Page 133 of Dragon Rule (Age of Fire 5)

She learned she was fortunate in one matter. HeBellereth and two of his dragons of the Aerial Host had returned to the Lavadome with small injuries from their brushes with pirates on the Sunstruck Sea. She saw Ayafeeia whispering to him.

“If there’s going to be a battle, Wistala, you should be properly suited. We must have you looking the part,” HeBellereth said.

“What do you mean?” Wistala asked.

“Follow me, my Queen,” Ayafeeia said. “We still have a moment to prepare, and the engagement in the tunnels is not yet decided. Let’s hope it’s all for nothing, and the Firemaids hold them.”

“I’d rather help at the tunnels.”

HeBellereth was breathing hard, twitching to get into battle. “You’re the Queen. Your place is here. Ayafeeia, see to your Queen. I’ll go and reinforce the tunnels to the river ring.”

With that he rushed to the gardens and launched himself into the red light of the Lavadome.

Ayafeeia led her down to a chamber beneath the old Imperial Residence. Wistala had only visited it once before. It was a storehouse for gifts from the upholds, trophies taken in war, first lost scale of Imperial Line hatchlings—that sort of thing. Within the cramped chamber were a number of barred cages holding the most valuable items.

Veeeeee—Ayafeeia whistled through a nostril for thralls, and some fat old servants of the line appeared.

“The Tyr’s armor,” Ayafeeia ordered.

The thralls pointed and Ayafeeia nosed open a barred stall. In it were gleaming pieces of dragon-armor.

“Most dragons don’t like armor in battle—we have scale and the additional weight slows you down. Besides, you can’t fly with this heavy plate. It was built for FeHazathant but I believe you’ll fit in it, with your framing and musculature.”

The thralls and Ayafeeia extracted the pieces. Someone had kept it polished and oiled the leather straps. It was beautifully arranged and decorated; perhaps some dwarf had helped fashion it.

They put it on. Wearing something against the scale felt odd to Wistala. She felt herself a prisoner of the armor. But it did cover her head, chest, hearts, and flanks admirably—though her crest was squashed.

“I don’t know,” Wistala said. “It’s supposed to be for the Tyr.”

“You’re Queen-Consort, and the Lavadome is under attack. You want dragons to see you, don’t you?”

“Not being able to fly makes sure of your courage,” Wistala said. “Your leader can’t fly away when he’s wearing this.”

Ayafeeia snorted. “She’s wearing this. You look good in it, Queen-Consort Wistala. Let’s not delay, now that you’re dressed for the party, go up and see and be seen.”

Party. Wistala stifled a snort. Ayafeeia avoided the socializing Imperial Line, despite being of Tyr Fehazathant’s line. The only parties she had a taste for were battles.

Wistala made a light clattering sound as she walked wearing the armor ching-ching-ching-ching—the sound reminded her of coin rattling in a purse.

She went to the top of Imperial Rock, reflecting light from the polished armor on the passageways around her.

“Your orders, my Queen,” Ayafeeia asked.

“You know more about warfare than I do. Should we fight them in the hills, or concentrate on defending Imperial Rock?”

“We’re better off staying mobile, striking and flying again. If you stay in one place, they use war machines on you. Spirits, are they in the Lavadome already?”

Wistala saw one of the Aerial Host flying in loops at the edge of the Lavadome, above the north passageway down to the river ring.

Dragons, drakes and drakka, many carrying eggs or with hatchlings riding on their back, streamed toward Imperial Rock. The Drakwatch, guarding the entrances, urged them on.

The dwarfs came in waves. Wistala had to admire the precision of the attack.

War machines fired clusters of sparking missiles into the air at the flying dragons. They spread as they rose, like dandelion seeds blown by a strong wind. A Firemaid dove, dropping fire and a fountain of sparks shot up around her. She rolled over and fell.

Flying wildly, the last of the Aerial Host she’d sent to defend the holes swooped left and right, avoiding the fireworks.

It wasn’t HeBellereth.

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