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“What is your name, girl?” Wistala asked.
“Adaska,” she answered.
“I’m—”
“The Oracle-dragon.”
“No. Well, I was. Now I’m just Wistala, a dragon who has had enough of fighting.”
“What can you mean?” she asked, stepping a little farther onto her doorstep. Someone hissed at her from inside, but she ignored the comment.
“I don’t know when all this started. Did my grandsire kill yours, or did yours kill mine? Your father killed mine, and I should kill yours, but I expect you or your brother would come after me. Am I right?”
“We would. But dragons must be slain.”
“Must they? Size put aside, I’m not certain we’re so very different.”
“Dragons bring ruin and fear wherever they go; look what happens across the lake,” she said. Wistala looked, the carrion birds were already gathering. She wondered if Bartleghaff or his relations were among them. “This was always a peaceful place until you came.”
“As was my home cave until the dwarves across the lake came. Let us put an end to this feud. At least the one that exists between your family and mine.”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ll know when you have children of your own. Where can I find your father?”
She hesitated. “He rode with his armsmen and dogs, answering the call of the mountain king to hunt you down. He took the north trail.”
Wistala sighed. “I’ll make it easier for him to find me.”
“You shouldn’t. He will kill you.”
“Perhaps,” Wistala said. “Will you consider what I said?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Now I go to convince your father.”
With some pain she rose into the air and winged across the lake. She found a trail, an old sort of road winding along the lakeside and over little chasms on bridges and between thin, wind-bent trees. The road was nothing compared to Rainfall’s, it was little more than a paved goat trail. It looked old enough for blighters to have built it. Old as war.
But also old as bridges. She alighted on one, and looked to where her eye caught a glint of metal. She retreated to the far side of the ancient bridge and waited.
The file of riders soon came over the rise and down the path toward the bridge, which leaped across a chasm to waters that lapped where her tail would reach if she let it dangle. Instead she wrapped it about the bridge; the masonry looked loose enough to be pulled apart if she exerted herself.
The men spotted her and let out halloos. They dismounted and clapped visors across helms, notched arrows into bows, and the Dragonblade came forward with spear and sword.
With a shout, one of his handlers released the dogs, who poured across the bridge in a bristle-backed river.
Wistala flapped her wings, hard, held fast by her tail. The force of the windstorm sent the dogs plummeting off the bridge into the waters below—some with a knock or two, but they swam to rocks and climbed upon them to bark up at their now impossible-to-reach prey.
The Dragonblade stepped forward, looked down at the vociferous, dripping pack, pulled back his visor and laughed loud and long. He had to lean on his spear shaft.
“Dragonelle,” he said, wiping his eyes. “You are hard on my dog packs.”
So he did know the name for a female dragon!
“Your daughter told me I could find you on this road,” Wistala said.
The Dragonblade’s face went white, and he raised his spear for a throw. His son behind came forward with a bow ready. “If you’ve—”
