Dragon Avenger

“I don’t know that script,” Wistala said.



“It’s the old iconography,” DharSii said, rearing up to climb into the tunnel mouth. His tail gave a little twitch; perhaps he was pleased at her ignorance. “It reads ‘Welcome is the dragon who alights in peace.’ ” They passed down a short passage, arched above to match the stone lattice outside, filled in with six-sided colored chips in all the colors of dragonhood, making patterns interlaced and winding above and beneath in such intricacy that Wistala wished she had an afternoon just to let her eyes travel the path.



But DharSii did not stop, but moved on into another cavern.



This one was vast and round, by far the biggest interior Wistala had ever been in. The far walls were so distant their old footfalls bounced back at them from the walls to join the fresh noises they made, waiting to take their turn to visit the other side of the cavern and return.



The convex ceiling curved high enough for Wistala to flap her wings and fly if she wished, and went up like an inverted bowl to a circular gap that admitted the outdoor light and aired the room. It wasn’t big enough to fly out, she’d have to fold her wings to pass through it. A shallow pool of water stood under the skylight, and the floor under the light was much edged with bands of green copper, one of which the edge of splash of dim sunlight rode even now.



Around the walls of the cavern—or chamber, rather, for while there was mountain muscle to be seen there was no rock that was not shaped by artistry—long blocks of basalt stuck out of the wall, narrowing and rising to a softened point like an inverted dragon claw. At the far end, two scaly forms reclined.



Wistala saw more blighters at work beneath the smaller, scrubbing the tiled floor.



DharSii struck off straight across the floor toward the pair and Wistala followed, hearts hammering. The place smelled of dragons, rainwater, and fresh air; she relished every breath, took it in through her nostrils and clamped them so the homey smell might never escape.



There were still dragons in the world, not skulking and hiding but living in grandeur and peace!



At their approach the blighters carried off their implements, flattened and squeezed themselves through a thin gap at the base of the wall like escaping mice before a prowling tom.



They caught her eye only because of the motion. The two dragons on the jutting lofts of rock had her attention.



Both were dragonelles, one rather undersize, her green scales pale and almost translucent, well formed of limb though in a delicate way that suggested little in the way of gorge or exertion.



The other was a white dragonelle, formidably huge and perhaps a bit more massive than DharSii. Wistala had the odd sensation of knowing her without having ever been introduced, probably some vague echo of a mind-picture from Mother. But there was, yes, a half-familiar shape to her short, proudly curved snout, the challenging arc of her eye ridge . . . Her scales had thinned a bit around her jawline and above her eyes, the flesh sagged in a little where her saa met her spine; she was a dragonelle of long years but still formidable.



“I bring a visitor, Damesister.” It took Wistala a moment to work out the relationship; she’d only heard the word once before from her Father in one of his battle-stories . . . a man or a dwarf would have said aunt. “I humbly present Wistala, a dragonelle out of the south, who seeks ha-hem succor and solace.”



I never said that, Wistala thought.



The striped dragon turned to her. “Wistala, this is Scabia, Archelle of the Sadda-Vale, and her daughter Aethleethia, my ha-hem beautiful uzhin.”



Both dragonelles fluttered their griffs at Wistala with that same bird-wing delicacy. Wistala thought she should fit in and tried to imitate it, but her griff rattled off her scale, and the dragonelles glanced at each other.



The white dragon extended her nose just a little and sniffed the air in Wistala’s direction, her pink eyes as cold as the glaciers Wistala had passed over.



“Will you not make her welcome?” DharSii said, and Wistala liked him a little better.



“Who were your sire and dame?” Scabia asked.



“AuRel of the line of AuNor and his mate Irelia.” Wistala decided to make her introduction formal, and spoke as Mother taught: “I was first daughter and fourth out of the five eggs.”



“Ah,” Scabia said. “I thought I recognized your wing-points. I knew your mother somewhat. You are how long out of the egg?”



“These thirteen winters.”



“And already wide-winged! I’m amazed.”



Aethleethia extended her long neck and scratched herself under the chin with the claw tip on her loft, and DharSii turned away to inspect a piece of iconography etched on the floor in a manner similar to that ringing the entrance. He brushed away some dust with his tail so that the black glass might shine.



