by E. E. Knight
And who was expected to support the mate and all the little squalling, hungry mouths? No wonder the dragons in the Heavy Wing of the Aerial Host constantly asked for new campaigns and opportunities to pillage.
Certainly, your human—and his family—devoted hours to care of teeth and scale, but any marketplace thrall would willingly do the same, and devote himself a good deal more to filing, pulling, and arranging scale to lie in the most attractive manner possible in exchange for safety and comfort away from the mines.
But, to her mind, the humans had the better end of the bargain. The dragon had to constantly report on the human’s skill at fighting from dragon-back—all that tedious tracking of missile accuracy and lance-hits on targets. And oh! if you should happen to accidentally smash him into drippy jam while attempting a tricky maneuver that results in a collision with a fellow dragon or a cavern, everyone from your winglane to the grand commander of the Aerial Host would be giving you a thorough dressing-down for carelessness. Bad for unit morale and all that. As if you intended to have an accident!
True, some dragons in the Heavies who didn’t care for their rider for whatever reason tended to arrange an accident, but one shouldn’t be accused of the crimes of others. That simply wasn’t fair.
So she chose the Light Wing.
At first, they almost wouldn’t have her. She’d been so long guarding the crossing that her wing-muscles had atrophied, and of all those tested, she came in last on endurance, last on climbing, and next-to-last in maneuverability.
One thing saved her. On her oral examination, she spoke of her hatching on the Isle of Ice and her first years there, where under her parents’ tutelage she learned to scout, hunt, find shelter, fish, crab, forage for metals—useful Upper World skills that few of the idle young dragons of the Empire could match. She had a good record with the Firemaids, too, and anyone who could spend a year with Angalia on guard duty without going mad and shrieking off into the darkness was not prone to fits of nerves or depressions. The two Light Wing veterans suddenly turned pleasant.
Welcome to the Aerial Host Lights, daughter of Natasatch, CuSarrath, the Wing Commander, said. She always thought of herself as the daughter of AuRon and Natasatch, but it would be have been impolitic of the Wing Commander to mention her father. He was in exile, after all.
Her father. She thought of him as a bit of a crank. He would have been happy living his life out on that cold little island, bathing in glacier water. As a newly winged dragonelle, she’d disliked him intensely, always trying to keep her out of the social life of the Empire, but she’d grown more sympathetic to his nature when she was in the Firemaids. She was feeling that she might like a little peace and quiet, without orders or duties or bleedings, especially if she could find a well-struck, conversational, and cultured male.
She looks stunned, the other examiner said, and she pulled herself back out of her thoughts and thanked them. They gave her directions on where to go next, and an Aerial Host identifying ring for her ear that she could show at any Empire post for garrison bedding, rations, and medicines, should she need them.
They gave her a lecture about how service in the Light Wing was very demanding but she could now consider herself among the elite of the Empire—no matter what the Heavies said about the Heavy Wing being present and key to every major victory of the Empire.
Strangely pleased with herself, she was welcomed into the main training cave for the Light Wing. It stood in the fabled dwarf halls that had once belonged to the Chartered Company traders. They’d since relocated, having taken a ridiculously small offering from a Hypatian noble for the keys to the delvings that sat picturesquely in the middle of a waterfall. Someone said he’d fallen into debt and been rescued by NoSohoth, who took possession of the halls. He offered them to the Aerial Host as patriotic duty to support the Empire—but if they’d share a small percentage of coin brought away from their pillaging expeditions, he’d see that Hypatia improved the quality of the food barged up to the delvings.
Which was its own brand of perdition. The Lights were forever being tested and judged. Speed trials. Flame accuracy trials. Observation trials. The moon never changed fully around without some kind of test where your performance was recorded, and if you were at the bottom of the class—without a certified injury or illness—twice in a year, you were booted out and given a choice of going into the Heavies, taking up garrison duty, or being allocated to dreary tunneling or thrall guard duty.
