarvish thing with a blade and a spring and a small vial of toxin drawn from—”

  The Copper snatched it out of his hand before the tiny point projecting out of the end could be pointed in his direction.

  He looked at the device. A little lever, a—what was the word?—trigger, was set into the side.

  He pointed it at SiMevolant.

  “Ah-ah-ah-ah,” the new Tyr warned. “Am I stupid enough to hand you an envenomed weapon, or am I so clever I’ve given you a harmless point to test your loyalty, hmmmmm? Or, as a sort of a joke, have I given you one that in fact fires backward out of the thin metal on the bottom? And why am I even putting such doubts in your head? It’s rather like looking at your image in a wavy pool, so many different possibilities in motion. Which do you think I am? Brilliant or an imbecile?”

  “I think you’re mad.” He sent the tube spinning off the top of the Rock.

  “You had your chance,” SiMevolant said.

  “We both did,” the Copper said. “Let’s see how we compare in surviving the consequences.”

  The next day the Immortal Memory group met, though it took twice as long for them to gather, and the Copper outlined his plan. NeStirrath improved on it, and a dragon from the Skotl hill promised to go up the western road and try to hurry things along.

  “I’ve been to the stable caves,” Ibidio said. “Off of the old spirit-caller’s holes. Yes, I said stables. I can’t think of what else to call them, dragons packed so close. They’re well guarded, yes, and the men stay near. But there are vast galleries so several can take off at once, if
need be.”

  “I might be able to get the men away for a few hours,” the Copper said. “When the time comes.”

  “The sooner the time comes, the better,” Rethothanna said. “A man and a drake crier came through the milkdrinker’s hill today, looking for dragons to volunteer to be ridden, promising gold, food, a cave in the Imperial Resort, everything. With food stocks falling the way they are and dragons going without meat, soon half the dragons here will have nothing to look forward to but the saddle and a trough at the end of the day.”

  Chapter 28

  Rethothanna got her wish. Less than a score of days later, the Imperial line and the leaders of the hill selected the hour for the battle. Of course, not everything could be readied on time. The bats were still gathering, and every day the Copper was making a trip to the river to explain to them what to do. But each day’s delay increased their risk, for more and more dragons found themselves watched, and the Immortal Memory group could no longer meet except in twos or threes for a few brief words.

  The Copper had spies of his own. The bats, out of hunger or curiosity, went so far as to do practice runs, trickling into Black Rock in search of nourishment.

  There was a last-moment change in the Immortal Memory’s calculations. A half-score more dragons had arrived, carrying several people each on them and more possessions. Some of the mates and babes of the Andam had arrived.

  So the Copper stood, flanked by Rethothanna and NeStirrath, listening to SiMevolant speak. He was explaining to the high-ranking dragons that soon each of them would have a human “assistant” to help allocate food and cave space, ore rations, and exercise flights. Even grooming standards would be discussed, if there were health-threatening habits that needed to be broken.

  The Dragonblade lounged on a golden chair, brought up and fixed on the Tyr’s shelf. A rich fur lay before it, and another hung off the back. He also wore a fur cloak closed with dragonscale.

  Imfamnia was not in the audience. She was inspecting a case of luxuries brought in on dragonback.

  “I do not say you must follow the advice of the human assistant,” SiMevolant said. “But they are wise, and I feel matters will go easier if we heed them.”

  “I say enough,” a Skotl called.

  “I say too much!” a Wyrr added.

  The Copper braced himself and took a breath. This was worse than spreading his wings to jump, trusting to a bit of wood and leather and steel pin. “I say we have no Tyr. Just a dog too well trained to need a collar.”

  “That’s a poor sort of insult, RuGaard.” SiMevolant yawned. “I hope you didn’t labor hard over it. You wasted your time.”

  “I challenge you to a duel, with the charge of treason against the Imperial line,” the Copper said.

  “You can’t challenge a Tyr,” SiMevolant said. “The rank is too exalted.”

  “I may. There are some who believe I am the rightful Tyr. Tyr FeHazathant named me as his successor after NiVom fled and before he died.”

  “I witnessed it!” Ibidio called.

  “I was told in secret as well,” said NeStirrath. Which was a lie, but a lie he gladly offered to tell.

  “He told me the same,” Rethothanna said. “There is even a secret testament in the archives.” Another lie, but one she had made true with a bit of parchment and a forged scale-seal.

  “That’s three,” NoSohoth said quietly.

  “So, yes, I do challenge you,” RuGaard said. “If you refuse, all will know you to be a coward.”

  “Yes, yes, yes, heroes taste death but once and all that. But the coward gets a long time to enjoy all those deaths, bitter as the cup may be, and heroes die young. Still, you annoy me, RuGaard. I think I should like to kill you. I accept your challenge and name the Dragonblade as my duelist.”

  That startled the man out of bored daydreaming. He reached for his sword hilt.

  “You get to kill a three-legged dragon,” SiMevolant said.

  “When I came down here, I was told I’d be acting as an adviser,” the Dragonblade said. “I’ve had enough fights in my life. I’m old, my bones are easily chilled, and a hairy-rumped well digger would find this blasted rock uncomfortably cool.”

