Page 93 of Dragon Strike (Age of Fire 4)

“Hmmm. Well, perhaps something is being lost in the messaging. This has dragged on far too long. I’ve nothing but admiration for the discipline and spirits of your warriors, but I hate to see them confined to a few dragonlengths of shabby holes.”

“Shabby! Tyr, the Lavadome is a wonder. Holes are clean with sound water than accustomary, purify in from steam. See the living hot rock flow against the . . . the—

“Crystal,” the Copper supplied.

“Ah, crystal! Great magic. Very dangers. Yes, it is like a magma pilgrimage that never ends behind crystal.”

“Ah, yes. Well, as I was saying, such fine warriors, kept waiting, though I commend you for keeping their minds occupied with exercise and training. How did we ever beat you? We could have used such skill in the skirmish with the dwarves at the hotflow.”

“A sharp fight, eh?” Gigrix asked, his spines rising and falling.

“Yes, the dwarves had taken refuge on a rising slope up from the steaming river. They’d banked stone against flame, so our own fire ran down on the Firemaids, and they had a stout shield wall behind.”

“Ha! The Tyr is wise, but I know how to fight dwarves in such a situations. You had water near. A good triple pump.”

“Triple pump?”

“Easy to build, just copper tubing of different sizes, and some stout backs to work the handles. It throw stream of water farther than any dragonflame. I see a triple pump knock down a wall, dwarves behind shields? Spill ’em and send ’em rolling like toadstools. Oh, a sight, that to see.” Gigrix seemed lost in his imagination.

“Well, if the occasion calls for it, when a peace of friendship instead of enmity is made, perhaps I’ll ask for your assistance in a future fight. Reward the victory with herds of cattle and drink a toast of dragonblood over a pile of dwarf-heads.”

“Dragonblood, my Tyr?”

“You’ve never had it?”

“Well, yes, in war . . . well, bodies and such.”

“And how do you like it?”

“Made me a new-shucked deman. Could that I took six matings instead of the usual three.”

“Ah. Well, the dragon-riders in the Aerial Host swear by it. Both they and their mates enjoy it regularly. A well-fed dragon’s all the better for a little bleeding now and then, I always say. Their children raised with a sip on the seven-day grow up uncommonly handsome and strong.”

“Amazing.”

“How so? I’ve heard that in Anklamere’s time dragonblood was used as a tonic.”

“No, that ye share. My apologies.”

“Well, there was some resistance to it at first, but they’re used to the idea now. It’s something of an honor, to play ‘host’ at a party for the riders and their mates. No dragon is ever forced, and there are enough volunteers willing to bleed a little.”

Gigrix smacked his mandibles. That divided jaw of the demen—most unsettling. It looked too much like an injury.

“Would you care for some?”

“I . . . I would never ask.”

“Oh, come, you’ve been most helpful to me today. You allowed me to watch your exercises, advised me on the offer to Paskinix—perhaps he’s died and your warriors can name you the new king. That would simplify things. Look, your eating knife looks clean enough, and one of those water buckets would do.”

“Not from you, Tyr!” But he did retrieve the bucket.

“Oh, come, a little blood spilled makes lasting friendship, I’ve found, and I’m heartily sick of counting demen as enemies instead of praising them as allies. Give me that.”

He pinched the short, sharp knife between his sii and cut himself just inside the turn of his forelimb.

If anything, it didn’t go deep enough. He had to continually squeeze his sii to keep the blood flowing into the bucket.

A small crowd of tired, dirty demen gathered to watch the strange ceremony.

---