She was healthy and young, without injury or deformity, so there was little problem with outperforming dragons who’d been injured in action or brought up on sickly diets, as seemed to be the case with some of these older dragons who’d been raised in the Lavadome. She’d known plenty of sunlight once she came aboveground on the Isle of Ice, with a diet of fresh, wiggling fish, crustaceans, and a good deal of mutton. Her only shortcoming was, perhaps, a tendency to have thinnish scale—the Isle of Ice was not rich in metals—but on Host rations of mined copper the scales were coming in thicker and faster.
So she exercised relentlessly and volunteered for everything. Like this fast-flapping flight.
Oh, Mother, how wrong you were. Perhaps Father had been right. He’d never wanted to become involved in the Empire. And now here she was, setting off to what could be a battle. She didn’t have a fierce bone in her body.
They must be on an important mission. CuSarrath himself was leading it, after receiving a hasty message from NiVom, who was visiting NoSohoth in Hypatia. CuSarrath had told his six fastest fliers that they’d just volunteered for a sprint up to the northern borderlands of Hypatia, with him as the seventh flier.
He’d left orders to mobilize the rest of the Light Wing and recall all training groups. When at full strength, they were to relocate north to Quarryness.
Varatheela wondered what could possibly be going on that would need the whole strength of the Light Wing of the Aerial Host. Even training flights served a purpose for the Empire—watching roads and coastlines. Without the Lights, much of the Hypatian coast and the land between the Red Mountains and the Inland Ocean were vulnerable.
She was starved and exhausted by the time she reached the tower. She’d never been this far north since joining the Empire, not even on a reconnaissance flight.
She’d heard of this Dragon Tower of Juutfod, though. They were mercenaries, but hardly hostile. Most of the work they did was for the Hypatian Empire, helping the merchants who traded on the western coast or keeping the northern passes of the Red Mountains free of bandits, trolls, and the occasional Ironrider raid.
The fliers made one great circle over the tower, then began a slow descent, tightening each loop.
A red dragon with black stripes, riderless, flew up to meet them.
“Dragons of the Empire,” he called. He spoke with a faintly clunky Skotl accent, Varatheela decided. It was halfway familiar to her. “Welcome to Juutfod. Are you in need of direction?”
Alarm bells rang faintly in the town below and Varatheela saw watercraft being hastily loaded.
CuSarrath closed with the striped dragon. “Well, DharSii, like a bit of brass in a bag of gold, you show up again.”
“State your business,” this DharSii—or Quick-Claw—called.
“We have learned that the criminal RuGaard has broken his parole and is making mischief against the Empire here. He is to be turned over to us. I give you the Sun King’s word that he will not be harmed, but he will be rendered flightless and placed somewhere where he can be watched and attended properly.”
“Broke his parole, you say? How careless. By doing what?”
“Do you admit he is here?” CuSarrath asked loudly. CuSarrath was a bright enough dragon, but to his way of thinking, whoever made the most noise won an argument.
The striped red cleared his throat. “I admit to fishing with him from this tower. The sailfish are unusually large this year, CuSarrath. They must have had a rich winter in southern waters.”
“Ha,” CuSarrath sai
d. “You admit it.”
“He gave his word that he would not reenter the Empire, and apart from a rather shabby trick by NiVom on the Isle of Ice, he hasn’t broken that word. Unless you claim Juutfod and the dragon tower, too. Shall I tell them about a change in allegiance? It might anger them—they’re almost a clan unto themselves and they value their independence.”
“We would, if those old saddlesore swaybacks and their gimpy hag were worth it. Bandy words all you like, but Juutfod is part of ancient Hypatia. Hypatia is part of the Dragon Empire.”
“Rubbish and nonsense,” DharSii said. “To listen to the Hypatians, the Eternal East is part of Hypatia, because Trader Iao of the First Directory once emptied his bladder in the sulfur pools while buying tea in Ya-ying. The nearest Hypatian hall is in Quarryness, and that’s more than a day’s gallop away. If you knew your Hypatian law, CuSarrath, unless a fast rider can cover the distance to a Hypatian hall in a day, any borderland is not legally part of the Empire.”
