by E. E. Knight
Then she entered the Directory.
It reminded her a little of the grand court in the Sadda-Vale, in that there was a hole in the ceiling admitting light and air, though it was smaller. Columns of various colors and types of stone stood all around, ones of limestone much decorated, with a pair of old black obelisks set off in an alcove in dignified isolation. Benches, stools, chairs, and statues of mighty beasts littered the open space—there was even a dragon, though the artist had become carried away and it bore entirely too many horns and tusks and the wrong number of toes.
Perhaps ten-score men met here, talking or drinking or eating from long, tiny platters built to easily extend a tidbit. They wore robes of black and white. White trimmed with black seemed to be the most popular, but some had black trimmed with white. Scribes and servants sat on little cushions, writing messages or keeping track of a debate.
Clever stairways and rests were built into many of the statues. Some men had climbed to the top of the larger ones to be better heard.
All eyes turned to her as her shadow fell across the floor.
Ansab rang a gong as they entered. Paffle leaned over to say something to one of the scribes. The scribe picked up sort of a wooden case and, holding it steady as though afraid to disturb the contents inside, carried it in their wake.
Ansab climbed onto a black statue of a pair of teamed horses rearing and leaping. A platform stood between them, carved to look like traces.
He spoke in a tongue only slightly familiar to Wistala. As best she could make out, he said, “Let the ears of those of the Directory hear, and through their tongues those of the city speak, and through their loins those of future generations remember, our words.”
An elf stepped forward, long grapevines hanging to his waist growing from his hair. He wore a draping sort of garment tied this way and that about his torso.
“I am Cornucus, Voice of the Directory,” he said, climbing the dragon statue until he stood just behind its horned crest. “Are you the same Wistala granted citizenship in Hypatia under the request of the librarians of Thallia?”
Wistala was grateful that he spoke so clearly. She had an easier time understanding him.
“I am.”
Assorted shouts broke out from the men in black and white robes.
“Dragon. Librarian. Emissary,” the Voice said. “Ahem. Which do you come as?”
“A daughter of Hypatia. A sister of dragons. I will be true to both.”
Some of the directors shouted advice to the Voice, but he gave no sign of recognition.
“Say what you have been asked to say,” the Voice said.
“The Tyr of the dragons asks me to say: We share a common enemy, the Red Queen of the Ghioz. In the end she will want the whole world. Should Ghioz claim either of our two kingdoms, the other would fall quickly. Only together can we see victory.”
“Then you also come as a mother of troubles,” a man in a white robe called.
Shouts and whistles broke out as she spoke. They were losing their awe of her quickly. Men were ever thus, plunging from fear to contempt. She tried to remember the respect for Hypatian institutions that Rainfall had taught her—after all, they’d known peace for years not easily counted.
“There will be no war,” the Voice said. “Not if the Directory acts wisely.”
Behind her she heard the head librarian mutter something to Paffle.
“You are wrong,” a voice called in a more familiar accent of the Hypatian tongue.
Wistala followed the echo to a dark young man in riding apparel. He wore a heavy necklace of rectangular pieces of gold.
“We’ve already heard you speak—ahem—Thane of Hesturr.”
Hesturr. Wistala remembered that name. The ruins of Hesturr tumbledown, the evil thane who’d stabbed gentle Rainfall. She looked at the man afresh. There was something of Vog in his wariness.
“But she has not heard me, sir.”
He stepped up beside her and raised his palm in salutation. “I know the name Wistala of Mossbell.”
At that there were more murmurs.
He ignored them, raising his voice. “While we speak through the day, dine and dance at night, and sleep long into the morning, Ironrider scouts move through Thul’s Pass and raid our flocks in the north, steal horses, and assemble piles of firewood. I do not believe they do all this for the sake of amusement, though it may be hard for some of those here to imagine any other pursuit.”
An older man stood up and hopped up on the pedestal supporting the dragon statue. “Roff, trade has always passed though Thul’s Pass and the Ba-drink. The dwarves keep the pass.”
“Yes. They always have as long as we remember. But that does not mean they always will.”
“The Ironriders mass in the Iwensi Gap as well.”
“The thanes of the north always cry war and ask for help to avert disaster,” another director said, joining the others with the Voice at the dragon. “Salted cod and cries of disaster is all we receive from the north. The Empire would be better off without both.”
“If I may return discussion to the dragon and her offer,” the Voice said. “Do you have anything to add?”
“I did not come with just words. A force of dragons waits among the bugs in the marshes to the south,” Wistala said.
“Hypatia would have more friends in the world. If your—ahem—Tyr would like to establish communication and commerce, Hypat would be pleased to see again the old routes reestablished in the south. We will not take sides in a war with Ghioz.”
Wistala left the Directory, alone and dejected. Even the head librarian stayed behind to talk matters over with the Voice.
Roff, the thane from the north, hurried to catch up with her.
“Dragon, wait.”
“Dragonelle,” Wistala corrected. He was stocky but powerful-looking, like a tall dwarf. His eyes were as pleading as a dog’s, but more intelligent.
