Page 128 of Dragon Fate (Age of Fire 6)

Mighty saa-fuls of flesh and skin ripped away from the troll and blood sprayed everywhere like a wineskin dropped from a tall tower. The troll shuddered and released the pinned dragon and AuSurath bounded toward his next opponent.

Behind, he heard a shovel-dig sound as Gundar drove his sword deep into the center of the troll.

The trolls bore dreadful deformities. Some had withered limbs, others were missing their stumpy legs and dragged themselves around upon vestigial tails by their powerful forelimbs. No two were alike, as though each one had manifested from a unique fever-dream.

A gamboling troll came at him and he loosed his flame. He dodged the bounding, burning mass as it ran past, dripping flame and heading for water.

With the taste of fire in his mouth the battle rage was really upon him. Gundar would have to keep up without him. He had to find another troll to kill!

>Their meager dinner was interrupted by the arrival of the Commander of the Aerial Host.

AuSurath hated to see his dragons lined up for review showing muddy snouts, but they had been reduced to plunging their jaws in among the reeds and sucking in mouthfuls of mud and slackwater to catch frogs, fish, snakes, crayfish, worms, and water beetles. Hardly a diet that made for champion warriors, but until the barges arrived or he received orders to disperse some of his wing to hunt Ironrider lands, he had to do something to keep his dragons with the energy to fly and breathe fire.

They’d set up a command tent by stretching casualty netting between two large willow trees and weaving in reeds and willow-streamers. At night, the Dragonriders slept in it. It kept out the sun and burning fragrant wood kept some of the biting bugs down.

BaMelphistran, Grand Commander of the Aerial Host, grunted as he reviewed the Heavies. He had a newly fledged messenger with him, still wet about the wings.

“You’re down how many fighting pairs?” BaMelphistran asked, nodding in recognition at AuSurath’s rider, Gundar.

“Three. Two casualties, one on messenger duty.”

“Ah. Well done, considering you’ve been on campaign since spring.”

“Thank you, sir,” AuSurath said.

“Still, you could polish your scale while waiting for orders.”

“Red attracts enough attention in battle without adding polish, sir.”

Still, he passed word for a couple of men to attend to his scale. The Grand Commander liked to see limbs in motion as soon as he gave an order.

“I’ve bad news for you, son,” BaMelphistran went on. “Your sister’s joined a mutiny.”

He didn’t feel any particular emotion at the news. He hadn’t seen Istach in years, and never much liked her anyway. Too quiet and thoughtful. He liked lively, talkative dragonelles who enjoyed tricks and jokes and quick, flirtatious passes overhead. “Istach always was an ingrown scale. To be honest, sir, I’m not surprised.”

“Not your sister in Old Uldam. It’s Varatheela, in the Light Wing.”

“Varatheela? She’s not imaginative enough to be a mutineer. Your sources have the story wrong, I suppose.”

“CuSarrath himself,” BaMelphistran said. “The former Tyr RuGaard has gone mad and is committing suicide in a spectacular fashion. He’s walking—walking, mind you—all the way across Hypatia to his mate’s refuge to reclaim her. Several dragons of the Lights are fool enough to follow him. I’m sure when it’s all over they’ll claim they pretended to join him, just to see if there was a larger conspiracy at work, but it will be good fun stopping them, especially if he decides to remain on the Old North Road and on foot.”

“Madness,” AuSurath said.

“Yes, sounds it, doesn’t it?”

“Some of the dragons won’t much care for killing him. He led us in battle and promoted some of us. Including myself.”

“If it comes to bloodshed, will you help Gundar take her head?”

“I’m a dragon of the Empire and Commander of the Heavy Wing. Duty to Empire and Wing and family comes first. In that order.”

“As it should be. Aaagh, I was considering flying back to the palace tonight and see if I might get NiVom out of his funk—the Queen says he’s been locked up in his sleeping chamber with maps laid on every square inch for three days now—but I can’t face a night-flight. Not that facing a night in the rough is all that attractive, either. Why weren’t you garrisoned in the Golden Dome, for Spirits’ sake?”

“Orders, sir. The Iwensi riverbank, for easy supply.”

“The supplies would probably have to come from the city anyway. Who gave those orders?”

“It wasn’t you, sir? Then I assume it was Tyr NiVom.”

---