Dragon Strike

Laborers lounged outside the water-house that somehow fed the streams lining the high road and others descending from the Temple Hill. They circled north around the hill and came to a round building of vaguely bluish marble, columned outside and in, with dozens of stairways. Vendors and idlers and messengers lounged, sold, or hurried as their duties required.



They passed up the stairs. The only armed men she’d seen, guards in purple, white, and gold, stood on pedestals overlooking the stairs and shifted doubtfully as she approached. The guards looked to Ansab and Paffle for guidance and relaxed when they smiled and announced her as a citizen and dignitary. She didn’t blame them. Their spears appeared more ceremonial than functional, and their great square shields had so much artwork on them she doubted they could be easily braced in battle.



Then she entered the Directory.



It reminded her a little of the grand court in the Sadda-Vale, in that there was a hole in the ceiling admitting light and air, though it was smaller. Columns of various colors and types of stone stood all around, ones of limestone much decorated, with a pair of old black obelisks set off in an alcove in dignified isolation. Benches, stools, chairs, and statues of mighty beasts littered the open space—there was even a dragon, though the artist had become carried away and it bore entirely too many horns and tusks and the wrong number of toes.



Perhaps ten-score men met here, talking or drinking or eating from long, tiny platters built to easily extend a tidbit. They wore robes of black and white. White trimmed with black seemed to be the most popular, but some had black trimmed with white. Scribes and servants sat on little cushions, writing messages or keeping track of a debate.



Clever stairways and rests were built into many of the statues. Some men had climbed to the top of the larger ones to be better heard.



All eyes turned to her as her shadow fell across the floor.



Ansab rang a gong as they entered. Paffle leaned over to say something to one of the scribes. The scribe picked up sort of a wooden case and, holding it steady as though afraid to disturb the contents inside, carried it in their wake.



Ansab climbed onto a black statue of a pair of teamed horses rearing and leaping. A platform stood between them, carved to look like traces.



He spoke in a tongue only slightly familiar to Wistala. As best she could make out, he said, “Let the ears of those of the Directory hear, and through their tongues those of the city speak, and through their loins those of future generations remember, our words.”



An elf stepped forward, long grapevines hanging to his waist growing from his hair. He wore a draping sort of garment tied this way and that about his torso.



“I am Cornucus, Voice of the Directory,” he said, climbing the dragon statue until he stood just behind its horned crest. “Are you the same Wistala granted citizenship in Hypatia under the request of the librarians of Thallia?”



Wistala was grateful that he spoke so clearly. She had an easier time understanding him.



“I am.”



Assorted shouts broke out from the men in black and white robes.



“Dragon. Librarian. Emissary,” the Voice said. “Ahem. Which do you come as?”



“A daughter of Hypatia. A sister of dragons. I will be true to both.”



Some of the directors shouted advice to the Voice, but he gave no sign of recognition.



“Say what you have been asked to say,” the Voice said.



“The Tyr of the dragons asks me to say: We share a common enemy, the Red Queen of the Ghioz. In the end she will want the whole world. Should Ghioz claim either of our two kingdoms, the other would fall quickly. Only together can we see victory.”



“Then you also come as a mother of troubles,” a man in a white robe called.



Shouts and whistles broke out as she spoke. They were losing their awe of her quickly. Men were ever thus, plunging from fear to contempt. She tried to remember the respect for Hypatian institutions that Rainfall had taught her—after all, they’d known peace for years not easily counted.



“There will be no war,” the Voice said. “Not if the Directory acts wisely.”



Behind her she heard the head librarian mutter something to Paffle.



“You are wrong,” a voice called in a more familiar accent of the Hypatian tongue.



Wistala followed the echo to a dark young man in riding apparel. He wore a heavy necklace of rectangular pieces of gold.



“We’ve already heard you speak—ahem—Thane of Hesturr.”



Hesturr. Wistala remembered that name. The ruins of Hesturr tumbledown, the evil thane who’d stabbed gentle Rainfall. She looked at the man afresh. There was something of Vog in his wariness.