Varatheela did not follow politics, but to her it seemed DharSii was getting the better of the exchange.
“I’m relieved you know where the Hypatian hall is, DharSii. Tell RuGaard that he has three days to get his affairs in order and present himself at the hall in Quarryness, or we’ll come and get him and turn this tower into the legendary rubble-heap of Juutfod.”
“If anyone comes to Quarryness, it will be to buy mustard,” DharSii said. “It’s delicious on poached sailfish. It appears you have three days left to enjoy one, should you care to spend your time in the north more profitably.”
“Three days, DharSii. Tell him if he values his mate’s health and the dragon tower’s continued existence, he should appear.”
At this, the striped dragon looked angry. He let his gaze travel up and down CuSarrath’s fighting line, as if wondering how many he could cripple before being brought down. Varatheela tried to look resolute, but she couldn’t help liking this fellow.
Perhaps fearing a verbal riposte, CuSarrath executed a beautiful flip and reversed direction with two hard flaps. The other six Lights fell in behind him, all trained to turn in the same direction to avoid collision. Varatheela flapped hard and regained her position as second-rearmost by seniority.
They landed in wild country, exhausted. CuSarrath took pity on his fliers and volunteered for the first watch. No telling what might be roaming the woods—Varatheela knew in a vague sort of way that her aunt Wistala had killed a troll somewhere hereabouts.
When CuSarrath’s watch was over and the other dragons felt somewhat revived, there was some grousing about their empty bellies.
“Another cold, comfortless camp,” the oldest of them, AuHazathant, said. He was a leathery old red with thick scales growing in patches.
“Wish we’d just gutted it out and made it back to Quarry-ness.”
The dragon next to him groaned: “Tell that to my wings.”
“Who was that DharSii fellow? I believe I’ve heard of him,” Varatheela said. “He looked like a cross between a Skotl and a Wyrr. How often does that happen?”
“He goes back to Tyr Fehazathant’s days,” AuHazathant said. “I don’t know his clan background. He once commanded the Aerial Host. I was told he murdered the Tyr’s heir. He fled, but I don’t think he was ever formally convicted of the crime. If he did do it, he’s triply clever.”
Varatheela decided to probe. “I was told Queen Tighlia poisoned him.”
“I’d heard SiMevolant did him in.”
Varatheela yawned. “I’m too tired for gossipy history. Shall we be quiet now?”
“I wouldn’t mind a nice piece of sailfin this night,” AuHazathant said. “Any of you had it, mates? It’s so red you’d mistake it for beef. Mouthwatering.”
Varatheela felt her mouth go wet at the thought.
“So, we’re bringing in RuGaard. That’s the urgency,” she said.
The youngest, a silver named AgLaberarn said, “Wouldn’t you know. Politics. Politics always is triply urgent to those who give the orders. Not like a little raid by pirates or anything. No, that’s hardly worth the flight.”
“I don’t recall anyone getting bled by demen when he was Tyr. Except in fighting them,” AuHazathant said.
“That’s enough of that, AuHazathant, or you’ll be in my report to NiVom,” CuSarrath said without opening his eyes, though his nostrils had flared in irritation. That shocked them back into silence.
Varatheela tried to ignore her empty belly and go to sleep. But it occurred to her that the Isle of Ice and the cave she’d been born in was but a long, fast flight west into the Inland Ocean. She knew every hole, the coves with the biggest crabs, and where sheep retreated in a snowstorm. It wouldn’t be difficult for her to disappear, if she were determined to leave. One dragonelle more or less wouldn’t make a difference to the Lights, not with so many frightened Firemaids trying to find a posting now that their leader was dead.
Chapter 13
A sunless dawn slowly revealed the landscape draped by clouds. To AuRon, the air smelled like thunder. Not surprising at this time of year—the Inland Ocean saw long, slow storms in the fall and fast-moving thunderheads in the spring.