  “The alternative is fighting between the Andam and the dragons again,” SiMevolant hissed.

  “So be it. I’ll kill the beast for you. What’s one more to my tally? Ach, you’re making me regret my chickens and coops.”

  “The deepest hour of the night, then,” the Copper said. “When the new day rings.”

  Black Rock’s dueling pit lay on its lowest level. An amphitheater had been dug out beneath a point of rock, and there was room for six-score or more dragons, though the air got closed-in and stuffy when it was that full.

  Fewer than a score of dragons attended this duel. RuGaard was well liked (or at least not hated outright, as Tighlia liked to put it), so most of the audience was of the Andam. They would have preferred, perhaps, to see two dragons fight, but entertainments were few enough.

  SiMevolant was there, of course, in his ridiculous bumblebee-painted scheme.

  After a light dinner, the Copper took a last walk around the Rock. He wondered how many dragons—or men—noticed the bats flitting about. Every now and then one landed on his head to whisper in his ear.

  Finally, it was time. He descended to the dueling pit with limbs that dragged reluctantly.

  I’ve never had any luck with duels. From my first one out of the egg.

  The Copper made a long, reluctant show of having himself groomed before the match, trying to make the contest last as long as possible. If he went onto the sand before the attack, in all likelihood he would be killed. The Dragonblade occupied his time sharpening his sword and testing his footing in the sand of the dueling pit. He picked up a bronze dragonscale shield—how odd, the coloring was much like Father’s—and banged his sword hilt against it.

  “Come on! It’s late, beast, and I’ll have this over with.”

  I’ve never had any luck with duels.

  The Copper dropped into the pit and lowered his griff.

  The Dragonblade put on a helmet featuring two wings rising up and meeting above his head, dropped his spiked face mask, and jumped into the pit. He took six paces forward so he couldn’t be trapped against the wall. Then he waited, shield held ready and sword held loosely in one hand.

  NoSohoth invoked the spirits, asking them to determine whose cause was just, and to offer strength to the combatant in the right—but took his time doing so, and had to go back and repeat several lines.

  The dragon-riders began to shout and make venting noises with their lips and tongues.

  At last NoSohoth finished the invocation. But then he improvised: “I give you one last chance to reconcile. You have both proved your bravery by stepping into the pit, knowing that only one will climb out again….”

  Where are they?

  Neither offered to forget the quarrel. NoSohoth had difficulty making out the Dragonblade’s reply, and finally asked him to step over and repeat his words, without the face mask in the way.

  With that done NoSohoth droned on and on about the glorious traditions of single combat and how these two opponents set an example of courage to be learned from by eyes young and old….

  Never before had the Copper been so grateful for NoSohoth’s ponderous speechifying.

  “Enough, NoSohoth,” SiMevolant cried. “Or I’ll have a saddle made for the Dragonblade out of your hide. Begin!” he shouted, lest NoSohoth suffer another attack of deafness.

  The Dragonblade dropped into a crouch. He whirled his sword, and it whistled an evil tune as it cut the air.

  The Copper shifted stance and his wings opened a little and flapped, instinctively readying themselves.

  “Now I know you. You’re the little crippled traitor! Stupid of me!”

  “Not finishing me when you had the chance?” the Copper asked.

  “Thinking such as you might put up a fight.”

  Nothing to do
but go forward. The Copper, for the first time in his life, made a show of limping.

  The Dragonblade danced forward, deflected a bite with his shield, and cut the Copper in the shoulder. He moved as if he were made of air itself, a zephyr of slashing steel and stinking man-breath.

  The Copper turned, swinging his stiff and broken tail, and beat his wings, kicking up a whirlwind of dust.

  The men in the stands roared in displeasure, though whether they thought this was cheating, or just objected to not being able to see the action, the Copper couldn’t say.

  The Dragonblade was ready for the sand. Blocking it with his shield, he came forward and opened a cut in the Copper’s vulnerable belly.

  He’s toying with me. He’s going to let me die by scores of small cuts rather than a fatal blow.

  Dribbles of blood made strange spiral traces in the sand beneath the Copper as he sidestepped, protecting his wounded underside. The man sliced a piece of skin from the Copper’s haunch the size of his shield. Naked muscle gleamed red.

  “I need a new shield-leather anyway,” he said.

  The Copper’s fire bladder pulsed with his pain, and he vomited up its contents.

  This, too, the Dragonblade was ready for. He crouched behind his shield and the thin liquid just splattered his shield, him, and the sand around. The liquid dripped off his shield like rain off a wide jungle leaf.

  “Not even any fire? Let’s end it; this is no contest at all,” the Dragonblade said. He slashed the Copper’s good leg, and the Copper collapsed face-first into the sand.

  A man’s voice shouted from the entrance. The Copper didn’t understand the words, but the dragon-riders jumped to their feet and fought one another to the exit.

  The dragons were coming at last!

  He raised his head to see the audience in flight, and the Dragonblade kicked him behind the jaw. He saw stars and his whole neck went numb. He fought to regain control of his head and neck as painful, prickling electricity danced up and down his spine.

  The Dragonblade planted himself in front of his snout, just out of reach. He pointed the tip of his sword at the Copper’s eye.