Dragon Strike

“A call for an all-muster has gone out,” Ragwrist said. “Every thanedom in Hypatia is to gather what forces it has and march them to either the Founding Arch on the north bank of the river or the King’s Marker on the southern coast of the Inland Ocean.”



“The Firemaids were in that very spot,” Wistala said, “a month and a score of days ago.”



“Perhaps it’s a portent of victory,” Ragwrist said.



“It is a well-chosen site,” Roff said. “The bay is calm, and there’s a long, easy beach where boats may be landed and drawn up. The marshes make it difficult for the soldiers to reach the city. Sometimes a civilization must be preserved from its defenders. That is where you’ll find the last muster of Hypatia, if anywhere. That is where I’m bound, as thane.”



“That is where I’m much overdue,” Ragwrist said. “I sent Dsossa ahead with our light riders. Mossbell and the twin hills will be represented at the muster.”



“I fear we’ll be one of few,” Roff said. “The thanes in the north are dealing with the Ironrider raiders. Thanks to Wistala’s stand in the pass, they are not tens of thousands riding hard for Thallia or Hypat, but raiding villages to steal chickens.”



Chapter 22



The Copper spent a score of days having his bats scout the Nor’flow, working matters out with the griffaran, and planning.



The Lavadome was in an uproar. The eastern Upholds, source of food and thralls, were falling to the Ghioz like so many dominoes. There were daily delegations and deputations by dragons ranking from the rich and distinguished SoRolotan to the thrall-trader Sreeksrack demanding that he do something.



His only relief was in talking to Rayg. Rayg didn’t bring complaints; instead, they talked solutions.



Rayg had investigated the Queen’s crystal, which had been torn from his brother. Though it had been cracked and scuffed by the scene in the throne room, Rayg had set it in a brass frame with a chain lanyard so that he might work with it without touching it, and he’d made a remarkable discovery.



When one gazed through the crystal, images sharpened. One found oneself reading more quickly, with better comprehension. Details previously unnoticed leaped out.



Daring the Red Queen to try to overthrow his mind, the Copper tried it himself.



He found he could fix the lens in his damaged eye in such a way that it held the lid open. Whenever he wore it in this fashion, he felt alert, as though perceiving the world through a mind sharpened in the manner he might sharpen his claws. He made a jest that had even SiHazathant and Regalia turning their heads entirely upside-down in laughter; he noticed a new design beneath Nilrasha’s eye; and he tore through the latest tally of livestock left in the Lavadome. Sadly, the columns were all too brief.



He set the Drakwatch to rationing what was left of the food and livestock.



“Where is the Tyr who threw himself against the Dragonblade?” SoRolatan asked.



“Waiting for Paskinix and some bats to complete a reconnaissance of the Nor’flow,” the Copper said.



“Paskinix! You’ve placed our fate in the hands of a long-standing enemy?”



Ayafeeia returned with some of her dragonelles, which was some comfort. She reported that her fast-flying courier, Yefkoa, had seen fighting in Hypatia. A few Ironriders had come across the Red Mountains before the dragons seized the pass, and many times more had roared through the river gap and were riding up both sides of the great river, burning and stealing as they approached the city of Hypat.



“They may be more amenable to an offer of help now,” Nilrasha said.



At last Paskinix returned with the bats, and a favorable report. They’d found an old dwarf-mine that led to the surface.



At last he could unleash the Aerial Host. Someplace where it might make a difference.



“The day we have planned for has come. Now we can move,” the Copper said, talking over his thoughts with Nilrasha. “Engage the Queen’s attention by sending Ayafeeia and the Firemaids to Hypat. I’m a firm believer in second chances. You’ll stay and oversee matters in the Lavadome, of course. It’ll be easier for you. I’m taking the Aerial Host and every dragon who’ll come. And many of the griffaran and my personal guard, of course. There’ll be more food. If you have to, use the food stored in case of earthquake.”



“Of course. My Tyr, the Queen leads the Firemaids. If they’re to be hazarded in such a battle, I should be with them.”



