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“The Ironriders wouldn’t be so foolish as to let all their riders pillage. There must be some force still keeping order.”
“I’m told there are chieftains and their personal guard squatting in on the Ziggurat and the Directory hall.”
“We’d best come in two waves, light/heavy,” Ayafeeia said. “Heavy wave will wait for the light to go to ground fighting, then fly in and support. We’ll grind them between ground and sky.”
“Opportunities for glory in the light wave, I think,” a dragonelle said.
“I shall lead it, my Queen—”
“No, Ayafeeia. You shall lead the heavy wave, to more judiciously direct their strength. You have the more experienced eye for that sort of thing.”
“No! The Tyr would never.”
“It’s a poor Queen who shouts ‘go’ and remains behind.”
“Yes, but a live one.”
“Oh, I’ve heard the whispers. ‘She does it for the bows.’ ‘She lives to humble those who once stood as her betters.’ ‘She murdered the Tyr’s first mate.’
“If the only proof they’ll accept is a corpse, so be it. My mate has said this is the beginning of an age of fire. I will put my flame where his words are.
“Are you coming, Essea, to represent the Imperial Line in this red dawn? Or were you only my friend these years to better pass around gossip about the private habits of the Tyr and his mate?”
Wistala had never seen such beautifully shaped claws on a dragon before. Her servants must have labored hard perfecting their shape. But they’d also perfected the points.
Essea looked doubtful. “I am your friend and loyalist, my Queen.” She stepped forward. “Admit me into the first wave.”
“Who else will fly with their Queen?”
Other Firemaids stepped forward, by tradition the oldest and toughest or the young seeking the glory of being named as the leader of the attack.
“That’s enough!” Ayafeeia cried, seeing old Verkeera step forward, her battered scales stitched together with Ironrider-rein and bound up in blood. “Verkeera, you have the biggest firebladder of any of us. Let me have it in my line to pour down on the enemy.”
“I would rather shield my Queen’s other flank with my body,” Verkeera said.
“I intend to move too fast to have much care for my flanks, Verkeera,” Nilrasha said. “The last time I led a line into battle against the Ghioz, we were trapped under walls and destroyed by Ghioz fighting from their fortifications. But this time our opponents are strangers to the city too! A house collapsed on me. I’ve been waiting years to return the experience to a few Ghioz.”
“Carry full bladders into battle,” Ayafeeia said. “We are matched against horsemen. But horses don’t care for the smell of dragons. Spray your water as carefully as you spray your fire, for once.”
The dragonelles chuckled at this and some made jokes about fighting with both ends. A few coarse jokes passed among the green ranks.
“What about you, Wistala?”
“I’m afraid to trust my wing to the air again. I will go in with the Hypatian horsemen.”
“We’ll count on you to come to the rescue of the first wave,” Ayafeeia said. “The sounds of fighting shouldn’t be hard to find.”
“Maidmother, would it not be better to let the Hypatians lead the attack? It’s their city. Let them keep their honor by winning it back.”
“It is an accepted rule of the battle art that air should pass ahead of ground, the way the rain strikes before the flood.”
The quote stirred Wistala’s hearts. She’d read an old battle-treatise of Rainfall’s grandsire. Strange that one of his maxims passed over to dragon-strategy in such a manner. Perhaps dragons had fought with the Hypatians in those ancient battles.
She brought herself back to the present.
“The Hypatians’ approach may draw the Ironriders out into battle.”
“Or it may send them to the walls and war-engines.”
