Page 157 of Dragon Rule (Age of Fire 5)

The biggest boulder of all was green and metal-protected. The clattering bangs of light war machines firing their spear-sized projectiles sent Wistala into a rage.

Ouistrela, much torn about, saw that her support from the Grand Alliance had vanished. With a contemptuous flap of her wings, she backed away, throwing fire this way and that.

AuRon watched the Copper dragon fight. His brother continued to amaze him. The Copper was no great fighter—his limited vision, dragging limbs, and general off-balance awkwardness put him at a disadvantage against any dragon near his own size. The Copper wasn’t stupid—he had his faults, but he wasn’t stupid—he must be aware of his disadvantages in combat.

Yet he threw himself into battle regardless. And he didn’t fight with the fury of a dragon with his blood up, he didn’t throw himself upon the nearest enemy and lose all his wits in a red madness; he fought craftily and cannily, using wing and tail to both strike and defend.

The barbarians, lacking the support of the dragons they counted upon, quit the fight, running in little groups with shields held over heads and spears up to ward off aerial attack.

They needn’t have bothered. AuRon had no flame left, anyway. Long flights on short rations tended to dry the firebladder. He settled for making threatening dives to hurry them along.

AuRon turned back to what was left of the fight. Shadow-catch was in a poor way, his wings had bites and tears in them. But he still raged, smashing dead men and broken spears into splintered pulp. Wistala looked a little like a ragged porcupine, with numerous arrows and spears stuck in her. Very little blood ran from the wounds, however, so AuRon expected there would just be the painful work of extracting broken-off tips. His brother had a number of men gathered like a herd of sheep in surrender, begging for their lives with upraised palms.

“Gather all the dropped shields and weapons left lying about, put them in a pile here, then you may return to your boats, or however you came here,” he said in rather faulty Pari, holding head high and standing square. AuRon repeated the instructions in the northern tongue and they fell to their knees and cried out in gladness at the dragon’s mercy.

AuRon thought his brother carried off that lordly, implacable air rather well. Better than he himself could have, at any rate.

Yes, the Copper had courage. Courage and heart and the ability to keep his head. It had taken him far and won him a mate AuRon admired. He also wondered about RuGaard’s first mate. Clearly she’d seen in the ungainly young dragon with the slack eye a quality others missed.

Your wrath shouldn’t win.

Maybe AuRon could have done better by his brother. Snuck him food from the egg shelf. He’d been a greedy little hatch-ling, even stealing what he could from his sisters.

In his way, he’d done more for dragons than AuRon had. AuRon admitted to himself that he’d gained them a safe refuge, hard for men and elves and dwarfs to find, and even harder to attempt to control. His brother had made it a world where dragons were no longer hunted.

Then there was his sister. Wistala, who didn’t set dragons above the hominids as the Copper did, or apart from them as AuRon would have it, but beside them, cooperating as best as she could. Had she been wrong? Too idealistic? Blinded by memories of a kindly old elf who’d taken her into his home?

AuRon couldn’t fault her.

Each of them were products of birth and circumstance. Each had found a way to make their outlook work. Only time would tell who was right.

The question was, which approach would last?

The griffaran who’d turned on his companions settled on the Copper’s back to rest and rearrange his feathers.

The griffaran, a grizzled veteran with feathers that were thin and dull, but with a painted beak showing bright markings of rank, executed a bob before his brother.

“Who are you?” the Copper asked.

“Named Miki!” the oldster squawked in a griffaran’s usual punchy Drakine. “Years ago. Many! Others forgot! Not me!”

“What happened years ago?” his brother asked.

“You saved an egg. From demen. ’Twas me!”

Miki shot out his story like a dwarf rock thrower war machine, in quick bursts of words. He’d been raised to be loyal to the dragons, and especially loyal to the Tyr who had saved him.

“Great RuGaard Miki Tyr! Always! Protect Tyr!”

“Thank you,” the Copper said.

“What now?” Wistala asked. “If this island is part of the Grand Alliance, they won’t let us stay here.”

Shadowcatch inspected his torn wings. “I’m not going anywhere for the moment. I don’t suppose there are any thralls around who are good at stitching?”

“Even united, we can’t hold a hole against the Aerial Host,” the Copper said. “They’ll simply fly in demen and dwarfs and who knows what else.”

The surrendered barbarians dropped the last shields in a pile and the Copper waved them off with his tail.

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