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“You would know better than I,” Yefkoa said. “I believe so.”
“Are they off fighting somewhere?”
“The Ironriders? No. The Hypatians took—oh, you don’t know about the great raids.”
“No.”
“It was mostly the Aerial Host with Hypatian troops. They hunted down the Ironrider bands, fought the warriors and made thralls of the rest. They’re mostly gone, but some dwarfish slavers still hunt the area. They bring the thralls to Wallander and sell them to us.”
That struck Wistala as nasty work. She could understand making slaves of a vanquished army—part of the chance one took in setting out on war—but to hunt hominids like wild animals solely to enslave them . . . that led to what? An empty land reverting to wildness. No trade, no camps full of song and the shrieks of children at play.
“How far until Wallander, Yefkoa? These steppes are depressing me.”
“We should reach it tomorrow, I think. The ground is more broken now as we approach the river. I understand your dislike for this country. It makes me feel like the only presence in the world, too. Or that someone is watching me.”
Wistala had no love for the Ironriders—she’d won some distinction among the Firemaids and the Tyr’s dragons fighting them, as a matter of fact. But she couldn’t help feeling that some continent-spanning wrong had been committed and that sooner or later the crime would demand atonement.
The crickets in Wallander were happy in the balmy spring evening. Yefkoa and Wistala had their wings partly spread out, carefully massaging hot muscles, cleaning wing skin, and flexing and contracting tender tendons to distinguish injury from exhaustion.
It felt good to be with a female close to her own mind. Scabia was so busy playing elder dragon-dame and head of household that one could never feel friendship, only condescension, and Aethleethia’s mind ran on a very few well-worn tracks.
“Why this hunger for slaves?” she asked Yefkoa.
“We go through thralls like chickens these days,” Yefkoa said. “Remember when there were herds and flocks in the Lavadome? Now the pens are filled with thralls, waiting and being examined for work, or breeding stock, or even training to support the Aerial Host. The old and sick are simply eaten, and most of the rest are worked until they drop, then slaughtered for food.”
“Life is cheap in the Empire these days. NiVom’s doing, or the twins?”
“NiVom has plans to enlarge the living space and passages in the Lower World. He has an army of demen now and he plans to have them move below the earth at speed, so they can appear in any city of the Empire without warning. In the end, I think he means Lower to rule Upper. So we’re all eating more worn-out thralls than we ever have.”
“Seems inefficient. Pigs put on flesh more quickly and easily,” Wistala said.
“Pigs can’t tunnel. There are vast works in process, under Hypatia and the other Protectorates. Any dragon who wishes to be thought a Someone needs a resort, above- and belowground.”
“What do they do in these resorts?”
“Stuff themselves and hold parties for each other and try to attract some rich hero of the Aerial Host. Even the Hypatians, who’ve benefited from the Empire’s extension the most, now are grudging about feeding. Hardly a drakka goes into the Firemaids anymore; they want a position in one of the Protectorates where they can sunbathe and send thralls out into the markets for paint and dye. Most of the young males fight to get into the Aerial Host, for the glory and the plunder. The Drakwatch is also withering down to little more than a cadre of impoverished or outcast families, supervising thralls in their work.”
Yefkoa was an unusually attractive dragon, if you liked the slim-framed type. “Why haven’t you found a place in the Empire? Taken a mate from the Aerial Host and joined the painted set?”
“No mates for me. I was once betrothed to a fat old gasper who already had more mates than he knew what to do with. After my parents agreed to my mating him he took me to survey his hill and almost as soon as we were out of sight he pinned me, wanting to mate then and there, out in the rocks like a couple of herdthralls. He was too fat to fly and too lazy to swim for mating, I imagine.” She shuddered at the memory. “Tyr RuGaard took pity on me and put me into the Firemaids.”
“Anyway, no mates for me. I’m oathed into the Firemaids and meant every word of the Third Oath. Nowadays there are Second-Oathers who speak the words as though they mean to say, Sundering myself from mated life for the protection of all (until a likely dragon starts a-courting, that is).
Wistala chuckled. She’d been oathed into the Firemaids as well, but political troubles and DharSii had come along before she’d spent enough years among them for the most solemn Third Oath vows.
Wallander was still a dumpy little collection of hovels on the riverbank. All it had to recommend it was a lake of slack water in the Falnges River and a wide beach for landing trade-craft. The only difference Wistala could mark was that the wall had fallen into even greater disrepair, and there were slave-pens everywhere, inside and outside the walls.
Wistala watched the wretches in the pens. Poor things. The dwarfs would chuck them into one of the barges, and from there they’d be taken to a tunnel portal. How many would never see the sun again, sicken, and die after a few years of hard work underground?
She’d never given much thought to thralls before, but the ones she’d known were the descendants of warriors who’d fought the dragons and were warm and clothed and fed decently. If the occasional gravely injured or sick thrall had been given quick death to ease their passing before being devoured, she shrugged it off as part of the long, unfortunate history between hominids and dragonkind. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, a dragon of any age caught by men or elves or dwarfs would be pierced with spears and end up with its bones adorning some thane’s trophy room or great hall. Gentlebeings like Rainfall were the rare exception in a hard world.
Remembering Rainfall’s kindness, his hatred of cruelty and injustice shamed her. What was her excuse for coarsening over the years? Rainfall had been cast away and forgotten by the Hypatian Order, its chivalry he’d preserved and kept until his dying breath.
“They aren’t part of the Empire yet, are they?” Wistala asked, pointing with her tail tip to the pens.
“They’re still outside the walls. The dwarfs are probably negotiating the sale,” Yefkoa said.
“There’s a problem with taking a long time bargaining. You may be shocked to find out your wares suddenly aren’t worth so much.”
