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The bats thrived, and grew to know Imperial Rock better than the Copper did, for they flew around the upper levels, hunting insects, or flitted out into the Lavadome in search of tied livestock.
The adult bats aged quickly, in the manner of rodents. Mamedi dropped eventually. Thernadad grew old, almost blind and deaf, but his appetite, and that of his brother’s, never flagged.
The trio of young bats—the Copper called them Big Ear, Spike Hair, and Wide Nose for their most prominent features—grew into truly colossal bats, bigger than Thernadad and his brother put together. The Copper suspected they sneaked dragonblood when they could.
NeStirrath had him apply his energy to the drakes as a sort of assistant, saving the old dragon’s saa wear on the longer hikes and expeditions.
The Copper made the best of his time, plaguing NeStirrath with questions about the Lavadome, draconic history, even how he came to lose his wings.
“It was in the civil wars, of course. Dragon family against dragon family, a terrible business. It was an aerial duel. A Skotl-clan dragon named AgMemdius tore into my back. Most dragons would be satisfied with just crippling a wing, but he wanted me to fall to my death. The Tyr himself pulled me out of my fall, and we splashed into a lake together. In the end we reconciled only when the blighters rose.”
“How did the Tyr come to lead the dragons here?”
“Strange you should ask that. Rethothanna is creating something she calls a history—it’s like a lifesong, only you sing it about someone else—and she’s on me like a leech. Seems a waste. If you’re so wretched you don’t have any deeds to sing of, better to die trying for a few lines of your own than reciting someone else’s laudi. Anklenes,” he finished with a growl.
“What does she want from you?”
“The lines of my lifesong about the war between the Skotl and the Wyrr and the Anklenes. I hardly know her, and here I’m supposed to spew out my lifesong as though she were my poor Esthea? Just seems wrong.”
NeStirrath always darkened at the mention of his mate. The Copper didn’t know the circumstances, only that she was dead.
“Tell them to me, your honor. I’ll go over there and deliver it for you, and bring back any questions. I’ve been curious about their hill; I’d be glad of the errand.”
“Dragons set too much on appearances. Why not? You’re practically a son to me. We’d have been proud to hatch you. You’re a quality drake. I feel much better now, having one I can trust. Among dragons trust is more seldom shared than even gold.”
The Copper gulped. Usually NeStirrath was finding fault with the sharpness of his saa, or telling him to always poke his head over a ridge’s crestline and examine the other side closely before crossing, lest game be scared away or enemies forewarned, or barking at him to take brief naps when in the field and save real sleep for safe, well-guarded caves.
“I’m not much for wordplay—that’s an Anklene pastime—but here are the parts:
When CuTar’s sons in battle met
One perch but we nine who sought
Two-score dragons fell to earth.
In Rednight’s reckoning fought
Three lines at war for power’s pride
Black murder just a tool
AgMemdius struck, my hatchlings died
A bloody cave I found
An anguished roar, a wish for death
I sought my bloodstained foe
And over Kog’s hill, trading breath
We perished, each aflame…
It went on for quite some time, about how the dragons fought to rule the great cave. Meanwhile an alliance of dwarves, demen, and blighter thralls took advantage and struck, attempting to recapture the Lavadome. But a dragon named FeHazathant rallied them, made peace between the lines, and organized the dragons according to their abilities.
Old RaHurath, unable to fly without first dropping from a height, called on his old friends the griffaran, who helped turn the tide when the dwarves attacked Imperial Rock. FeHazathant himself, hiding a grievous spear wound, flew from point to point, rallying dragons and convincing them to abandon their caves and treasures for a last stand atop Black Rock. A beautiful dragonelle named Tighlia went bravely into the blighter camp, ostensibly to negotiate, but instead sowed discord between the blighter army and their allies, so they quit the battle with cries of “betrayal” when they suffered a reverse. EmLar, a slender, scaled gray born an Anklene thrall and a grandsire of Nivom, was put in charge of the drakes. He had them bury themselves in the gravel of the lower passages. The drakes trapped the demen’s storming column, collapsing a wall that trapped half the demen forces inside the rock, and took turns volleying flame at any others who tried to get in to reinforce them.
“They died in these chambers. That’s where we got many of these skulls.”
