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Ibidio slipped up next to the Copper. “I must speak to you,” she whispered, then switched to mind-speech. If you still live tomorrow, go to the hill of the Anklenes. Once inside, ask for the senior doorwarden. Tell him this: “Immortal Memory.”
The Copper was still too shocked to do anything but nod. The swirl of memories, of fears, of regrets, of pain brought by the Dragonblade’s slaying of Tighlia, had left him clouded.
“Immortal Memory,” he thought back to her. If I still live?
In the lore of the Lavadome, the hours were afterward known as the Night of the Desperate Deaths.
To those who knew only vaguely of events within the Imperial Resort, the first sign of them was when two beacons were lit atop the Rock, burning a bright blue as though by magic—the Copper knew very well it was dwarvish chemicals, but what sort of mix the humans who lit the beacons used, he never could remember, despite all the pleadings and urgings of the Anklenes.
And with that, hag-ridden dragons flew into the Lavadome in two long lines.
Perhaps a score of dragons, knowing the war gossip that had been spreading ever since the Copper’s arrival with the news of Anaea, realized what the invasion portended and took to the air to meet it.
No dragon who fought that night lived.
Black Rock was emptied of all dragons save for the Imperial line, who remained in the Imperial Resort in a nebulous role between leaders and hostages. The allies occupied the best caves and the best galleries, save for the top level and the Gardens, where SiMevolant, his widowed-and-mated Imfamnia, and the governor-general remained.
And the ubiquitous NoSohoth.
Atop the rock, as the hag-ridden dragons performed military evolutions, showing their skill, the most dispirited banquet in Lavadome history was held. The food—exquisite and tender. The wine—unparalleled by anything that had come before, thanks to exotic captured vintages brought in by the Andam, the Men of the Golden Circle.
It was a brave young drake who took the first bite. The rest of the company watched anxiously for signs of poisoning as they nibbled on bits of greenstuff, onions, and ores.
The Copper, never a fan of banquets and unable to enjoy the flesh of so many limbs and sides that looked like Rhea, sat in the garden and tried to think.
One thing the display of force and flying skill did offer him: a chance to count their numbers. Three-score dragons and riders, and another half-score of dragons on lines attached to the others, bearing baggage or supplies.
A few wings over forty, using the ten-count numbering system of the dwarves Rayg had been teaching him.
He did his best to overhear some of the conversation between SiMevolant and the Dragonblade. Evidently some kind of long-planned war had begun. They flew from a fastness in the north, and had just seized a sort of floating city on the Inland Ocean. Holding the Lavadome would give them a third hold for rest and organization in the south.
The Dragonblade filled SiMevolant’s ears with praise about his foresight as a dragon and the heights his leadership would allow the Drakines to reach.
The Copper almost wanted to warn SiMevolant of the fine words that marched in front of betrayals, but when one gathered such snakes to one’s bosom, one had to learn about being bitten.
He slunk off into the greenery and became violently sick.
The next day he did as Ibidio requested and went to the Anklene hill. He asked for the head doorwarden and gave him the signal phrase. The warden took him down a short ramp and stuck an odd metal spike into a crevice under a cast of a blighter’s face, and the wall clicked.
He showed the Copper where to push, and soon he found himself in an underground chamber designed for dragon-sized creatures, with low ledges around the walls, fine sand on the floors, and a water cistern fed by a drip in the roof. There was also a tiled sanitary room with a gutter.
Rethothanna was already there, waiting with Ibidio.
“I don’t understand,” the Copper said. “Is this a conspiracy? If we packed this room with dragons atop one another, there wouldn’t be enough to fight the hag-riddens.”
“Well said, RuGaard,” Ibidio said. “That’s just what they are.”
Rethothanna drew a claw across the sand, making a furrow. “This group was started…Perhaps you should tell him, Ibidio.”
“After the death of my mate,” Ibidio said sternly, “I suspected an assassination. He came back from the wars injured, yes, but he was a strong dragon who always recovered quickly, from even greater injuries than those I saw that last time. Then his wounds suddenly quit healing, became infected, and he died. Even the Anklenes said they’d seen nothing like it.”
“No more than seven dragons ever belonged to this group,” Rethothanna said. “One from each hill, and Ibidio from the Imperial Resort. We had Skotl, Wyrr, and Anklene members. All with one thing in common: love of my mate.”
“And now you have an outcast of no particular line,” the Copper said. “Even my name was once another’s.”
Others trickled in, at what seemed like long intervals. Finally NeStirrath arrived.
“Why, RuGaard too! You never seemed the conspirator type,” NeStirrath said.