“If you will accept the friendship of a piece of Hypatia, rather than the Directory, I would hear your answer.”
“Does not the rule of the Directory apply to her thanes?”
“Oh, they weary me. But I had to make the trip. I found them as deaf as usual to difficulties in the north. We’re poor provinces, compared to those south of the Falnges.”
“I know. I spent years in the north.”
“Yes. You once met my father, the night he died.”
“Your father.”
The man waved his hand, as though casting something away. “Yes. I know it’s against tradition, for a thanedom to fall to a son, but more and more the thanes are going their own way on such matters, with so little contact or help from the Directory.”
“No. I just—I expected a different reaction.”
“You shouldn’t. I grew up in my father’s house. He was a jealous, ill-tempered man. I promised myself I’d be different, both as man and as thane. Ragwrist is a friend of mine, and our two poor lands are friendlier now.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“The Hypatian order is failing. The Empire is no empire at all but a historical anachronism.”
“Rainfall of Mossbell did not believe that to be true.”
“He is dead. I fear in my lifetime I may need to make other arrangements for the security of the lands under my protection. With the Ironriders scouting my borders I’d make a pact with demen to save my thanedom. I will take the alliance you offer.”
“I am not sure elves know death as you and I, but I do agree he is no longer the master of Mossbell.”
“How many dragons do you offer?”
“A sc—fourteen have accompanied me, and twice that number of drakka—wingless females.”
The thane lost some of his composure for the first time since they’d met.
“Fifteen! With you. That is a force to be counted as great. I know what that number of dragons can do, I saw it in the late war. We may be able to turn back the Ironriders after all.”
“I’ll settle for chasing th
em out of Hypatia.”
“I should think you would be glad of its passing. The Hypatians killed dragons who stole from their flocks.”
“There are more recent wrongs I am attempting to forget.”
“You know the ruins of Hesturr—Tumbledown, some call it, I take it.”
“I do.”
“Bring your dragons there, but take care to fill their bellies with turtles or whatever you may find in the marshes before they arrive. My entire thanedom will have difficulty feeding so many dragons. Even on the easy path of the old north road, I fear you may arrive before us. A descent of dragons upon my lands would be met violently.”
“We will make do somehow. We came to fight, not to eat. Your lands and flocks will remain undisturbed. If there is fighting, we will find sustenance.”
Roff laughed. “A dragon-army at war. To think I lived to see such things.”
“I will ride as quickly as I can to see to the muster. We meet again at Hesturr!”
She brought her dragons north into familiar lands in easy stages, flying at dawn and dusk. Under Ayafeeia’s direction they flew north in four groups, with the lead turning south every few horizons and flying south until they were the back group. By such crossing patterns, watchers on the ground might be confused.
They landed in the ancient Hypatian ruins of Hesturr, piles of overgrown rubble that some would call picturesque. To Wistala they brought back mostly bad memories—the trip that ended in the loss of her father and Rainfall’s wounding that night of the brush with the old thane, Vog.
Now the ruins of a great city held only sheep. The shepherds ran as the dragons landed and began to explore.
“Thick forests around here,” Ayafeeia said. “Bad ground for fighting, especially against horsemen. They can use the trees as cover. We can’t go after them without breaking wings.”
Wistala suspected that the shepherds of Hesturr would be missing a few sheep when next they counted. Drakka kept flitting off to hunt and returning with bits of wool stuck in their snouts.
The lack of discipline rankled. “We came here to make friends, not impoverish the locals. The thane will give us sheep enough once he catches up to us.”
Ayafeeia sent out dawn and dusk patrols to make sure the Ironriders weren’t already on their way. They reported nothing of interest except game and livestock. Wistala warned them away from the livestock again.
Her maidmother granted her permission to visit the inn near Mossbell.
Either the village had shrunk, despite the new buildings, or she’d grown.
She could only pay a brief visit to the Green Dragon Inn, sticking her head in through the half-door in the back as in the old days, after receiving many embraces upon her landing.
The cats seemed most disturbed by her presence. Old Yari-Tab had long since died, but one of her kittens was now an aged, scrawny black cat named Aroo.
“Does the rainy season end soon, you think?” he asked Wistala.
“Wistala! Your brother has been here,” Hazeleye said.
In response to that, she had to tell the story. And then tell it again, with fewer digressions into what the Lavadome was, who the Firemaids were, and why demen would bind and starve a dragon.
Widow Lessup still lived, though she had difficulty getting about.
They were still talking when Ragwrist and his mate, or rather, wife, Dsossa, rode in on lathered mounts.
“Can we expect a visit at Mossbell as well?”
“I must return to my comrades at Tumbledown.”
They talked of war and trade on the bridge. Ragwrist had a plan for taking apart the repaired center span of the great bridge that his estate was responsible for keeping in order and hiding the pieces in Wistala’s old troll-cave.
“AuRon left some kind of message for you there, if you wish to read it.”
She did, that night. It was detailed instructions on how to fly to the Isle of Ice and which dragon to ask for and some talk of wolves.
