Page 75 of Dragon Strike (Age of Fire 4)

“Thank you, from nose-tip to tail,” Wistala said. “My name is Wistala Irelianova.”

“And I am Ayafeeia, ranking Firemaid,” the painted rescuer said.

“Thank you, Ayafeeia.”

“She’s of the Imperial Line, matekin to the Tyr himself, or have you forgotten?” the drakka atop Paskinix added.

“I never knew to begin with,” Wistala said. “Must I bow?”

The youngster half dropped her griff. “It would—”

“Not be necessary. In fact, I will bow to you, as you’re a visitor, and I’m grateful for your help in capturing this villain.” She looked at the youngster. “Takea, since he’s your prisoner, take charge of him.”

The young dragonelle narrowed her eyes in thought. “Deman, put that bucket on your head and take hold of my tail. If the bucket comes off or you let go of my tail, I’ll gut you.”

Paskinix’s spines rippled but fell again.

“I wish you’d let him go,” Wistala said. “He spared me once.”

“He didn’t spare you any food, by the look of your ribs.”

“His warriors starved too,” Wistala said, not quite believing she was defending her tormentor.

“Have you ever seen quicksilver poured out on glass?” Ayafeeia said as the youngster led her captive off, the bucket rattling against his neck plates. “I did as a youngster in the Anklene hill. This one’s just as quiet and twice as slippery.” A dragonelle followed the pair at a nod from Ayafeeia.

“Don’t worry about him; whatever he gets it’s less than he deserves, the old egg-thief. Let’s get you out of those chains, stranger, cleaned up, and see about that wing. Would you care for some toasted deman leg? There’s a lot of it about this morning. Stringy, but that’s war.”

They walked what felt like a terribly long distance, though the more rational part of Wistala’s brain knew it to be but a short journey. It just felt doubly far because they climbed two steep rises and her wing pained her with every step, despite the soft hominid-made hemp-lines the drakka had fixed to it to support it. That horrible bat creature or one like it flapped back and forth, scouting ahead and checking behind.

“It’s that exhausted I am,” it complained.

“You’ll get your sup,” Ayafeeia said. “Just get us back to the Star Tunnel.”

Wistala shuddered. It was one thing for a beast like that to creep up on you and bite, quite another to offer your own neck. Ayafeeia was made of stern scale inside as well as out.

She did seem a dragonelle to be admired. The four female dragons she led, and perhaps twelve drakka—they moved about so much and smelled so similar, thanks, she guessed, to identical diets, that she wasn’t sure she wasn’t counting the same ones twice—deferred to her orders instantly. Odd to see dragons, evidently not related in any way, acting as obediently as hatchlings under the watchful eye of their mother. Perhaps more so—hatchlings liked to test their mother’s limits and act up as soon as that great watchful eye closed.

Could the discipline be this Tyr’s doing, or was it just that they loved Ayafeeia as some sort of surrogate mother?

They drove Paskinix mercilessly. He couldn’t walk long without his support, and when he flagged they spat a torf of flame onto his back. He bore the pain with grunts and gasps, but no cries, and reeked of burned flesh.

Wistala wished she’d had more experience with dragons. The only ones she knew at all were those of the Sadda-Vale, and—

DharSii again. Put him out of your mind.

Oh, if only she’d made more of an effort to find out about those Ghioz dragons. Perhaps if she’d gone to them, talked, the whole fight could have been avoided.

Of course there was the disturbing possibility that these “Firemaids” were allied with the Ghioz through their Tyr. What if she had dropped off the spit only to land in the fire?

They came to a chute requiring a short climb and Ayafeeia, listening to Wistala’s breathing and pulse, called a rest.

“But we’re practically under the Star Tunnel,” a dragonelle demurred. It was the first resistance to Ayafeeia that Wistala had seen.

Ayafeeia listened to Wistala’s breathing. “The stranger needs a rest before we climb. Besides, I smell water, and it seems to me there was a trickle here.”

“It’s that thirsty am I, too!” the bat creature croaked.

One of the energetic young drakka found the trickle and Ayafeeia let Wistala drink first. Wistala noted that all around the trickle there were cracks and holes where the water drained off—above, in the walls, below. Cave moss, an odd pinkish kind, gave it an eerie glow. Wistala felt doubly bad, considering what she was contemplating.

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