Dragon Rule - E. E. Knight [89]
“Now, Firemaids! For Tyr and home-cave!” Regalia cried, leading her brother in for another pass.
Later, Wistala was told that while the demen struck the dwarfs’ right, the Firemaids struck from behind. The remaining dwarfs shifted to support their center, and that’s when the Drakwatch advanced, advancing behind and through their own flame.
Wistala’s perception was correct: the dwarfs were exhausted; the attack was a last desperate gamble to avenge themselves on a dragon who’d humilated them twice. According to dwarfen legend, the Lavadome was beard-deep in gold ingots and stolen jewels, but there’s no accounting for folklore.
AuRon’s son AuMoahk, who was studying remedies and medicines under the Ankelenes, sniffed at her armor and wounds. “We should put some salve on your nostril burns. In the Aerial Host those are called ‘warrings.’ ”
“It wasn’t the fight they were after so much; it was all that dead dragonflesh on the ground,” old Rethothanna said. “Look at ’em go.”
Wistala thought his legion looked like ants stripping the corpse of some small lizard.
The Ankelenes and Rayg took great interest in the detritus of battle. They examined the tree trunklike boats, driven by ingenious underwater wings that revolved and steered by fans that allowed them to come up against the flow of the great underground river.
“HeBellereth still lives!” a white-eyed member of the Drakwatch squeaked.
“Did I win you enough time?” Wistala asked.
He was in ruins. Scale riven in too many places to count, a small lake of his own blood surrounding him. He’d used his wings to shield his throat from ax blows. They were as broken as felled trees and in tatters. He’d no more fly again than Nilrasha would. He’d also lost over half his tail. It lay further down the tunnel like a beheaded snake.
Wistala managed to find a few words to answer. “Yes, you did, great dragon. Your deeds will become legend in the Lavadome and the Upper World.”
“Glorious,” HeBellereth said. “Those dwarfs really put up a fight. I’m ready . . . for a good long nap.”
HeBellereth shook his head. Wistala realized he was trying to raise his neck but was unable. “You’ll need to replace me. My slipwing, BaMelphistran, is a good dragon—assuming some pirate arrow hasn’t killed him, that is. In his place I’d put young FePazathon, he’s a cool head for a Skotl. Oh, and a new messenger I suppose. That young AuMoahk might do. He’s bright as an Ankelene, and eager. He carries Gunfer into battle and they’re fast friends.”
Wistala wondered. AuRon wasn’t overly happy with his family becoming entwined in the tendrils of Lavadome politics. To put one of AuRon’s on the path to leadership of the Aerial Host should make him proud, but . . .
Demen had fallen to their knees and were lapping up blood with eager hoots and whistle calls. Others gathered, drawn like ants to honey. One clacked his jaws and approached HeBellereth’s severed tail.
“You’ll keep away!” Wistala roared at the gathering demen.
They backed away from her fury. Wistala almost spat fire at them—but then her empty firebladder only produced a rather thin, smelly liquid and the effect would be more comical than intimidating.
HeBellereth was a tough old dragon, and incredibly, he didn’t die. But he lay in the tunnel he’d defended with his blood for days with support flowing from two directions, being brought water from the river ring and food from the Lavadome. An honor guard of the Drakwatch stood there at all times, listening to his breathing and licking out his wounds.
When he took his first halting steps to drag himself out of the tunnel Wistala confirmed his orders in the Tyr’s name for the new arrangement in the Aerial Host at a celebratory feast of fresh beef and pickled dwarf hands and feet. He could hardly deny the new position for AuMoahk out of vague suspicion. Apparently the young drake had distinguished himself adventuring on the Sunstruck Sea with his rider, so it would be doubly strange to not recognize achievement.
She watched NoSohoth paint