Dragon Strike

The stranger pinched some of his aromatic treasure into a nostril, grinding it between his claws. He gave a soft, satisfied snort.



“That rather washes the fatigues of the day away,” DharSii said. “Are you sure you won’t have some? Don’t worry, it’s merely a pleasant sensation. It doesn’t intoxicate like a shaggy mushroom or wishweed.”



AuRon wondered if it was some trick.



“No, thank you.”



DharSii put his cylinder away. “I’ve heard of you. A dragon named Shadowcatch told me about the rising against the men who were hatching dragons. It’s an honor to meet you.”



“He should have dragonelles do most of the fighting,” AuRon said, uncomfortable as always at the thought of people discussing him. “What is the Sadda-Vale?”



“The home of some distant cousins of mine. A remote spot in the north, east of the Red Mountains—you do know the Red Mountains?”



“You’ll fight a cold wind,” AuRon said.



“I’ve fought worse. I have just completed a war for the Ghioz.”



“The Ghioz pay well? My island is poor in metal, you see.”



“I thought so, once. But the problem with selling out tooth, wing, and scale is that they temporarily belong to another. I’m determined that from now on if I must fight, I shall have the choosing of my opponent.”



“You wouldn’t know if a dragon named Wistala was also hired at some time?”



His counterpart stiffened as though AuRon had snapped at him.



“Wistala?”



His usual loquacity seemed to have fled.



“She sometimes goes by Tala,” AuRon said. Something about the red’s manner drove AuRon to caution; he decided the less he revealed, the better for all. This DharSii must not know they were brother and sister or he would have said so. “She’s an old ally of mine, from before the freeing of the dragon-isle. . . . I believe she long thought I was dead.”



“I have very bad news for you. She fell in battle. But a moon cycle ago.”



AuRon’s heart felt as though it had dropped out of his chest and lay pulsing on the thorns below.



“I fear . . .” DharSii began. “I fear the demen killed her. She fell down a chasm. I went down after her.” He raised his wing, and AuRon saw torn scale, fresh-healed wounds still weeping, and blackened marks that might have been burns.



AuRon tried to find words.



Red Stripe read his mood. “I can’t offer you any hope beyond saying I saw no body. I do not know absolutely that she is dead. I left her a message saying that she is to come to the Sadda-Vale at once if she ever gets out of that hole. Circumstances in the form of a counterattack by blighters forced me to quit the location.”



AuRon tried to imagine what another dragon might say. “I am sad to hear that. Our hunts together are one of my happiest memories. She was a clever dragonelle,” AuRon said.



“You admired that too, did you? Did she consider you for—”



“Oh, there wasn’t a thought of mating,” AuRon said.



“Why? The lack of scale? She was of generous mind. I doubt she would have refused you on that account. She would adapt.”



The use of Father’s maxim—that he must adapt to new circumstances—rather shocked him. Had this DharSii been close to Wistala? Why wouldn’t he say if they were mated? He had worn the expression of one who had lost a mate ever since her name had arisen.



“I—I’m mated already,” AuRon said. This DharSii had a quick mind, and it would occur to him that just because he was mated now, it didn’t mean that he had always been besung. But he showed no sign of it.



“I am happy to hear it. Is there a clutch?”



“Our first, just over their first year.”



He tore up ground with one sii as he spoke. “My compliments. Were it not such a long flight to the Sadda-Vale, I would offer you hospitality with my relations. They dote on stories of hatchlings.”



“I could use an introduction in Ghioz. I’d like a chance at earning a harness of coin myself. As I said, our island is poor in metals, and we have hatchlings.”



For the first time since Wistala’s name had come up, DharSii looked at him, close and thoughtful.



“This isn’t—this isn’t another infiltration.”



“What can you mean?”



DharSii’s griff didn’t exactly rattle, but they lowered visibly. “As I told you, I heard your story from Shadowcatch. The Red Queen makes war when she must, but she’s no mad-dog. Ghioz is the coming hominid power—anyone can see that—and I enjoy its favor. I wouldn’t want anything to upset my position.”