“But the Lavadome still must be guarded. We have hatchlings, eggs, newly mated drago-dames heavy with eggs. With only a handful of Firemaids and young griffaran left behind to guard them, who shall be responsible for them?”



“NoSohoth is happy to remain behind. Was there ever a dragon who cared less for glory?”



“You’re not calling him a coward.”



“No, I admire him. He’s survived longer than any Tyr, quietly attending to thrall sick lists and banquet menus and allocation of caves. He shows better judgment than any of us.”



The Copper felt his muscles go liquid at the thought of what might happen to Nilrasha in battle.



“I’d be lost without you,” he said at last.



“Allow me the same feeling for you, my love. What should happen to me if you fall from the sky? A small, quiet cave with a good supply of wine, as Tighlia had?”



“Suppose we both should fall?”



“I suspect the world will manage without us. It did well before we breathed. Life will go on after our hearts stop.”



He pressed his nose to the pulse-point behind her griff. “Still, we are responsible to, and for, dragonkind. The Tyr is called the ‘Father of the People’ in hatchling rhymes. I would not have the Lavadome orphaned.”



“Then you stay. If one of us should die, better that it should be me. A Queen may be replaced. All you’d have to do is mate again. The third try is often all the more glorious after two failures.”



She withdrew, watching. He suspected she wondered if she’d gone too far. Anytime Halaflora came up, even obliquely, he became moody.



The old dueling pit had dragons on the shelves, on the old sand in the pit, and two even stood in the entrance.



The Copper stood on the old spur, a long flange of rock where the duel-judges used to rest after giving instructions and announcing the start. From here he was above most of the dragons, except those at the very top.



“Thank you for coming to hear the news,” the Copper said. “What has come to my ears is all bad.



“One chance remains,” the Copper continued. “The Red Queen has launched war on our Upholds and Hypatia at the same time. We do not have the strength to fight her everywhere at once. There is only one course left to us, a battle of desperation.”



“You began this war, RuGaard,” LaDibar said. “Now that matters have turned against us, you would have us destroy ourselves.”



“Tyr RuGaard—at least for the present.”



“The Red Queen offered us peace and you rejected it.”



“She didn’t offer us peace—she offered us terms of surrender. What price would we have had to pay to keep cattle and kern flowing, I wonder? Hostages to good behavior? Strong young wings to fly her messengers around?



“I propose a strike at the heart of Ghioz.” He launched himself into the arena. “When I was a hatchling, I learned that the strongest snake could be felled if you but crushed its head.”



The Copper limped through the sand ring, walking around so that he could look each dragon in the face.



“I need every fit dragon who can fly and fight. I’ve no idea what we may face in the coming battle. If we are to reclaim our place in the sun, every dragon must take his part.



“How many will fly with us?”



They looked at him, at each other. Scale grated against scale and weight shifted.



“My Tyr, there are hatchlings in the cave.”



“The thralls in my hill are restive. Suppose they should murder my mate while I am away?”



“I’ll return to find not a scrap of silver. Who will guard my hoard if not I?”



The Copper thought of his grandmother’s rant, on the last day she drew breath, when she alone hurled herself against the Dragonblade in a court of cowards. She’d called them a lot of backscratchers, and she’d been right.



“Ghioz is three days of hard flight,” an aged dragon said, the swirls of the old Aerial Host from the early days of Tyr FeHazathant faint on his sagging wings. “If we come at speed we will arrive exhausted, hardly able to stay in the air. If we take our time she will have warning and assemble those roc-riders.”



“I don’t propose a flight, until the end.”



“Then how shall we get there?” the old dragon asked.



“When the peak first glows tomorrow, meet me at the north river ring beneath the nests of the griffaran. It shall be a trip that will go into many a lifesong, I promise.”



There were grumblings and complaints, with not a few saying some variation of “you have to live through it to sing about it.”



Had such an assortment ever left the Lavadome by the river ring?