BOOK THREE
Charity
“The only succor a dragon gives freely is death.”
—From Hazeleye’s notes on dragons
Chapter 15
Wistala slept in the luxury of the Tyr’s chamber. Her brother was away; she felt she deserved the rich bed of the finest damasks, so tightly woven to the cushioning they were guaranteed not to catch on scale.
Also, there was less of a chance that a messenger would seek her here instead of the Queen’s chamber. Nilrasha was a fine dragon, but she had garish tastes; there were far too many skins and interesting bone sculptures of various animals and hominids for Wistala to relax. It was like trying to sleep in an abattoir.
Exhausted from travel, from revived grief in visiting the deathscapes of her parents, and from calls to her attention from NoSohoth so frequent that they invaded her dreams.
The Firemaids and Drakwatch are having a mock battle beneath the griffaran columns you must judge, my Queen. CoTathanagar wishes an audience, he has heard there must be a second messenger for NoFhyriticus in Hypatia and is wondering if the position has been filled yet. There are three new hatchlings in Wyrr Hill you must view. The Tyr’s Demen Legion is appointing a new captain and the dwarfs are attaching the Lavadome from the river ring…
Dwarfs? Attacking from the river ring?
She opened an eye. Strange roars and calls had broken out from the Audience Chamber.
She rolled out of bed and became tangled in the curtains—curse them, some chamber-thrall must have drawn them; they were open when she’d settled down. She staggered out into the passageway leading to the Audience Chamber, dragging purple material.
Still shaking the cobwebs from her head, she entered the Audience Chamber on the Tyr’s platform, a little above the confused throng of thralls, messenger bats, griffaran, and dragons.
NoSohoth came through the other door as she entered, looking his usual prim self, every black-tipped scale in place. Did that dragon ever sleep? Or did he just have the ability to instantly transform into wide-awake and arranged.
“I’ve a Firemaid messenger for you, my Queen,” NoSohoth said.
Wistala knew her features, but her name escaped her at the moment. She was a young Firemaid, supervising the Firemaidens in their first real duties. Wingless Firemaidens typically had the easiest posts in which to learn their duties, at the entrances to the Lavadome. The occasional escaping thrall was the biggest challenge they ever had to face.
“Dwarfs—they came up the Nor’flow. Already across… the river ring….” she panted.
“Dwarfs!” several in the assembly gasped.
“Wheel of… Wheel of Fire! I remember… their flag from the… pass. Where Takea… fell.”
Wistala fought with the remains of her brother’s curtains. A long way to come for the Wheel of Fire. Even overland, it would be a hard trip. They’d come underground, where three dimensions had to be negotiated and obstacles couldn’t just be hacked away. They must have used the river.
“Where do we meet them?” NoSohoth asked.
It suddenly occurred to Wistala that as leader of the Fire-maids and as Queen-Consort she must direct the defense. Battles were dreadful, detestable things, but how much more dreadful was defeat?
The responsibility fell on her like a net. She was oathed as a Firemaid to protect the hatchlings of the Lavadome and as Queen-Consort to be at the forefront in defending the dragon-realm. Master your emotions, Wistala! she heard Rainfall say. Confidence flows downhill like water.
They might have an hour, especially if there was fighting in the tunnels leading from the river ring. There was always a Firemaid or two on guard at the tunnels. If they could hold the tunnel mouths, the Lavadome would be secure.
Even if the dwarfs made it to the tunnel mouths, the Lavadome was huge. It would be hours before they could reach Imperial Rock on foot, even trotting.
Only dragons could make it there that quickly.
“Send word to all the hills—evacuate, back to Imperial Rock. Leave home and hoard to the enemy, we must unite here and win or be cut to pieces in parts,” she told NoSohoth.
She sent another dragon to alert the Drakwatch, some thralls to drive cattle into Imperial Rock in case the dwarfs besieged it, and a drake to Ankelene Hill to warn them to shut and bar the mighty portals at the entrance to their hill.
SiHazathant and Regalia arrived together, as always. No sense separating them.
“You two, go to the Aerial Host. I know most of it is in the Upper World, but there are a few sick, and HeBellereth is somewhere. He just gave a report yesterday. Send whatever they can to the river ring holes on the north side, try to hold the dwarfs there.”
