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“Madness,” AuSurath said.
“Yes, sounds it, doesn’t it?”
“Some of the dragons won’t much care for killing him. He led us in battle and promoted some of us. Including myself.”
“If it comes to bloodshed, will you help Gundar take her head?”
“I’m a dragon of the Empire and Commander of the Heavy Wing. Duty to Empire and Wing and family comes first. In that order.”
“As it should be. Aaagh, I was considering flying back to the palace tonight and see if I might get NiVom out of his funk—the Queen says he’s been locked up in his sleeping chamber with maps laid on every square inch for three days now—but I can’t face a night-flight. Not that facing a night in the rough is all that attractive, either. Why weren’t you garrisoned in the Golden Dome, for Spirits’ sake?”
“Orders, sir. The Iwensi riverbank, for easy supply.”
“The supplies would probably have to come from the city anyway. Who gave those orders?”
“It wasn’t you, sir? Then I assume it was Tyr NiVom.”
“Some courtier probably wrote his words down badly.”
“Well, we’ll see what we can do about making you more comfortable, my lord.”
“However,” BaMelphistran said. “Young wings need exercise.” He turned to his freshly fledged assistant. “Fly first to the City of the Golden Dome and ask for supplies to be sent here. Then go to the Sun King’s palace and ask if the Heavies might be moved to the old delvings at the falls. That’s all.”
The messenger repeated the orders verbally to show he understood, then launched himself eagerly into the night air.
“Should have sent you to the delvings in the first place. It’s not far, and there’s plenty of room and facility for the care and health of your fighting dragons. I’ve just come from there. Perhaps Tyr NiVom was worried that the rot had spread all the way there. I’ve half a mind to countermand the Tyr, but just in case there was an important reason for you to sit here, I’ll leave things as they are for now.”
AuSurath couldn’t have agreed more with the sentiment that they should occupy the old dwarf delving, but at the moment he was racking his brain, wondering what food there was around camp fit for the Grand Commander of the Aerial Host. You couldn’t tell a dragon in line of succession to the throne to just shove his snout in riverbank mud and swallow whatever he could suck up.
For the rest of his life, AuSurath never quite forgave himself for being deep asleep when the troll attack struck.
They came, as startling as a thunderclap on a clear night.
Trilling pipe-whistles the Dragonriders used to pass signals sounded first, followed by roars and cries from dragons. The hisss-whoof of dragon-flame bursting into life met him as he leaped from under the sheltering willow tree.
AuSurath thought he’d woken into another dream, this one a nightmare of fire and fear.
Creatures the likes of which he’d never seen danced in battle with the dragons of his precious, alarmed command. They were taller than dragons, with two massive forelimbs holding up a wedge-shaped body. A sort of gash or mouth could be seen at the base of the wedge, near two smaller limbs that seemed to be used only for stability. An orb on a kind of short tentacle stood out from somewhere between the chest and the stomach—at least that’s what he would call the upper and lower half of the body. At the back, flaps of skin lifted and lowered, revealing pink tissue beneath.
They were thick-skinned and scaly. Some had huge, full sets of wings that resembled webbed spider-legs coming out of their backs; others had more rudimentary versions of a real wingspan. A few had horns and hide, crests and frills, or something that looked very much like them, running across their headless shoulders or down the back between the flapping sheets of muscular tissue.
They were silent in battle, save for a disgusting wet gulping sound and flaps of wing and back-flesh.
A headless dragon lay sprawled in front of the command tent, his dazed rider looking down at the body. He noted dully that it was his best rock-bouncer from the tower assaults.
These must be trolls. He’d heard them described in some lecture or other on exotic fauna, but he remembered being more interested in the talk about Rocs of the southern jungles.
“Rally to the tent! Defend our Commander!” he shouted.
At his shout, the tent rippled. A troll, dripping with river-water and blood, hurled a substantial piece of the Grand Commander of the Aerial Host at him. BaMelphistran’s haunch bounced harmlessly off his back.
A blade flashed from the darkness. Gundar flew out of the night as though he bore wings, rather than a flashing sword. He was almost naked, having risen from sleep in just a set of riding underbreeches. The great blade chopped down on the troll’s stumpy orb that was fixed on AuSurath.
Another gout of dragon-flame lit up the fierce, tooth-clamped battle grin on Gundar’s face. He went into a fight wearing a smile as wide as a banner.
A dragon rolled practically under his feet, in a death grapple with a troll. The troll had those two huge limbs across his back, and judging from the way the dragon’s saa dragged, his back was already broken. But still he fought, teeth biting and tearing at the muscular shoulders, searching for a fatal blood vessel.
When the troll rolled above the crippled dragon, AuSurath took the opportunity to leap. He came down in a manner that he’d learned long before the Aerial Host. His father had taught him to strike in a tight curl, grab sii- and saa-fuls of flesh and lash out with his powerful rear legs.
