Dragon Rule

A green dart fell out of the sky. Suddenly its wings opened and it landed with a gust of wind that silenced the workers and sent ropes rattling against wooden bracing scaffolds.



Yefkoa, the swiftest dragonelle in the Firemaids, landed.



Wistala liked Yefkoa. The dragonelle had the energy and interest in long journeys and had good directional sense. She rarely got lost, even when flying over unfamiliar lands. She also had an unusually passionate loyalty to Tyr RuGaard and would threaten any who disparaged his odd looks and awkward ways.



“Fill a trough for this dragonelle,” she ordered one of the dwarfs. “What brings you in such a hurry, Yefkoa.”



“The Queen requests your presence at once,” she panted.



“What, another war?” Since forming the Grand Alliance a generation ago, the Hypatians had acted high-handed toward their neighbors. They enjoyed the power of dragons at their back. Oddly enough, the Tyr encouraged their campaigns and excursions as though he thought to gain by all this enemy-making.



“I don’t believe so, but it is a matter of some urgency. She bade me to fly quickly, though she gave no commands about you making haste. She simply said ‘as soon as Wistala can manage the trip’.”



Nilrasha, Queen of Worlds, with other titles thanks to her being Tyr RuGaard’s mate, must be obeyed. The Dragon Empire had an unspoken “or else” attached to such commands—most of the consequences involved loss of position.



Luckily, the northern thanedoms needed little protecting at the moment. Winter had already settled into the mountains, so Ironrider raiders would find all the seasonal passes closed, and the northern barbarians would already be filling their barns and cellars to wait out the snow and ice heaped about their mead-halls and hovels. “I shall attend her. But there must be a delay of a few days, thanks to minor difficulties in building my resort. The dwarfs need me in the air to lift and set the capstones.”



It might be in my advantage to be away for a while, Wistala thought. The dwarfs can’t spend my last coin if I’m not around to buy them out of any more difficulties.



* * *



The air was full of eagles.



It was good eagle country, here in the tangled foothills of the mountains with the ocean in sight and a dozen river-fed, cliff-shadowed lakes beneath. The inaccessible heights guarded future generations of eggs, and the ample updrafts made flying almost effortless for feather wings.



The vultures, bigger than the eagles but keeping a polite distance—of all the creatures she’d encountered in her travels they were the most sensitive and genteel of creatures. No raucous fighting, no territorial displays, and a philosophical diffidence as they waited to do their duty in disposing of bits and pieces, lest the flies grew so thick on offal they’d carpet the world.



Wistala marked an occupied nest above the Queen’s lookout, and dropped to give it a wide berth. Though an eagle couldn’t do much more to a dragon than put an eye out, a desperate attack in defense of eggs wasn’t unknown.



AuRon told her once that his friend Naf—now long since King Naf of Dairuss—had hidden in this tangled border country while hiding with his rebels from the Red Queen of the Ghioz. It was a good land for someone who wanted to hide. Vesk after vesk of steep-sided river valleys, thickly wooded and vined, were inspiring from the air, but even a long-necked dragon would easily become disoriented on the ground.



She made a gentle call, both to alert the eagles so they wouldn’t be startled by her presence and to announce her arrival.



She glided into the Queen’s cave. It had a good view of the west and was warmed by the setting sun. She marked a few reinforcing pillars—someone had gone to the trouble to enlarge the cave. She’d visited a few times before, years ago when the flightless Queen had first been installed in her high resort. Since then, it had been much improved.



A few blighters, long-armed, hairy collections of appetites known for their strong backs and quick quarrels, greeted her with offerings of water, sweet wine, and toasted meat on wooden skewers. They wore colorful ponchos closed with brooches of green dragonscale. She accepted a little of each offering as an unusually tall blighter, with a careful request for permission in passable Drakine, massaged her wing tendons, first on one side, then the other.



The Queen had a homey cave. It had better air flowing through than the cave of her birth and the faint sounds rising from the thick forest below soothed when the air was still.



An aged griffaran, almost featherless and droopy, stood sentinel on a hidden perch. A platter that smelled offish stood near him on its own treelike stand. She wondered if he was some veteran of a dozen battles, now in a pleasantly airy sinecure as honor guard to the Queen. His beak and talon still appeared razor sharp, so perhaps it wasn’t just for show.