“I can leave you out of it. Just tell me where I may find her, and I’ll thank you for news of my . . . my friend.”



“It will cost me but half a moon. I feel as though I owe you something for the sad news I bear. The winds to the north will be that much fiercer, but I’ve come through worse storms.”



“Thank you.”



“I warn you, she can smell out deception.”



“I thank you for the warning, but it’s not necessary.”



“You’ll lay your throat on that?”



AuRon wondered at the grim-sounding phrase. Well, he certainly intended no harm to the Queen of the Ghioz. “If that will set your mind at ease, yes, I lay my throat on it.”



“Let us rest before turning back south,” DharSii said. “I’ve been sleeping on sandbars, but this tangle would serve to guard us. Shall we take turns keeping an eye open?”



AuRon turned a circle, like a wolf, and settled down. “I will stay up first, while I consider how best to mourn my friend.”



“Know that she was resolute to the end.” Then more quietly: “Were that she hadn’t been!”



DharSii woke him before dawn and they hunted the game-trails. They found some scab-hided boar, and by each taking an end of a game-trail through the thickets, managed to burn one of the fattest, though their trap didn’t work as well as they would have liked, for the others shot off grunting through the roots. But dragon-roast pork made a fine breakfast, seasoned by a rosy smoke from the thorns.



The successful hunt mated his admiration of the dragon with enjoyment of the time spent in his company. He could be talkative when asked but preferred silent contemplation, division, and digestion of their meal. A word or two on the merits of game roasted in skin against gutting and tenderizing in a tree for a day or two satisfied both.



They halted once on the flight south, and AuRon prodded DharSii for details of the battle that cost him Wistala. As he relayed details, an awful suspicion grew—mountains to the southeast, a great cave, an old ruin, blighters . . .



It sounded as though the Queen of the Ghioz had made war on the blighters he’d once more or less presided over as an ally. But why had the Queen attacked the old ruins? Unless broken pottery and dust had suddenly become valuable, he couldn’t see the reason. A murder-raid would be better directed at the blighter villages on the southern slopes of the mountains there. For NooMoahk’s library? For that queer crystal the blighters worshiped?



He wondered how Wistala had fallen in with mercenary dragons, murdering blighters he knew to be about as peaceable as any hominids he’d met in all his travels. Wistala, seeking death and pillage? Of course, he’d changed much in coming to maturity. Perhaps she had also, and not for the better.



AuRon saw ships scattered along the river, and camps full of soldiers.



“Is there a war?” he asked, flying over men marching back and forth in an empty paddock and archers practicing on scarecrows.



“Soon,” DharSii said.



“She doesn’t need dragons for war?”



“Oh, she does. It’s the dragon who is tired of war in this case.”



They came to fertile lands and fields full of livestock. DharSii pointed out brickworks kilns and limestone quarries, docks and warehouses, roads, bridges, and neat little towns with wide streets. Each had a temple with a golden dome somewhere near the center; some domes were great, some, at quiet little crossroads, no bigger than a dragon egg.



AuRon asked about the domes.



“That’s the seat of power for the local titleor.”



“Titleor?” AuRon shouted back over the wind, not sure he had heard what was obviously a hominid term correctly.



“That’s the Ghioz word. It translates into Parl as overking, but that’s a little clumsy for me. I find it easier to pronounce Ghioz.”



“So they’re a kind of miniature king?”



“Oh, it confuses even me. Here, drift close for a moment. The Queen grants or sells titles, say to run a warehouse or unload ships or even govern a province, and in return the hominids pay a title-tithe. Those that run their affairs profitably get the chance to buy more titles. Titles are ranked by the coin used to pay—brass, silver, and gold. If you’re the owner of one or more golden titles you’re a very important Ghi man indeed. Those titleor that lose money so as not to pay the title-tithe, get their titles revoked. It’s possible for one successful dwarf, let’s say, to have a score or more titles. It gets horribly complex, especially since provincial governors get a chance to grant titles in their own province in the name of the Queen, sharing the proceeds with her. That’s why the Ghioz grow so. They’re always looking to start up a new province.”