Dragon Fate: Book Six of The Age of Fire

by E. E. Knight

  There were a few oaths tossed back and forth as the dragons of the tower came out on the craggy green peninsula to see what the newcomers wanted as the gannets and puffins watched and chattered.

  “If it isn’t NooShoahk the assassin,” one of the tower dragons called, using one of the worst epithets in the dragon tongue.

  “What’s the matter, Blazewing, miss your nose-rings?” AuRon called back.

  “Steady there, AuRon,” NiVom said.

  A big green dragon-dame shouldered through the males. “AuRon! Good to see you again, you old chameleon. How is Natasatch?” AuRon recognized her as one of the dragonelles who’d been chained in the dark next to his mate.

  “Well enough, Hermethea. So you found a berth at the dragon tower, too?”

  “I tried inland, but I missed the taste of cod and lobster. I like the air here when I wish to fly and the smell of other dragons when I sleep. I’m surprised to find you off your isle. We all thought you meant to leave your bones there.”

  AuRon introduced her to Wistala and DharSii. Wistala thought her nice enough, though a bit bug-eyed.

  At last their brother joined the throng on the broken ground leading up to the tower. Wistala decided that the tower would be almost impossible to attack from either land or sea if it were defended by soldiers. It would take dragons in the air to destroy it.

  “So here you are,” the Copper said. An old woman who had been leaning on both him and a cane for support listened in. “Just in time for war.”

  “We came to give you news, and assistance if you need it,” Wistala said. She and DharSii took turns explaining the attack on Vesshall and the ship-burning raid on the Aerial Host camp.

  Wistala asked, “What happened to the dragonhelm?”

  “Some locals we’d hired as guides filched it. Odd bunch—dressed poor but rich as Hypatian merchant fleeters. They hired the dragon tower to go after some dwarfs. Fortunately for me, we came to another arrangement. They’ve joined the tower, but we lost a few things when the humans decamped. Turned out they were professional thieves.”

  “They could not have traveled fast with bags of gold,” DharSii said. “Did you hunt them?”

  “They just took jewelry. Killed poor young Longfang, who was on watch at the gate, as they escaped. Some gems the dwarfs had, and a belt with a great crystal, and my dragonhelm, which is nothing but silver, and the Wyrmaster’s old circlet of dragon-wings, which is nothing but copper wire and would hardly buy a new rowboat. I suppose they thought they might sell it south, in the Empire. We sent a couple dragons down the old north road, but no sign of them. One of the Empire dragons rose up from that town Quarryness to challenge them, and couldn’t give a broken piece of scale about helping us track murdering thieves. Said it was none of our business, as if a blood debt and recovery of our own could be anyone else’s. Our dragons turned around rather than start a fight.”

  “We’d feared you were dead,” Wistala said.

  The Copper snorted. “I feared it myself for a moment, down in the tunnels with the dwarfs. But it worked out in the end. They joined the tower on a temporary basis, until they build up enough wealth to reestablish themselves, perhaps on the wild coast across the Inland Ocean.”

  “If we’re to have a council of war,” the old woman said, “might we do it indoors out of the wind?”

  They all agreed to continue inside the tower. They took over the lowest level, which had the most floor space between the alcoves. Wistala saw an old design in the floor tiles, a human figure with outstretched arms and legs encompassed by a circle. The circle had at one time been painted with gold, but it was heavily flaked. She suspected the dragons had been licking at it.

  Men of Juutfod, so hairy they could have passed for tall dwarfs, served the inevitable mutton and honey-mead for dragons with a sweet tooth, and water with lime for those who preferred sour. Meager rations, but welcome after their days of flying from the Sadda-Vale.

  Hermethea and another of the fliers attended, as well as Shadowcatch from the groundeds. It was a very informal council of war, more a series of quiet conversations among the groups of dragons.

  Wistala found it touching the way Shadowcatch watched over her brother. It was hard to reconcile the lordly RuGaard from his throne in the Lavadome with the twisted, scarred, pinion-winged sulker from his years at the Sadda-Vale and the wretched hatchling who’d given his family over to slavers. She wondered if a third dragon had formed here in Juutfod, a creature of personal loyalties, just seeking the return of his mate.