A shadow darkened the splash of outside light and the golden dragon dropped through with wings folded. He opened them again with dramatic suddenness and alighted. “Ah-ha! A visitor!” he trumpeted, folding his wings.



“Ha-hem,” DharSii said, his eyes and nostrils half-closed. “Wistala, you meet the dragonlord of Vesshall, NaStirath.” A certain airiness highlighted the words, but what he meant to imply, if anything, Wistala couldn’t guess, not knowing him well.



“My daughter’s mate,” Scabia added.



NaStirath loosed a short but loud prrum in the general direction of Aethleethia’s place. The lord of Vesshall was a finely formed fellow, long and well fed, not a scar on him or a scale out of place, and he smelled of steam and hot scale, being fresh out of the lake.



He spoke: “Just like you, DharSii, to guide a female over me without an introduction. Don’t tell me you’re finally courting a mate.”



“I hope not!” DharSii said. “Too wide of wing, and her tail is so much longer than her neck.”



The arrogant, two-colored—



“My dear uzhin always gives an honest opinion,” Aethleethia put in. “It startles those who are not much used to him.”



“Ha-hem. I’ll be about my business,” DharSii said. He fluttered his griff, but when Wistala met his eyes, fire bladder pulsing, he looked away. He turned and made for the entrance.



The tap of his claws played off the walls as he crossed the chamber.



“Two visits to the Vesshall from DharSii in one winter,” NaStirath said. “I feel so honored, I’m having a hard time not yawning.”



“Tell us your troubles, dragonelle of AuNor, so that we may comfort you,” Scabia suggested.



“I’m the last of my family,” Wistala said. Was that quite true? The copper still lives, for all you know. “Dwarves of the Wheel of Fire slaughtered them and took from their bodies as trophies. Elves and men were also involved, but I cannot say which for certain. One called the Dragonblade was almost certainly aiding them in the assassination.”



“We’ve heard this before,” NaStirath said, in a bored tone as if to indicate he was not much troubled at the news.



“We are sorry for your loss,” Scabia said, though she was the only dragon in the room that much looked it, for nothing remained of DharSii unless he lurked still in the shadows of the entrance passage. “You may claim a loft here for as long as you like; there are ample to spare.”



“I heard they got CuSanat and his mate, Virtuthia, in their cave as well,” NaStirath said, stretching. “Such a shame we won’t be seeing them again, even if they weren’t exactly uzhin. The Red Mountains are being quite cleared of dragons. Is it bullock again for dinner, or fish?”



Wistala wasn’t sure she was hearing right. Did these fools not realize—?



“We must take vengeance on these assassins!” Wistala blurted.



“I’ve no dead to avenge,” NaStirath said. He climbed into a loft on the other side of Scabia. Odd that he didn’t sit to the side of his mate—



“Be quiet, NaStirath,” Scabia said, pronouncing his name in a way that labeled him still a wingless juvenile. “And have some feeling for our guest’s sorrow.”



“I shall achieve both through a nap, where I will dream awful, sorrowful dreams,” NaStirath said, closing his eyes. “I rejoice in your survival and arrival, Wistala of the line of AuNor.” He twitched his griff as he turned on his side.



Wistala remembered how Father had once caught Auron sleeping on his side, and though her brother was scaleless, punished him with a series of roars that left the hatchling quivering.



“Rest your wings,” Scabia said. “Pick any loft, and wait for your nostrils to waken you.”



Wistala crossed the room to be away from the others and climbed into one of the giant projections. One could arrange one’s body so the head and tail were at almost any height for comfort. She hated Vesshall a little less, and slept.



Her nostrils did wake her, as the blighters brought out huge platters of pan-fried fish and dumped them before the three dragons, with much falling to the knees and arm-waving with palms held toward the dragons. Only the faintest light came down from the circle in the center of the ceiling.



Wistala felt horribly stiff from the troll fight even as she wondered why DharSii didn’t join his relatives for dinner. Not that she cared to see him, of course, only that his absence struck her as odd.