“I might be able to get the men away for a few hours,” the Copper said. “When the time comes.”

“The sooner the time comes, the better,” Rethothanna said. “A man and a drake crier came through the milkdrinker’s hill today, looking for dragons to volunteer to be ridden, promising gold, food, a cave in the Imperial Resort, everything. With food stocks falling the way they are and dragons going without meat, soon half the dragons here will have nothing to look forward to but the saddle and a trough at the end of the day.”

Chapter 28

Rethothanna got her wish. Less than a score of days later, the Imperial line and the leaders of the hill selected the hour for the battle. Of course, not everything could be readied on time. The bats were still gathering, and every day the Copper was making a trip to the river to explain to them what to do. But each day’s delay increased their risk, for more and more dragons found themselves watched, and the Immortal Memory group could no longer meet except in twos or threes for a few brief words.

The Copper had spies of his own. The bats, out of hunger or curiosity, went so far as to do practice runs, trickling into Black Rock in search of nourishment.

There was a last-moment change in the Immortal Memory’s calculations. A half-score more dragons had arrived, carrying several people each on them and more possessions. Some of the mates and babes of the Andam had arrived.

So the Copper stood, flanked by Rethothanna and NeStirrath, listening to SiMevolant speak. He was explaining to the high-ranking dragons that soon each of them would have a human “assistant” to help allocate food and cave space, ore rations, and exercise flights. Even grooming standards would be discussed, if there were health-threatening habits that needed to be broken.

The Dragonblade lounged on a golden chair, brought up and fixed on the Tyr’s shelf. A rich fur lay before it, and another hung off the back. He also wore a fur cloak closed with dragonscale.

Imfamnia was not in the audience. She was inspecting a case of luxuries brought in on dragonback.

“I do not say you must follow the advice of the human assistant,” SiMevolant said. “But they are wise, and I feel matters will go easier if we heed them.”

“I say enough,” a Skotl called.

“I say too much!” a Wyrr added.

The Copper braced himself and took a breath. This was worse than spreading his wings to jump, trusting to a bit of wood and leather and steel pin. “I say we have no Tyr. Just a dog too well trained to need a collar.”

“That’s a poor sort of insult, RuGaard.” SiMevolant yawned. “I hope you didn’t labor hard over it. You wasted your time.”

“I challenge you to a duel, with the charge of treason against the Imperial line,” the Copper said.

“You can’t challenge a Tyr,” SiMevolant said. “The rank is too exalted.”

“I may. There are some who believe I am the rightful Tyr. Tyr FeHazathant named me as his successor after NiVom fled and before he died.”

“I witnessed it!” Ibidio called.

“I was told in secret as well,” said NeStirrath. Which was a lie, but a lie he gladly offered to tell.

“He told me the same,” Rethothanna said. “There is even a secret testament in the archives.” Another lie, but one she had made true with a bit of parchment and a forged scale-seal.

“That’s three,” NoSohoth said quietly.

“So, yes, I do challenge you,” RuGaard said. “If you refuse, all will know you to be a coward.”

“Yes, yes, yes, heroes taste death but once and all that. But the coward gets a long time to enjoy all those deaths, bitter as the cup may be, and heroes die young. Still, you annoy me, RuGaard. I think I should like to kill you. I accept your challenge and name the Dragonblade as my duelist.”

That startled the man out of bored daydreaming. He reached for his sword hilt.

“You get to kill a three-legged dragon,” SiMevolant said.

“When I came down here, I was told I’d be acting as an adviser,” the Dragonblade said. “I’ve had enough fights in my life. I’m old, my bones are easily chilled, and a hairy-rumped well digger would find this blasted rock uncomfortably cool.”

“The alternative is fighting between the Andam and the dragons again,” SiMevolant hissed.

“So be it. I’ll kill the beast for you. What’s one more to my tally? Ach, you’re making me regret my chickens and coops.”

“The deepest hour of the night, then,” the Copper said. “When the new day rings.”