  DharSii was strange and remained in the background, as though still deciding which way to jump. He had his own interests in the history of the Lavadome, its connection to Anklemere, and above all the strange crystals that all seemed connected in some fashion. She’d heard him tense briefly when they mentioned the loss of the big crystal in the dwarf’s belt.

  AuRon just wanted to know what he had to do to get back to his quiet life with his mate, Wistala decided.

  “So they have declared war on us?” AuRon asked. “Are NiVom and Imfamnia settling old accounts?”

  “I don’t believe the Dragon Empire considers us worth a war,” DharSii said. “To them, we’re an annoying blister. A small, sharp tooth will relieve whatever pain this little pustule causes them. That’s the only thing that explains so meager an effort.”

  The Copper thought for a moment. “Or they were trying to provoke you into rashness.”

  “Might we inspire others to join us?” Wistala asked. “I’ve been to the Lavadome recently. The few remaining dragons down there resent those on the surface. They are literally being bled dry to fund NiVom’s need to fill his treasury and Rayg’s experiments.”

  “Even were we to throw the whole strength of the dragon tower against the empire, we could be defeated by the Hypatians, with just the dragons who live there,” the Copper said. “We’d be a setback, nothing more. A few sparrows can spook a horse and throw it off stride. We might trip them, briefly.”

  “We can’t oppose them by force, then,” DharSii said.

  “Alone, no,” the Copper said. “We need allies.”

  “Who would dare go against the Empire?” AuRon asked.

  “What about the princedoms of the Sunstruck Sea?” Shadowcatch said. “They’re already under attack.”

  “They’re divided,” AuRon said. “They don’t trust dragons, for one. There are language difficulties. Though there are so many of them. City after city. It would take all the dragons of the Empire just to put one dragon in each.”

  “They probably will wage just enough war to force a reasonable tribute from the princes, as Ghioz did,” the Copper said.

  Wistala said, “I have friends in the north, among the Hypatians. They may be enough.”

  Gettel, who’d left another conversation and joined their group, rapped her cane on one of the old mosaic stones. “According to the tribesmen north of Juutfod, the Empire is demanding a vast levy in cattle from the barbarians. If they pay, it means there will be starvation in nearly every village. They wonder how, after giving up so many cattle, they will ever be able to pay next year’s tribute if one is demanded, or the one after that. It takes a long time to replace a cattle-herd. In the meantime, no milk for the children. They and the Hypatians are old enemies. Long ago, they sacked the city and occupied it briefly. That’s a story still told beside every hearth in the barbarian lands. They might be up for another try at them. I’ve had emissaries from the chiefs’ visit, asking for help dealing with the dragons. The barbarians can handle anything but fire from the air—it terrifies them.”

  “One dragon, to a barbarian, is dangerous,” she continued. “Two would be a calamity. Three and there would be some who’d take ship and risk the icy coast rather than stay among them.”

  “And six?” DharSii asked.

  “I’m not sure they can count that high. It requires a second hand,” AuRon said.

  The dragons, save Wistala, chuckled at that. She’d seen the barbar
ians in their war against the dwarfs. If aroused, they were a terrible foe. She wondered if NiVom knew that, or saw only a vast expanse of villages connected by a few pack-trader trails and hunting tracks.

  AuRon said the barbarians were very much like the wolves of the forest. They had no one king, but numerous chiefs. Getting the chiefs to unite in any permanent fashion was impossible. In the short term, they might unite in order to raid and plunder after a bad summer, or the loss of livestock to disease.

  “Do we really want another war?” Wistala said.

  “If the Empire falls in the manner of Silverhigh, that’s the end of dragons,” AuRon said. “I think it’s inevitable. Once the Hypatians decide they are strong enough, they’ll overthrow the dragons themselves.”

  The dragons absorbed AuRon’s words. All had heard legends of the days of death at the fall of Silverhigh. For an age afterward, dragons had hidden and scattered, until the Copper had brought them back to the surface.

  “That would be the end of us,” the Copper said.

