Page 119 of Dragon Strike (Age of Fire 4)

“I suspect the Uphold would prosper, and a rival might rise.”

It seemed all the dragons in this empire lived in fear of another civil war. The previous one had lasted for generations, off and on, and ended only with the establishment of the First Tyr, FeHazathant. There were two short-lived ones after him, a brief domination by dragon-riders, and now Tyr RuGaard, who had inaugurated what he called the “Age of Fire.”

“Our Tyr would not have us hiding in the dark. He promises a return to the surface,” one of the drakka said. “When we are strong enough.”

Wistala wondered. The world was an awfully big place, and it sounded as though even this empire had few dragons.

They marched on through the Star Tunnel, drakka out scouting ahead and behind. They came to another break, but this time the floor had fallen away, spanned by a single bridge.

“It’s heavy enough to bear a dragon,” Ayafeeia said, trotting across with wings out for balance.

The others followed in line.

“Maidmother, demen!” shouted one of the drakka who stood on watch, sniffing down into the chasm.

“Quick, across, on wing,” Ayafeeia called. “Drakka who haven’t crossed yet, ride! Wistala, hurry.”

Hearts pounding, there was nothing to do but cross. She fixed her eyes on Ayafeeia and dragon-dashed across. She felt a thump on her left saa and slipped for one awful second. An iron hook rose, dragged across her fringe, but luckily didn’t catch and fell off into darkness.

Wistala wondered what she would have fallen into if that hook had pulled her down.

But she finished crossing.

She hurried to the others, grouping so as to fill the Star Tunnel wall-to-wall.

“You’re hurt,” Ayafeeia said.

Wistala saw a gash in her saa, and wondered what had made it. It looked like an ax blade that left a ragged end to the wound. She was bleeding, badly. Blood coated her saa and was already pooling, though she’d just planted her foot.

“Tuck it tight, tight as you can. That will slow the flow,” Ayafeeia advised.

The last of the drakka dashed back from the edge of the chasm. “Many hundreds, Maidmother! Coming up each side.”

“We should run,” a dragonelle said. “This is not good ground, too wide.”

“Wistala can’t run.”

“Too bad for her,” Takea said.

“How do we live, Firemaids?” Ayafeeia asked loudly.

“Together!” they responded.

“How do we fight?”

“Together!”

“Then how should we die?”

“Together!”

Now they could hear breathing from the darkness around the break in the tunnel. A shadowy mass of movement, like some mass of seaweed thrown up by a nighttime surf, resolved into individual shapes.

They came, limping, pairs of demen supporting each other, a larger deman dragging a smaller evidently unable to walk.

They all shared one attribute: bright, dry eyes. Wistala would never forget them, bobbing in their reflected light, hundreds of pairs of fireflies, each in its own dance.

“Drakka! Skirmish line, single length!” Ayafeeia called.

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