Dragon Rule

“Her experiences predate the Grand Alliance,” the Copper said.

“Of course.”

“I think my Protectors are cheating me,” the Copper said.

Wistala sighed. She’d much rather brief him on the campaign to get the bandits off the oliban trade routes. Or new hatchlings. Or the promotions in the Firemaids, and who had taken what oaths.

No, he had to talk about the Protectorates—and how much gold was coming in.

She prepared her usual speech about how dragons should work out a system where they’re paid for the services they provide—keeping bandits off the roads and brigands out of the hills, and flying messages. The problem was the role of “Protector” wasn’t codified in Hypatian law.

Her brother had kept the costs, duties, and responsibilities of a Protector vague for a reason.

“Everyone takes a little bit off the tributes we are supposed to be given to keep scale healthy,” the Copper said.

Wistala was distracted by motion caught in the corner of her eye.

The Copper continued: “I think that the men—gaaagk!”

Wistala felt a hard jerk under her jaw. Strangulation—her vision blurred.

A winged shape, smaller than a griffaran, fluttered under her neck and she felt new pressure on her throat.

Her brother had managed to get a griff open—the one on the side where his eye was damaged tended to hang half open or move about on its own, adding to the lopsided look of his features.

He extended his wings and used them to deflect other fliers circling his throat with lengths of chain.

Wistala felt the pressure subside and took a desperate breath. Her brother pulled a length of chain away from her throat with his tail—he couldn’t reach his own but he could get at hers.

Wistala pulled back—hard—and heard a high, metallic ting! as a link parted. Now with the fighting blood running hot in her veins, she lunged and snapped at one of the fliers. She caught it across the back and shook it like a dog killing a rat, flinging it into a corner and going after another.

Leathery flaps covered her eyes. She whipped her neck up hard and heard a satisfying splat as she crushed it against the wet ceiling.

Blinking the sting of the creature’s blood from her eyes, she saw her brother still fighting the chains around his throat.

For the first time Wistala had a clear look at their tormentors. They were batlike creatures, furless with thick, spiny skin. Evilly smiling jaws bristled with teeth and wide red eyes shone under cavernous ears. A thick mat of hair remained on the head, trailing down between the eyes to an upturned nose.

The legs, short but powerful, ended in quadruple claws. Long arms trailed veined webbing; the wings extended down the sides of their bodies to the knee joint.

“Pah!” one screamed at her brother, spitting a green globule at his good eye. He lifted his chin and managed to catch it on the griff, where it sizzled briefly.

Wistala spat back. Her fire ran across the ceiling of the bath, dropped to a pool, and spread atop it like a flaming leaf, adding to the steam. The creature vanished in the fire, its flaming body plummeted.

Striking with her wing, she brought down another. It tried to right itself on the slippery floor but she stomped down hard with a sii.

Just as suddenly as they’d come, they were gone, leaving hooked chains behind. And the bodies of their comrades.

She helped her brother out of the choking chain.

“We’ll need someone to extract these fishhook things,” Wistala said.

“Thank you,” the Copper managed.

Once the alarmed Griffaran Guard, Shadowcatch, and some servant thralls had attended to them, they ordered a thorough search of Imperial Rock for the rest of the assassins.

Their wounds were frightful—the hooks had left holes under the scale. They easily could have lost one or both neck-hearts in the struggle.

“How did they get into the Imperial Rock ?”

“Flew—they’re dark, we don’t have a permanent guard circling in the air. The Drakwatch and Firemaids guard the entrances and lower passages. I expect they just flew in quietly and entered through someone’s balcony.”

“They must know their way around well.”

“Perhaps they explored,” Wistala said. “Late, when all are asleep.”

“I suppose they could have been mistaken for one of my bats. But not up close. These are out of the ordinary.”

“They must have been hidden by someone in the Imperial Rock. Fed, watered, washed out—until we were together and alone.”

“Perhaps they just attacked me to keep me from defending you,” Wistala said.