NoSohoth was still standing around, stupefied. “Didn’t I tell you to evacuate the hills.”
“Yes, Queen-Consort. But—well, this hasn’t happened in an age. They won’t like leaving their hills. There are eggs—”
“They’ll have to be brought here. Fly the eggs here, bring extra carriers, put them in carry baskets like wounded drakes.”
She suddenly remembered the name of the Firemaid messenger. “You, Aruthia, go to the Firemaid hill. Get everyone you can, have them go to the other hills and gather eggs and hatchlings and bring them to the Imperial Rock. They should trust the Firemaids.”
“The Ankelenes won’t leave their hill, too many valuable records there,” NoSohoth said.
“I’ll send them the Tyr’s demen legion. They should be able to hold Ankelene Hill, even against dwarfs. They have those great decorative gates, now’s the time to test them. We can aid them from Imperial Rock. The dwarfs might not know how big the Lavadome is, how high we can fly. I know I never imagined… well, get going.”
She didn’t know as much as she should about dwarf-fighting. Actually, it wasn’t so much the dwarfs you fought as their infernal machines. Obviously they’d used some kind of contraption to move south against the hard-flowing current of the Nor’flow.
The only other thing she knew was that dwarfs were much better on the defense than the attack. Her father always told her that chasing down dwarfs in a tunnel was the most dangerous hunt a dragon could overtake. They could look like rocks until they leaped out of concealment, swinging an ax for your throat.
But get them in the open, and they’re not so hard to squash.
Oh Father! I thought I was done with the Wheel of Fire. Do feuds never cease?
Wistala gave more orders for any of the young dragonriders in the Aerial Host, plus such of their women as wanted to take up arms, to be readied to defend the lower galleries and windows in the Imperial Rock.
Then she went up to the top level. From there she could see and direct the defense of the Lavadome.
She learned she was fortunate in one matter. HeBellereth and two of his dragons of the Aerial Host had returned to the Lavadome with small injuries from their brushes with pirates on the Sunstruck Sea. She saw Ayafeeia whispering to him.
“If there’s going to be a battle, Wistala, you should be properly suited. We must have you looking the part,” HeBellereth said.
“What do you mean?” Wistala asked.
“Follow me, my Queen,” Ayafeeia said. “We still have a moment to prepare, and the engagement in the tunnels is not yet decided. Let’s hope it’s all for nothing, and the Firemaids hold them.”
“I’d rather help at the tunnels.”
HeBellereth was breathing hard, twitching to get into battle. “You’re the Queen. Your place is here. Ayafeeia, see to your Queen. I’ll go and reinforce the tunnels to the river ring.”
With that he rushed to the gardens and launched himself into the red light of the Lavadome.
Ayafeeia led her down to a chamber beneath the old Imperial Residence. Wistala had only visited it once before. It was a storehouse for gifts from the upholds, trophies taken in war, first lost scale of Imperial Line hatchlings—that sort of thing. Within the cramped chamber were a number of barred cages holding the most valuable items.
Veeeeee—Ayafeeia whistled through a nostril for thralls, and some fat old servants of the line appeared.
“The Tyr’s armor,” Ayafeeia ordered.
The thralls pointed and Ayafeeia nosed open a barred stall. In it were gleaming pieces of dragon-armor.
“Most dragons don’t like armor in battle—we have scale and the additional weight slows you down. Besides, you can’t fly with this heavy plate. It was built for FeHazathant but I believe you’ll fit in it, with your framing and musculature.”
The thralls and Ayafeeia extracted the pieces. Someone had kept it polished and oiled the leather straps. It was beautifully arranged and decorated; perhaps some dwarf had helped fashion it.
They put it on. Wearing something against the scale felt odd to Wistala. She felt herself a prisoner of the armor. But it did cover her head, chest, hearts, and flanks admirably—though her crest was squashed.
“I don’t know,” Wistala said. “It’s supposed to be for the Tyr.”
“You’re Queen-Consort, and the Lavadome is under attack. You want dragons to see you, don’t you?”
“Not being able to fly makes sure of your courage,” Wistala said. “Your leader can’t fly away when he’s wearing this.”