Black Rock’s dueling pit lay on its lowest level. An amphitheater had been dug out beneath a point of rock, and there was room for six-score or more dragons, though the air got closed-in and stuffy when it was that full.

Fewer than a score of dragons attended this duel. RuGaard was well liked (or at least not hated outright, as Tighlia liked to put it), so most of the audience was of the Andam. They would have preferred, perhaps, to see two dragons fight, but entertainments were few enough.

SiMevolant was there, of course, in his ridiculous bumblebee-painted scheme.

After a light dinner, the Copper took a last walk around the Rock. He wondered how many dragons—or men—noticed the bats flitting about. Every now and then one landed on his head to whisper in his ear.

Finally, it was time. He descended to the dueling pit with limbs that dragged reluctantly.

I’ve never had any luck with duels. From my first one out of the egg.

The Copper made a long, reluctant show of having himself groomed before the match, trying to make the contest last as long as possible. If he went onto the sand before the attack, in all likelihood he would be killed. The Dragonblade occupied his time sharpening his sword and testing his footing in the sand of the dueling pit. He picked up a bronze dragonscale shield—how odd, the coloring was much like Father’s—and banged his sword hilt against it.

“Come on! It’s late, beast, and I’ll have this over with.”

I’ve never had any luck with duels.

The Copper dropped into the pit and lowered his griff.

The Dragonblade put on a helmet featuring two wings rising up and meeting above his head, dropped his spiked face mask, and jumped into the pit. He took six paces forward so he couldn’t be trapped against the wall. Then he waited, shield held ready and sword held loosely in one hand.

NoSohoth invoked the spirits, asking them to determine whose cause was just, and to offer strength to the combatant in the right—but took his time doing so, and had to go back and repeat several lines.

The dragon-riders began to shout and make venting noises with their lips and tongues.

At last NoSohoth finished the invocation. But then he improvised: “I give you one last chance to reconcile. You have both proved your bravery by stepping into the pit, knowing that only one will climb out again….”

Where are they?

Neither offered to forget the quarrel. NoSohoth had difficulty making out the Dragonblade’s reply, and finally asked him to step over and repeat his words, without the face mask in the way.

With that done NoSohoth droned on and on about the glorious traditions of single combat and how these two opponents set an example of courage to be learned from by eyes young and old….

Never before had the Copper been so grateful for NoSohoth’s ponderous speechifying.

“Enough, NoSohoth,” SiMevolant cried. “Or I’ll have a saddle made for the Dragonblade out of your hide. Begin!” he shouted, lest NoSohoth suffer another attack of deafness.

The Dragonblade dropped into a crouch. He whirled his sword, and it whistled an evil tune as it cut the air.

The Copper shifted stance and his wings opened a little and flapped, instinctively readying themselves.

“Now I know you. You’re the little crippled traitor! Stupid of me!”

“Not finishing me when you had the chance?” the Copper asked.

“Thinking such as you might put up a fight.”

Nothing to do but go forward. The Copper, for the first time in his life, made a show of limping.

The Dragonblade danced forward, deflected a bite with his shield, and cut the Copper in the shoulder. He moved as if he were made of air itself, a zephyr of slashing steel and stinking man-breath.

The Copper turned, swinging his stiff and broken tail, and beat his wings, kicking up a whirlwind of dust.

The men in the stands roared in displeasure, though whether they thought this was cheating, or just objected to not being able to see the action, the Copper couldn’t say.

The Dragonblade was ready for the sand. Blocking it with his shield, he came forward and opened a cut in the Copper’s vulnerable belly.

He’s toying with me. He’s going to let me die by scores of small cuts rather than a fatal blow.

Dribbles of blood made strange spiral traces in the sand beneath the Copper as he sidestepped, protecting his wounded underside. The man sliced a piece of skin from the Copper’s haunch the size of his shield. Naked muscle gleamed red.

“I need a new shield-leather anyway,” he said.

The Copper’s fire bladder pulsed with his pain, and he vomited up its contents.