Later it occurred to Wistala that the Queen might have encouraged eagles to build their tangled nests and settle about her quarters like a kindlewood crown. A dragon couldn’t have too many sets of wary eyes to give the alarm when living above ground.



There would be many an eagle jealous of that view, Wistala thought. Her cave looked out over sharp, rocky pillars with little soil, but what had collected in the nooks and crevices sprouted wind-twisted trees. Low clouds made the lush valley floors, echoing with the sound of rivers and waterfalls, hazy or invisible. Off to the west, a thin strip of the inland ocean could just be seen. Wistala, judging the sun’s descent, decided that no matter what the Queen’s concerns she wouldn’t miss the view of the sunset.



She heard breathing from deeper inside the cave.



“My Queen, you called for me?”



“Ages ago, it seems. Thank you for coming. I long for company.”



Wistala ambled into the Queen’s presence and they clacked griff in greeting. Neither bothered with bows, they were relatives by mating fight. Nilrasha had lost her taste for courtly gestures since the war injury that left her with stumps for wings.



Queen Nilrasha was still beautiful, but it was the beauty of a ruin, like the old, fern-sided, weather-shaped stones of Tumbledown where she’d hunted for metals as an unfledged drakka. Her scales were still well-shaped, and she was still strong-limbed—probably stronger-limbed than most dragons, having to rely on them for climbing all the way up to her resort. She had a well-shaped head, which reminded her a little of Au-Ron’s mate Natasatch about the nostrils and eyes, though the Queen’s fringe, the pride of any dragonelle or dragon-dame, was clipped and stiffened and shaped into pleasing waves running down her back. Natasatch had a natural crest, much like Wistala’s—a little ragged and bent from wear and fighting.



Only a little paint highlighted some of the scale around her eyes, nostrils, jawline, and griff. White polished teeth added to her other carefully groomed attractions. Wistala was relieved that the Queen didn’t color her scale any of the garish pinks and purples that seemed to be in vogue in the Lavadome. She’d been told that many a firemaiden recruit needed a thorough scrubbing with a wire-tipped brush to get the paint off her scales.



Her cave was simple, adorned only with a few trophies of the Battle of Hypat, where she’d lost her wings in a dreadful crash.



She offered Wistala wine, or honey-sweetened blood, or hot fat. Wistala chose the fat, as she’d flown hard and fought winds. The Wind Spirit was sending air from the south and the north to do battle over Hypatia and the Inland Ocean.



Nilrasha called a female blighter and issued orders.



“Did you send for me all this way just for company?” Wistala asked. Nilrasha had become a much more serious dragon since losing her wings, she’d matured into a Queen to be respected and regarded, if remote.



“Wistala—I’m afraid.”



Nilrasha, afraid? Wistala, from her time in the Firemaids, had heard the stories of the Queen’s legendary ferocity in battle. She’d been the sole survivor of a futile attack on a well-fortified Ghioz city in Bant, struck hard in the uprising against the Dragonblade’s hag-riders, and sacrificed her wings in battle against the Ironriders.



She couldn’t say she knew Nilrasha well enough to know whether she was being entirely honest. According to some of the Firemaids, Nilrasha was an expert at playing politics, hiding the jump and the tear behind a apparent interest in only your betterment. But Rainfall had taught her to start politely, and return courtesy with courtesy doubled.



“I am sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do to allay your fears?”



Nilrasha loosed a quiet, friendly prrum. Wistala had an awful griff-tchk in which she wondered if she hadn’t asked precisely what Nilrasha wanted her to ask.



“There is, sister. I need you to take my place.”



Wistala thought she had heard wrong. First, she hadn’t been called sister by anyone since she was a hatchling. Second: “Take—your place?”



“By my mate’s side, in the Lavadome. He’s set me up in these lovely quarters, it’s like still being able to fly, in a way, not that I did much flying as Queen even in a place like the Lavadome. But I’m no longer able to perform even half my duties as Queen. There’s something about a broken-winged dragon that inspires contempt in enemies and useless pity in friends.”