  “They might rebuild on clan basis. Skotol and so on,” DharSii said. “There are still strong affiliations, though since the civil wars and Tyr Fehazathant, clan affiliations have been discouraged and he did all he could to break up the old allegiances.”

  “Perhaps we could precipitate their revolt,” AuRon said. “Control it, so it is directed against NiVom and Imfamnia. Turn them against the Empire. Wistala has friends high in their councils, I believe. They might rally behind reinstalling Tyr RuGaard.”

  “Perhaps,” Wistala said, “but the librarians aren’t influential. They’re a bit like the Ankelenes in the Lavadome. They go to them for the answering of questions; they don’t have the influence to sway a city.”

  “All I wish for is my mate back. I’m willing to walk alone into the Empire to demand it,” the Copper said.

  “RuGaard was rather clever about making the Hypatians his pets,” DharSii continued. “They would lose much if the Empire falls before they’ve reestablished themselves all around the Inland Ocean.”

  “One day they will realize that they are the Empire, more than a handful of dragons,” AuRon said. “Clever men will decide that they could do better without dragons taking the lion’s share of the Empire’s riches. After that, we’re finished.”

  “If they haven’t decided that already,” Wistala said.

  “So, we are resolved to break up the Empire,” AuRon said. “And render the Hypatians impotent at the same time.”

  The dragons all nodded.

  “A difficult task,” DharSii said.

  “The Empire’s strong enough to resist any outside attack now, by any power I can think of,” the Copper said. “Hypatian troops, Ironrider mercenaries, and slave-regiments, two fleets on the Inland Ocean and another being built on the Sunstruck Sea, both wings of the Aerial Host, Roc-rider scouts, the Griffaran Guards—any one of those could smash the barbarians if they so chose.”

  “I think Gettel is right,” Wistala said. “If we can handle the dragons, the barbarians might humble the newly arrogant Hypatians. They only think they’re strong because the dragons have won all their battles for them.”

  A shadow passed over the opening at the top of the tower.

  “Get Gettel,” a dragon voice shouted. “They are coming! The dragons of the Empire are coming!”

  “It seems we weren’t the only ones plotting war,” the Copper said.

  Chapter 12

  Why, oh why, had she ever joined the Aerial Host?

  Varatheela wondered.

  Of course she knew. She’d been a Firemaid and spent two years guarding an underground lake a weeks’ walk from the Lavadome, halfway between Anaea and Imperial Rock. Once it had been an important artery on the kern trade route—the older Firemaids said that kern had been a vital nutrient that allowed underground dragons to remain healthy without ever getting sun.

  She’d had such fun in her early years as a Firemaid, too. Parties and feasts and the sisterly affection of the First Oath. There’d been such thrilling games and contests against the young dragons, with the wingless females set against the Drakwatch and the mature dragonelles skirmishing with the young training reserves of the Aerial Host. Such colorful young males, many with wealthy parents aboveground in governorships.

  One was sure to ask her to mate, and then she’d have a sad party to bid farewell to the Firemaids and a happy party with many of the same dragons to celebrate the mating.

  The game of deciding on a mate was such fun. She took her time enjoying the attentions of several different males, but when the orders came for her to lead some younger drakka on a long training mission in the west tunnel she looked forward to the excursion. She would finally make up her mind while away, and alternately gladden and break hearts on her return.

  So she led the dragons on the march, passing on the lessons she’d learned about tunnel fighting and finding food and water and the way to know which direction is north when you’re deep underground (large patches of cave moss formed natural channels that indicated the north-south axis and glowed slightly better on the flanges facing south in the Northern Hemisphere, reversed in the Southern).

  But tragedy struck. A Third-Oath Firemaid guarding the dwarf-barge crossing died of illness and as the senior Firemaid available, Varatheela had to take her place and serve with the surviving Firemaid, a dull old hypochondriac named Angalia. Strictly temporary, Angalia assured her with a wink as the trainees were sent back west under the next senior Firemaid.

  So began a good many dreary years.

  She sent message after message back to the Lavadome, asking when a replacement could be found for Angalia’s dead partner. Every half year, she received a few brief lines from Ayafeeia that were, in essence, “I don’t understand. You have replaced her?”

  “But only temporarily,” she would bellow out into the lake.

