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Wistala thought his legion looked like ants stripping the corpse of some small lizard.
The Ankelenes and Rayg took great interest in the detritus of battle. They examined the tree trunklike boats, driven by ingenious underwater wings that revolved and steered by fans that allowed them to come up against the flow of the great underground river.
“HeBellereth still lives!” a white-eyed member of the Drakwatch squeaked.
“Did I win you enough time?” Wistala asked.
He was in ruins. Scale riven in too many places to count, a small lake of his own blood surrounding him. He’d used his wings to shield his throat from ax blows. They were as broken as felled trees and in tatters. He’d no more fly again than Nilrasha would. He’d also lost over half his tail. It lay further down the tunnel like a beheaded snake.
Wistala managed to find a few words to answer. “Yes, you did, great dragon. Your deeds will become legend in the Lava-dome and the Upper World.”
“Glorious,” HeBellereth said. “Those dwarfs really put up a fight. I’m ready … for a good long nap.”
HeBellereth shook his head. Wistala realized he was trying to raise his neck but was unable. “You’ll need to replace me. My slipwing, BaMelphistran, is a good dragon—assuming some pirate arrow hasn’t killed him, that is. In his place I’d put young FePazathon, he’s a cool head for a Skotl. Oh, and a new messenger I suppose. That young AuMoahk might do. He’s bright as an Ankelene, and eager. He carries Gunfer into battle and they’re fast friends.”
Wistala wondered. AuRon wasn’t overly happy with his family becoming entwined in the tendrils of Lavadome politics. To put one of AuRon’s on the path to leadership of the Aerial Host should make him proud, but…
Demen had fallen to their knees and were lapping up blood with eager hoots and whistle calls. Others gathered, drawn like ants to honey. One clacked his jaws and approached HeBellereth’s severed tail.
“You’ll keep away!” Wistala roared at the gathering demen.
They backed away from her fury. Wistala almost spat fire at them—but then her empty firebladder only produced a rather thin, smelly liquid and the effect would be more comical than intimidating.
HeBellereth was a tough old dragon, and incredibly, he didn’t die. But he lay in the tunnel he’d defended with his blood for days with support flowing from two directions, being brought water from the river ring and food from the Lavadome. An honor guard of the Drakwatch stood there at all times, listening to his breathing and licking out his wounds.
When he took his first halting steps to drag himself out of the tunnel Wistala confirmed his orders in the Tyr’s name for the new arrangement in the Aerial Host at a celebratory feast of fresh beef and pickled dwarf hands and feet. He could hardly deny the new position for AuMoahk out of vague suspicion. Apparently the young drake had distinguished himself adventuring on the Sunstruck Sea with his rider, so it would be doubly strange to not recognize achievement.
She watched NoSohoth paint new laudi and messenger insignia on the youngster.
However AuRon might feel about it, Wistala’s brother’s offspring were doing well in the Grand Alliance. Perhaps too well for their own good. Already there were whispers that the Copper was starting his own line to supplant the old and venerable Imperial Line.
AuRon looked forward to an evening with nothing more serious on his mind than deciding whether to have leftover mutton or fresh chicken for his evening meal.
Dairuss sweated under the late spring sun. Sheep were being shorn, rows of crops planted, the winter’s craft goods and woodwork were being hauled to the markets and boat landings for sale or transport, and Hypatian salt was cheaper than at any time in living memory.
Until their white-scaled neighbor decided to drop in. AuRon watched NiVom circle his resort, now with a comfortable wooden outside sleeping area added so he and Natasatch could sun themselves as they napped.
NiVom landed, dancing on sii and saa with impatience.
“AuRon, I’ve just heard some news. There’s been a catastrophic attack on the Lavadome. Dwarfs, I believe. Dozens are dead, especially among the drakes and drakka. Our Tyr has failed us with tragic results, and we must act. Will you fly with me?”
“I’ll fly with you anywhere, NiVom, but if it’s to fight against my brother—I won’t do it.”
“Dearest, we’ve spoken about this,” Natasatch said. “I’ve told Imfamnia we’re with them. You have our support, NiVom, if the other Protectors believe another Tyr could do better.”
AuRon stiffened. How much of this was playacting, how much was real? Well, they’d take their roles. “My mate has her own mind about politics, as you see.”
“Well, AuRon, you’re still welcome to come, either way. I’ve asked some other Protectors to meet in the Lavadome. Perhaps you can talk some sense into Tyr RuGaard.”
“You mean to attend to matters in the Lavadome, or use his sense to relinquish the throne?”
NiVom sniffed the wind. “The fastest way may be to fly straight to the south entrance. I can’t predict what the other Protectors will say, but many have told me privately they believe it’s time for a change. With luck, there’ll be no fighting. Too many Tyrs have fallen in a bloodbath. I’d like this to be different. Spilled blood always leads to bad blood.”
Fine fellow, that NiVom, AuRon thought. According to Imfamnia, he’d been intended to be Tyr at some point, but other, ambitious dragons had fomented a plot against him. Perhaps he should have been Tyr. Why the Spirits put the burden on his brother’s uneven shoulders he never knew.
The choice of mutton or chicken would have to be left with Natasatch.
“Farewell, my love. Do your best for King Naf until I return.”
