Dragon Strike

“Yes, I will,” Wistala repeated.



“Will you obey the orders of superior, maidmother, and Tyr?”



“Yes, I will,” Takea whispered.



“Yes, I will.”



“Will you brave want, pain, injury, and death in obedience to those orders and defense of this oath?”



“Same, again,” Takea said.



“Yes, I will,” Wistala said, after a moment’s confusion of almost letting same, again pass her snout.



“Takea, one more trick and I’ll put you on the southernmost rock as a watchkeeper,” Ayafeeia said.



Takea hung her head, but Wistala heard griff rattle.



“Then come and meet your sisters and call me maidmother.”



“Yes, maidmother,” Takea prompted.



“Yes, maidmother.”



“Welcome back to the Lavadome, our long-lost sister,” Ayafeeia said.



Wistala’s life had seen its share of happy moments, but this felt truer than most. Perhaps she’d been born for this and all her life had been training for this moment. Her hearts pounded with excitement.



“She’s blushing like you’re a dragon who’s sung his song to her,” one of the dragonelles said, twisting her head to and fro in amusement like a dog drying its ears.



The sisters embraced.



“I’m so happy,” Ayafeeia said. “I don’t know why, but I’m truly happy.”



“What are my first orders, maidmother?” Wistala asked.



“We’re going to have a first-oath feast. Your orders are to stuff yourself cross-eyed, Wistala.”



“My family mostly called me Tala.”



“Then Tala you shall be to us,” Ayafeeia said.



Ayafeeia gave orders to some thralls in—almost—spotless white smocks regarding food.



She put Takea in charge of correcting Wistala’s behavior, a duty that somewhat mollified Takea’s dislike and cutting remarks. Able to devote herself to criticizing Wistala’s bows, or wording, or tone, or knowledge evidently removed the incentive to treat her as a curse dropped into the Lower World to vex dragonkind, or at least Takea.



“Silly! Keep your eyes open as you bow. What if a blow were to come during an exchange of formalities? Even enemies will bow to each other,” was a sample of the chatter, which tended to bend round back to where it began, like a dragon with a solid bite into her own tail.



The Firemaids and Firemaidens—the taxonomy was a little confusing to Wistala; it seemed that all wingless drakka were Firemaidens while some winged dragonelles who had no intention of taking further oaths were called Firemaidens and others were called Firemaids—she suspected it depended on whether a dragon seemed likely to sing his song in the near future—and all dragonelles who had taken their three oaths were titled Firemaids, with the ones no longer expected to do duty far from the Lavadome given ranks such as “advisor” or “superior” or “of distinguished merit,” depending on overall health and ability.



She met one cave-bound dragonelle “of distinguished merit,” an aged thing with scales gone unhealthy and almost yellow, with a great chunk of her head caved in and scarred over. She babbled about flowers and stars for the few uncomfortable moments Wistala spent in her presence.



“Dwarvish ax,” Takea whispered. “Saka will be your first duty, cleaning her tailvent and reminding her to eat and making sure she raises her head to swallow.”



“A lesson to always smell and listen first before putting your head into a hole,” the Firemaid who attended several of the “distinguished merits” explained.



“Wouldn’t it be kinder to just let her starve, if she won’t eat?” Wistala said.



“Oh, she has a few good days every year. You hear some fine stories. Besides, bones from older dragons are worth more in trade. The alchemists claim they can age a dragon by the color of a cross section.”



“You sell her body after she’s died?”



“Just bits,” Takea said. “It’s an honor. You serve the Empire even after death. Your bones can purchase gold coin or whole herds of veal for hatchlings.”



Takea watched her for a moment. “Don’t be afraid to accept the harsher realities of life. Embrace them. We never die, in a manner. As long as there are new drakka taking the same oaths we did, we’ve helped that part of us live on.”



They feasted, well and long. Wistala had never had such a banquet. Organmeats in rich sauce and quarter-sheep and great flanks of beef and glazed chickens lined up on a skewer ready for swallowing. She’d eaten well before, but it was always hominid food, overloaded with tasteless, juiceless vegetables that bloated one with gas and glazed fruits that made her throat close up and her eyes wince.