“But she has not heard me, sir.”



He stepped up beside her and raised his palm in salutation. “I know the name Wistala of Mossbell.”



At that there were more murmurs.



He ignored them, raising his voice. “While we speak through the day, dine and dance at night, and sleep long into the morning, Ironrider scouts move through Thul’s Pass and raid our flocks in the north, steal horses, and assemble piles of firewood. I do not believe they do all this for the sake of amusement, though it may be hard for some of those here to imagine any other pursuit.”



An older man stood up and hopped up on the pedestal supporting the dragon statue. “Roff, trade has always passed though Thul’s Pass and the Ba-drink. The dwarves keep the pass.”



“Yes. They always have as long as we remember. But that does not mean they always will.”



“The Ironriders mass in the Iwensi Gap as well.”



“The thanes of the north always cry war and ask for help to avert disaster,” another director said, joining the others with the Voice at the dragon. “Salted cod and cries of disaster is all we receive from the north. The Empire would be better off without both.”



“If I may return discussion to the dragon and her offer,” the Voice said. “Do you have anything to add?”



“I did not come with just words. A force of dragons waits among the bugs in the marshes to the south,” Wistala said.



“Hypatia would have more friends in the world. If your—ahem—Tyr would like to establish communication and commerce, Hypat would be pleased to see again the old routes reestablished in the south. We will not take sides in a war with Ghioz.”



Wistala left the Directory, alone and dejected. Even the head librarian stayed behind to talk matters over with the Voice.



Roff, the thane from the north, hurried to catch up with her.



“Dragon, wait.”



“Dragonelle,” Wistala corrected. He was stocky but powerful-looking, like a tall dwarf. His eyes were as pleading as a dog’s, but more intelligent.



“If you will accept the friendship of a piece of Hypatia, rather than the Directory, I would hear your answer.”



“Does not the rule of the Directory apply to her thanes?”



“Oh, they weary me. But I had to make the trip. I found them as deaf as usual to difficulties in the north. We’re poor provinces, compared to those south of the Falnges.”



“I know. I spent years in the north.”



“Yes. You once met my father, the night he died.”



“Your father.”



The man waved his hand, as though casting something away. “Yes. I know it’s against tradition, for a thanedom to fall to a son, but more and more the thanes are going their own way on such matters, with so little contact or help from the Directory.”



“No. I just—I expected a different reaction.”



“You shouldn’t. I grew up in my father’s house. He was a jealous, ill-tempered man. I promised myself I’d be different, both as man and as thane. Ragwrist is a friend of mine, and our two poor lands are friendlier now.”



“I am glad to hear it.”



“The Hypatian order is failing. The Empire is no empire at all but a historical anachronism.”



“Rainfall of Mossbell did not believe that to be true.”



“He is dead. I fear in my lifetime I may need to make other arrangements for the security of the lands under my protection. With the Ironriders scouting my borders I’d make a pact with demen to save my thanedom. I will take the alliance you offer.”



“I am not sure elves know death as you and I, but I do agree he is no longer the master of Mossbell.”



“How many dragons do you offer?”



“A sc—fourteen have accompanied me, and twice that number of drakka—wingless females.”



The thane lost some of his composure for the first time since they’d met.



“Fifteen! With you. That is a force to be counted as great. I know what that number of dragons can do, I saw it in the late war. We may be able to turn back the Ironriders after all.”



“I’ll settle for chasing them out of Hypatia.”



“I should think you would be glad of its passing. The Hypatians killed dragons who stole from their flocks.”



“There are more recent wrongs I am attempting to forget.”



“You know the ruins of Hesturr—Tumbledown, some call it, I take it.”



“I do.”



“Bring your dragons there, but take care to fill their bellies with turtles or whatever you may find in the marshes before they arrive. My entire thanedom will have difficulty feeding so many dragons. Even on the easy path of the old north road, I fear you may arrive before us. A descent of dragons upon my lands would be met violently.”