She came to regret the trip. It reminded her of how happy she’d been at Mossbell. Perhaps, once she’d helped the Firemaids of the Lavadome and paid off, in part, the debt she could never pay in full, she would be able to return. This troll-cave was a splendid spot, though it needed a good cleaning thanks to the rooks and pelicans.
When she flew back to the ruins, she found Thane Hesturr there with a few of his retainers.
“It seems your company started on the sheep without me,” he said. “I smoothed it over and told them I said you might feed yourselves from the flocks and I would reimburse them. But I’m not a rich man.”
“Our help has a price,” Ayafeeia said, when Wistala passed on the thane’s complaint. She bit off a response. If this would be her role as a diplomat, “smoothing” over matters of poached sheep, her term as ambassador would be short-lived—she’d rather be telling fortunes with the circus again.
“I’m sorry we’re taking up your shepherds’ grazing space.”
“It matters not. They like to bring the sheep here so they can poke around in the ruins. There’s always some new rumor about where gold is buried.”
“If there is gold buried here we’ll soon have it up. Dragons have noses for refined metals. We were hunting those here when we had the unfortunate dispute with your father.”
“I was a boy when he died,” Thane Hesturr said, sounding very much out of humor. Before, he’d spoken of it lightly. Perhaps he was just tired from his journey, or perhaps he’d heard multiple complaints about missing animals. “I will take your help. While you are of aid to Hypatia, I offer you my courage and strength and support. Should you fail in your alliance, I will take my grandfather’s revenge upon you.”
Wistala translated that for Ayafeeia. She asked what he meant by support.
“Meat, fowl, and fish. Also, such irons as you might like. We’ll be collecting old nails and broken tools for you.”
“By the Stormbringer and the Nightdeath, we can use that,” Ayafeeia responded to the translated offer.
Wistala flew out on a night reconnaissance to see how many of the rumors were true.
One she could verify at once: The Ironriders had moved before the Hypatians could gather, it seemed.
The carrion birds led her to the work of the Ironriders.
She passed over burned villages, with heaps of the dead staked out lining the roads. Heads, black with flies and poked and torn by birds, lay in the road like oversized onions.
Other villages and homesteads lay empty. She hoped the owners had fled and the pieces of torn clothing and footwear were just bits and pieces dropped by the riders as they carried off their loot.
From the heights, she saw groups of riders. They’d set up tall, narrow tents from which the fragrant aroma of smoking meat rose into the skies.
So these were the mighty Ironriders. Both the men and their horses appeared bony and undersized, but Wistala knew better than to rely overly on appearances.
The Ironriders, meeting no resistance, had already divided. One column of riders went north, a second stabbed east, and a third headed off to the south, perhaps to seize the river gap where the mighty Falnges fell past the dwarves of the Chartered Company.
The northbound column she would not worry about. If they intended to pass into Varvar lands seeking plunder they’d be in for the fight of their lives, in thick, wolf-haunted woods crossed by many rivers. She knew how quickly the barbarians there would drop their eternal feuds to unite against invaders.
As for the southbound column, they would have a long and difficult trip across hills that would meet them like a series of walls. They would not be able to use their horses to advantage, and the few settlements in the wild mountain foothills would have plenty of warning of their arrival and drive their flocks even higher into the mountains. They would lose many horses on the thin soil of the foothills.
The center column, however, was the most numerous. It aimed straight for the old road that passed through all the thanedoms of the Hypatian nor
th. Once on that, the horsemen could travel like poison in a bloodstream from town to town and finally into the sun-blessed city of Hypat itself. The Ironriders would burn art a thousand years old to toast their horseflesh on sticks and strip the temples of their silver statues.
But perhaps, just perhaps, Hypatia would summon its legions in time, put competent generals at their head, and destroy the northern invaders, then turn to meet the southern.
Hypatia would like to know what sort of numbers had come across the pass, thanks to the treacherous Wheel of Fire.
She passed to the other side of the Red Mountains and trembled. Winking lights of charcoal fires dusted the open plain everywhere there weren’t corrals of horses and goats and sheep. Laden carts sat full of hay and grain, and packs of dogs ran here and there.
The greatest summer priestly festivals in Hypatia didn’t draw a third as many people. Yet these were warriors, with feathers and furs trimming shield and scabbard, under the painted bones tingling wind chimes of a hundred nomadic princedoms.
No wonder DharSii had brought a warning. Had he told of another army such as this to the south? She’d heard talk of it.
She wondered what the Red Queen had promised the princes of the Ironriders to gain their cooperation. Loot? Would each warrior be allowed to carry off one woman and one child as slaves, bound across the leather and sheepskin of their saddles?
What did Mother say about fighting? Hit them where they’re thin. A deer is vulnerable at the leg or neck. A man at the knee, elbow, and throat. Of course, dwarves present a problem—they’re thick everywhere to look at. Thin only in flexibility, dwarves, and she’d improvised her way into breaking a king who would not bend.
The Ironriders ran thin in this pass.
“Excellent ground, Wistala,” Ayafeeia said, when she took her up after dusk that night to view the pass. “I have never seen a finer place for dragons to do battle.”
“Between us we should be able to burn the boats they use to cross the Ba-drink.”