The waters of the river ring sagged, bordered by muck and sand. Must be the end of the dry season in the Upper World. He remembered it as a chaotic time during his service in Anaea. Men always went a little crazy then, perhaps from heat and thirst.
The Firemaid in charge of the captives bowed. “The prisoners from the deepest Star Tunnel holes. We finally found their lair. ’Twas in a grotto too tight for dragons. Your sister countermined, hiring dwarves.”
The dwarves must have thought it a fine deal, getting paid to help destroy their bitterest enemies.
What the Lavadome was to dragons, the Star Tunnel was to the demen in this part of the Lower World, or so he’d been told. It had been the work of years clearing it, and they’d lost dozens of dragons and even more dragonelles. Every time they thought they had won it, the demen opened some new portal and attacked from an unexpected quarter.
“This is but a token of the tally,” the Firemaid said. “Their leaders. The others follow, perhaps a thousand.”
A thousand! He heard Sreeksrack choke back a hungry yelp. A vast number in the Lower World, which was often as inhospitable as bare desert or cold mountaintop. Of course, the Star Tunnel had many exits to the surface. A few in his retinue licked their chops. There would probably be wounded and sick to eat. Every hill had a few clan recipes for deman. Their thin leg-flesh practically melted in butter.
Paskinix, no wonder you are willing to deal at last. It seems I have much of your army. In the darkest days of his youth in the snake-haunted bat caves he’d learned that the best way to kill a snake was to crush its head. No matter how powerful the coils of the body, without the head it was nothing but a meal.
The Empire had taken the demen body—and the head was no doubt wondering what to do with itself. At dreadful cost, but dragonkind now held as much of the Lower World as the great wizard Anklamere ever had. They wouldn’t have to worry about raids on the trade lines, and drakka and drakes would be freed up from the watch-posts.
The Upper World, soft and ripe in the sun as the sweet fruits brought down for the thralls and livestock, beckoned to his imagination.
He walked along the line of prisoners. Disarmed, sullen in defeat, they were marked as a fierce warrior race only by their carapace decor. They had bits of bone, dragonteeth, what looked like dwarf-skull and blighter-fang dug into or piercing the organic platework about their shoulders. Some had painted their battlescars, others filled an empty ocular cavity or torn-out ear with a baby griffaran beak. But appearances could be deceiving. These were war-chieftains who’d fought fire-breathing dragons a hundred times their weight to a standstill for years.
Seemed a shame to put such specimens to work herding cattle or shoveling dragon-waste.
Now would be the time to announce a grand victory feast. NoSohoth eyed him, subtly smacking his lips. Deman organmeat—especially the liver and kidneys—sharpened the eyesight and kept one clearheaded.
The Copper turned to face his procession and cleared his throat, feeling sluggish. They wouldn’t like the speech, but the sooner it was done with, the better. Then he could find a comfortable spot on the riverbank to sleep.
His first word turned into a shocked breath. Pairs of eyes widened and he heard a few gasps. Before he knew what had happened, he felt a flutter of feathers across his back and a deman-scream cut the riverbank.
Two griffaran rose into the air, one with the head and arm of a deman in its claws, the other gripping a leg. A jagged shard of crystal, long and slightly curved, spun as it fell. It broke into ugly barbs as it struck the ground just behind his bad sii.
Above, the deman parted, messily.
Other griffaran of the bodyguard swooped down, batting at the demen with their wings, knocking them back into the mud and among the boats.
It occurred to him that from behind, his withered leg left a rather attractive target just under the shoulder joint. A clear path to his heart for just such a blade.
He’d have to see that what was left of the weapon was given to Rayg for study. Rayg, a scientific-minded thrall of rare gifts, and dwarf-trained besides, might find it interesting, especially since it had somehow survived a prisoner search.
Cosseted in the Imperial Rock, he’d forgotten lessons learned as a hatchling and drake. Poor old NeStirrath would have had a few choice words about that. Anger, mostly at himself, brought him round to face his enemies, and he felt the foua in his firebladder pulse, wanting out in the rush of nervous energy.
He spat, and an oily film splattered into the mud. Old injury in a fight with egg-raiding demen had left his firebladder missing some element or other that caused his foua to ignite. He could spit up a tiny flaming gob easily enough, but regular dragonflame was as beyond him as aerial acrobatics were.
This one had come within a few steps of breaking a crystal point into his chest-heart. Fate, it seemed, didn’t want him fighting demen.
Embarrassment at his misfire calmed his anger better than any soothsaying.
“Not quite defeated yet, I see,” he said to the demen in their darktongue. “I’m sure Paskinix will strike a fine bargain to get you back.” He turned his head—held high and out of leaping reach—back toward his assembly.
“Odd, though,” he said, keeping to the darktongue, “that Paskinix should not be taken along with his chieftains. I would hope that if the Firemaids were giving their lives in defense of the final refuge in the Lavadome I would be with them at the last.”
“If I might offer—” Sreeksrack began.
“No, you may not,” the Copper said, preventing him from naming a sum that might impress even NoSohoth. “These aren’t some scale-seeking thieves sneaking down the Wind Tunnel. They’re the toughest warriors the Empire has ever been matched against.”
He felt woozy and thick-tongued. Better get the words out while he still could.
“I speak now as Tyr. The demen are to be conveyed to Imperial Rock and placed next to it in the west hollow. Just shift the horseflesh elsewhere. I want them to march, not drag chains, mind you, with the youngest hatchlings lining the way so that they may see examples of bravery and valor, paying their respects as dragons of the Empire should. Whether they become thralls or not—well, let’s see what Paskinix says about getting them back. Now, you must excuse me.”
He dashed off toward a riverbank rockpile quickly enough that the bodyguard circling above had to swoop to catch up. There he brought up the remains of his breakfast before collapsing.