“Then why aren’t there three chains—or four? No, they brought two sets of hooked chains. Enough for two dragons. Someone must have seen us go off to the baths together and called them in.”

“I see being Queen is not all feasts and viewing hatchlings,” Wistala said.

“We’d better see about these wounds,” the Copper said. “Some of my own bats can take care of them.”

Wistala didn’t care for her brother’s method of treating wounds—washed out with bat spit, ragged flesh snipped away by sharp little teeth, all to the tune of cooing and animal slurping sounds in between “’ere, under tha’ scale” and “oh, this bit’s good, wha’s next?” But she had to admire the pleasant numbness and the clean scars.

At last, she had evidence of a conspiracy. But nothing on who might have sent the extraordinarily malformed bat creatures to kill them in the first place.

Chapter 9

NiVom was up to something. The Copper could smell it on him.

His Protector of Ghioz had invited him to enjoy a few days of sunlight in the Upper World “observing a show of Grand Alliance strength designed to enhance our prestige and intimidate possible rivals on our eastern borders,” or so the Firemaiden messenger told him.

After the usual courtly pleasantries and cheers welcoming him—and a small contingent of the Griffaran Guard and of course Shadowcatch 00 welcomed him to the only Protectorate that could begin to rival Hypatia—NiVom had some thralls pull away a canvas covering to show him a map worthy of the Lavadome map room itself.

Instead of a map, he’d constructed a model using sand and paint and some sort of adhesive—sugary egg yolks, the Copper suspected. It wasn’t quite up to the standards of the map room in the Lavadome—rescaled to show the extent of the Grand Alliance, and it seemed, if NiVom would have his way, soon needing another improvement—but it showed the topography from the air in impressive detail, with blighter settlements dotting the Bissonian Scarpes like tiny black beetles. In fact, the blighter positions were beetle carapaces, now that he looked closely.

“Ghioz has long wanted these mountains. They are rich in precious metals and ores.”

“But this is the heart of the old Blighter Empire,” the Copper said. “Something about the age of wheels and chariots. I don’t remember the history, but wouldn’t they have mined these mountains out long ago?”

“After a fashion. But the dwarfs have a method of mining using water forced through nozzles. It scrapes away the mountainside like you cleaning your scale of dirt with your tongue. Valleys thought long since cleared of gold have been richly harvested of fresh nuggets, according to the dwarfs.”

Shadowcatch ground his teeth in impatience behind. The black dragon had no interest in technical talk.

“I wonder,” the Copper said, after a moment’s thought. “I’ve looked at the map. It’s a vast stretch of mountains, and far from Ghioz. How will you possibly manage it?”

“As you know, my Tyr, I’ve never been afraid of hard work,” NiVom said.

“Why a war? Ghioz must be rich in goods it can trade.”

“We’re still rebuilding after the conquest.”

“You’ve had years, NiVom. Let me guess. Imfamnia is spending all the tribute on parties, baubles, and gold paint.”

“No, if you must know, we’ve been working on this.”

With that he called to his linemen, who ran to their places at drag ropes and hauled off, their taskmasters counting the step.

There was a groan, the high bowstring twang of lines parting, and the sailcloth covering of the mountain’s face fell away.

The Copper looked across the valley, into his own reflection. NiVom had chosen their vantage well. He wondered how the people in the city below felt, under the unblinking stare of a monumental dragon.

You wouldn’t call it lifelike, but it was eerily accurate. Except they’d given him two normal eyes—perhaps modeled off of NiVom. It did look rather like him about the eyes.

“Of course, it’ll go green eventually,” NiVom said. “Copper only looks this way for a few years, unless the tarnish is removed.”

“I’ve no words.”

“A thank-you in artistic tribute, for forgetting old grievances and remembering old friendships. Imfamnia herself corrected the model to better match your appearance.”

While he was glad of a chance to praise NiVom, he refused to do the same to his mate. She’d be tolerated, nothing more, until she died a natural death. A natural death that couldn’t come a moment too soon for the Copper.