They talked of battles against the demen and hunting aboveground, and she heard the story of how the Tyr destroyed a Ghioz fortress by having rocks dropped on it by the Aerial Host. Ayafeeia corrected the stories on only one point, saying that the Tyr, though present, had only inspired the rock-dropping. The actual management of it belonged to an exiled dragon, a white named NiVom.



“He would have been Tyr, I think, but he was driven out,” Ayafeeia said.



The bloodcurdling stories reminded Wistala of Rainfall’s tales of when Hypatia was ruled by “barbarian kings.”



Was this Tyr, whom all seemed to respect and admire, nothing more than a “barbarian king,” climbing to his throne-shelf over bloodied heads of rivals?



“Ha!” Ayafeeia told her, when she asked the question, phrasing it more politely. “Our Tyr is many things, but he’s no duelist, for all that he killed the Dragonblade. No, he was a compromise. As he came from no clan, he had fewer enemies who’d swear to die before they saw him in the throne room.”



“His mate, however,” Takea said.



“Hush. I believe Nilrasha herself comes.”



Wistala was taught not to crane her neck to watch the Queen approach, but to turn into a respectful recline, facing the Queen, ready to do her bidding.



“What do I say to her?” Wistala asked.



“As little as possible,” Takea said. “It’s deeds that count, not words.”



The Queen approached.



From a distance she seemed a fine-looking dragonelle. Wistala was improving in her judgment of the various clans. It seemed she had a bit of Anklene about the eyes—how like Mother!—and strong, thick saa bulging with muscle. Wistala guessed she must be a great leaper. She envied her long, graceful tail and elegantly formed forelimbs. Wistala thought hers oxlike in comparison.



She’d heard a story that the blighters called her “Ora”—her entire band of Firemaidens had died in an attack on a Ghioz city. She was the only survivor, the Ora—the one spared from slaughter at a great feast, by blighter custom.



Closer, her looks were marred somewhat by scars.



“She’s seen her share of battles,” Wistala observed.



“The Tyr has a scarred face as well,” Takea whispered. “The scars look less strange when you see them together.”



Nilrasha accepted her bows and crossed necks with Ayafeeia. Nilrasha asked a few polite niceties about the quality of the pig, sheep, and cow from the Imperial Herd that she’d sent to the banquet and received thanks and compliments in return.



“Maidmother, I understand you have news for me,” Nilrasha said.



“I have an account of the completion of the war against the demen in the area of the Star Tunnel,” Ayafeeia said, her voice flat, as though she were suddenly a stranger to Drakine. “Further, we have one new recruit, a stranger to the Lavadome named Wistala.”



“Which is she, the one next to, errr—Takea?”



“Yes, my Queen.” Ayafeeia touched Wistala with an extended wingtip. Wistala thought it a protective, motherly gesture and warmed.



Nilrasha’s eyes widened for a moment and she swiveled her head on her neck to view Wistala from different angles.



“The shape of her snout. Good teeth and healthy gums, no mash of kern and onions for her. I would almost think—I see she has an injured wing.”



“It is healing and will be sound again, I expect. We almost lost her a second time during Paskinix’s escape. Young Takea here had captured Paskinix as he was about to kill Wistala, but he slipped away during our concern for Wistala as we climbed into the Star Tunnel.”



“Bad luck, Takea,” Nilrasha said. “The Tyr would have liked to see that egg-stealer brought to him in chains. But all know how slippery the old deman is. I shall be sure to mention it to my mate.”



“Thank you, my Queen,” Takea said, bowing—though she kept her eyes open.



Nilrasha stiffened a little. Wistala decided some slight had been offered.



Ayafeeia intervened, bowing with eyes closed. “My Queen, Wistala has just taken her first oath, so we all meet at feast. Will you join us?”



“Thank you for your kindness, sister, but a hard-flying courier bat has just come in.” She pointed to a nick of blood at her shoulder. “He tells me there is an emissary on the way and we are to gather to hear what he has to say. Such talk! It has been years since the Imperial Rock has seen such a rustling. And the visitor! The arrogance, the presumption . . .”