  Angalia would chuckle. “That’s what I used to say. Ohh, my poor joints. Varatheela, heat some sheepskins to throw over them, won’t you, dear?”

  Angalia would talk about the glory days of the kern trade, when they might see a new face as often as once every ten or twenty days, or the time they’d fought some demen raiders before Ayafeeia finally took the Star Tunnel. What little traffic there was these days were training marches from the Drakwatch, Firemaids, and Aerial Host. And, of course, the blood-letters, demen who showed up with the regularity of a tide.

  She did learn a few words of dwarfish. The bargemen who crossed the lake brought trade-dwarfs a few times a year, on their way to sell their packs in the Lavadome. But even the luxury trade the Lavadome used to see had moved aboveground, and the dwarfs with it. The remaining traders were those unfortunates and failures who lost the better routes and made what they could off the trickle of underground dragon trade. Their beards were dark and patchy with hardly a glimmer of light.

  The food was dreadful. Fish taken from the lake by the dwarfs, heavily salted, and fried in their own liver oil. Salt pork once in a great while from the Lavadome.

  “There are some tunnels leading to the surface on the far end of the lake, dear,” Angalia advised. “Sometimes you can find escaped thralls in them, trying to make it out. They get lost and come down to the lake to find water. Sniff around the banks, and if you smell hominid, that means some are wandering about. They usually come back. The trick is to find a good drippy spot and sit with just your nostrils up. Then when they’re sucking water, you lunge up and get them by the head.”

  She made a halfhearted attempt to hunt thralls, but the only one she saw was hardly an adult, rail-thin, and covered in either pox or bug-bites that showed bright red against her pale skin. She didn’t have the heart to take her. In fact, she silently wished her well and left her a bit of bladder-wrapped salt pork she’d brought along as provision.

  After a year of listening to water drip into the lake, she applied for, and received, a week in the Lavadome.

  While even the meager foodstuffs grown and livesto
ck raised in the Lavadome seemed a banquet compared to the fare available at the crossing post, the rest of the visit was a terrible disappointment. The dragons who’d been courting her had moved on to other Firemaids, or had been promoted into the Aerial Host, or had gone on to apprenticeships. Other young dragonelles were attracting the attention of the trainees, who suddenly looked young to her. Squatting beside the lake with Angalia had left her scale dull and the dreadful food had made her lose weight. She discovered, to her horror, that her skin sagged about the wings, hips, and tail. She looked like she’d aged a decade!

  At one of the dinners with the Firemaids, Ayafeeia mentioned that she was being pressed by Imfamnia, hard, to give up some more Firemaids to the Aerial Host. To Ayafeeia, the Firemaids defended the next generation of dragons: The Lavadome still had more hatchlings in it than all of the Protectorates combined. Some thought this was because dragonelles expecting eggs wanted the comforts and familiar surroundings of their home hills when about to produce a clutch, but Ayafeeia thought the dragons on the surface were too busy greedily gathering every head of livestock and ring of metal they could fit between their grasping sii to produce any hatchlings.

  I’ll go into the Host! she’d squeaked like a hatchling. She actually looked around after speaking, so strange did her voice sound to her.

  Once she’d made that fateful decision, all the rest of the choices were easy. She hated the idea of carrying around a greasy, twitchy, complaining human. She’d heard from other dragons in the Host that having a rider wasn’t all it was made out to be. Yes, you had someone constantly attending to your teeth, scale, and claws, but their meals came out of your ration, and all the clothes and boots and furs and weapons and accoutrements came out of your hoard.

  Once you were, quite literally, saddled with a rider, you had to take care of him, yes, him, unlike with dragons, female humans almost never devoted themselves to fighting. Everyone knew that male thralls were more trouble. When they weren’t fiddling about with their fronts, they were scratching at their rears. The humans of the Aerial Host—a blighter or two were sprinkled in, but elves and dwarfs didn’t care to seek fortune and glory in this manner—weren’t treated like other thralls. They were left reproductively intact, for one, as the warriors who excelled in their duties were encouraged to father as many offspring as possible to either take their places in the Aerial Host or serve in one of the captaincies—human garrisons led by a dragon.