Still, thunder made him anxious. He would rather have been underground sleeping.
Instead, he was sheltering in the lee of the dragon tower and the rocky ridge of the peninsula it sat upon, listening to the report of a scouting run, and wondering if Shadowcatch remembered him for well or ill.
The scout had made a dangerous flight. She’d flown between piney tree trunks, below the tops of the tallest green spires, to approach the dragon camp at Quarryness—a trick few dragons could manage—and returned in a single night after an Aerial Host scout had been spotted following the Old North Road and the seashore.
Also present were old Hermethea of the dragon tower, who came along because a few females could sometimes prevent quarrels from rising to violence, DharSii, and his siblings. Shadowcatch had begged to be given a one-day head start, saying he would swim all the way to Quarryness, but the Copper refused.
“I’ll find you, one way or another, my Tyr, even if I have to wade across a lake of dwarfs,” Shadowcatch said.
The fast-flying dragon, who suffered to bear a rider on her back to watch her tail and act as a second pair of eyes, double-checking her observations, returned and reported to the Copper.
“They rested at Roadsend. At dawn they flew back to Quarryness,” the scout said.
“Where they’ll wait. The question is, what they’ll do when they’re through with waiting,” the Copper said. “Will they come north or return south?”
“Numbers?” DharSii asked. “Have other members of the Host joined them?”
“Twenty-two. Riderless dragons,” the human said, consulting a bit of slate with some chalk marks on it. “One gray. Rest various.”
“Red in charge, I think, many, many laudi,” the dragonelle added. Laudi, or wing-legends, were given to Empire dragons who’d triumphed in battle to distinguish them. The dyes ranged from colorful to muted, depending on the dragon’s taste, but whatever the color the decorations were a sign of a battle-tested dragon.
“The gray will be a messenger,” DharSii said. “They’re no good in battle—excuse me, AuRon—they’re thought to be no good in battle, but their speed is unmatched.”
“I wonder who this red is,” the Copper said. “If it’s Cu-Vallahall, he was a young dragon from my day who never liked having a rider, but he’s levelheaded. One Skotl, one Wyrr parent.”
“What’s Roadsend?” AuRon asked. He didn’t know much about the Hypatian northlands, not having roamed them since he traveled with Blackhard’s pack as an unwinged drake. “The end of the Old North Road?”
“No, it goes well beyond that; it’s just not kept in any real repair,” Wistala said. “Roadsend is the last Imperial Post in the old system. To the south, the road is reasonably safe. It’s barbarian country beyond.”
“What are they doing?” the Copp
er asked the scout and her rider.
“Usual doings,” the human said in decent Drakine. “Eat much. Drink much. Bellow much, for more eat and drink.”
“I wonder if this is just a rest?” Wistala asked. “Might they go looking for AuRon at the Isle of Ice, or me at the Sadda-Vale?”
“They came to get me,” the Copper said. “It’s up to me to talk to them.”
“If their orders are just to kill you, they’ll do it,” DharSii said. “They won’t let you get five words out.”
“They might listen to me,” the Copper said. “I’ll come along. If they’ve been given orders to assassinate a dragon trying to parley, well—they can do it and try to live with themselves. It’ll mean the Empire I grew up in truly is dead.”
Wistala brought her head close to DharSii and stared levelly into his eyes. AuRon wondered what mindspeech was passing between them.
“Where my brothers go, I’ll be by their side,” Wistala said to the rest.
“What are your intentions?” DharSii asked.
“To join my mate,” the Copper said. “That’s all. This isn’t politics.”
“Everything is politics in the Empire,” Wistala said.
“I hope they’ll be satisfied with taking us back to the Tyr,” AuRon said. “What would they do? Would there be a trial of some sort?”
“Countless potential rebellions have been ended with a quick set of hangings at some crossroad,” DharSii said. “Let’s send a rider south with a message asking for a one-to-one meeting.”
