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“Nothing more, your honor. You would do that?”
“I just need you to turn your brain to one final project.”
His shoulders dropped. “What’s that?”
“You worked for the dwarves, I understand?”
“Yes, well, it was sort of an apprenticeship.”
“They understand armor, I’m told. I want you to design some kind of armoring for the underside of a dragon. Enough to keep out one of those poisoned crossbow quarrels. It’s got to be light, though. No layers of chain mail.”>Or perhaps her expectations were forcing her appetite.
“A griffaran comes!” the watchdragon aloft outside bellowed. “He makes the signal-wing of bearing important news for the Upholder, from the Tyr himself.”
“A message? But you just got here,” Halaflora said. “Whatever could it mean?”
“I’d better see to that,” the Copper said, rising and taking the exit that would bring him to the stairs.
The griffaran alighted on one of the globes-atop-squares flanking the long staircase down the mountainside.
“Yark! Upholder RuGaard?”
“Yes,” the Copper said. Fourfang trotted up with a torch.
“Written message. Sent yesterday.” The bird detached a tube from some sort of hook in its tail feathers and passed it to him.
“You must have flown straight here without a break. Have you eaten? Fourfang, go down to the pool and see if there are any fish there.”
“Read message first,” the griffaran said. “Then duty done.”
The tube was one of NoSohoth’s message tubes, certainly. He flicked off the sealing wax with a claw-tip and extracted the paper inside.
TYR DEAD. PEACE DECREED. TYR SIMEVOLANT RULES. RETURN AT ONCE.
The Copper blinked, unable to believe his eyes. Each pair of words was harder to believe than the last.
Bwaaaaaaak!
He started. That was a blighter alarm horn!
It blew again, sounding from the dining chamber. His hearts froze for a second; then he spread open his wings and flew up to the balcony on the upper level. He crashed through the tattered, burned remains of the evening curtains and saw Halaflora, stretched out and twitching on the floor.
Blood ran from a corner of her mouth. A white-faced Rhea stood in the corner, gasping for air, the horn hanging loose in her hand. Over his mate Nilrasha stood, the claws of one sii bloody, scratched about her eyes.
“Away from her!” he roared, feeling his fire bladder well. He tripped on his bad sii and sprawled next to his mate, but he didn’t care. He rolled her undersize head toward him, but Halaflora’s eyes were white and sightless.
“She’s dead, my lord,” Nilrasha said, breathing hard. “There’s nothing you can do for her.”
The Copper shook his mate, struck her face, turned her upside down, and shook her until scales fell off and skittered across the spotless feasting floor. Finally he dropped her limp corpse.
“What did you do?” he asked Nilrasha.
“Do?” she choked.
“Shwok’d?”
“Am I not speaking clearly enough, you lisping lizard? Yes, she tore off a big piece of thigh—I think it had a bone in it—and lifted her head and gobbled it right down, smiling and happy as can be. It stuck. I tried to get at it with my sii, but I couldn’t reach it without tearing her head off.”
“How did you get wounded?”
