*
‘Most people fail to grasp the integral dichotomy that forms the underlying foundations for the racial psyche of the Great Drakes. Given their lurid portrayal in the history books this was hardly surprising. If we were to rely on the accounts of such venerable scholars as Dounon or Kasian Temur, we might be excused from seeing them solely as the savage personification of conflict itself. Motile, self-aware engines of war, wrought of flame and iron.
This is, of course, completely true. Witness:
During the battle for Montego Beach, they stood shoulder to shoulder with their allies of the Surfan Compact, to repel the vast armada launched by the Ausirri city-states, from across the southern Gulf.
At Briscar, they stood with the Tuon, in their efforts to overthrow the Fisher Kings.
They were even rumoured to have participated in the mass uprising against the Night Empire, before the ice descended from the north.
Let us look deeper though.
The single, integral key to all such engagements, first recorded in text by the scholar Iskandrr Parthe, (it is probable others have noted the fact, but their testimony is now lost) is that of participation.
The Drakes never stand alone, in place of an army.
Always, they fight along side an existing host.
The size of the host appears to be irrelevant; there are a couple of noted occasions where the forces they took up arms with were woefully outnumbered by their antagonists, at which point the intervention of a phalanx of winged nightmares raining down liquid fire was more than enough to turn the day.
On other occasions, however, they have stood with the side holding the numerical advantage; witness the sacking of Galairel.
The path their involvement takes also shifts during any given fight: in the confrontation between the Surfan and their southern agitators, for example, the Drakes spent the initial part of the engagement trashing ships. Dropping out of the azure sky to come skidding in across the shallow bay waters, ploughing into the sides of the huge vessels that carried hundreds. Or raining fiery death down on those that held ballista or canon trained on the skies.
But once the two sides had engaged in the surf they changed tactics, taking a more hands (or claws) on approach to the battle.
Evidence of this consideration for their chosen side is borne out in accounts of other conflicts. If the Drakes make a pledge to fight for you, they will not then risk the lives of your men when the fighting moves to closer quarters. Epic gestures that can decimate an entire regiment or installation in a single blistering exhalation are reserved for the opening minutes of a confrontation, when the sides are not yet so muddled that they risk doing as much harm to their allies as foes. Once blades have met, unless an opportunity presents itself, they step into the melee with everyone else.
Not that any of their allies have ever complained. The devastating (and demoralising, for your enemies) effect of a dragon on the field goes without saying.
The point, it seems, is that they will not fight your battles for you. But they will fight them with you.
Here, amidst the violence, is the tiny spark that lights the other side of their temperament.
Companionship.
Over the millennia the Drakes have always stayed within arms reach of people because, the overwhelming evidence suggests, they like having them around. Something in their make up revels in the pettiness of humanity, takes joy in its frivolity. Characteristics they seem poorly equipped to evince in themselves. So they borrow ours instead.’
Timo put the book to one side, rolling onto his back with a sigh in the flickering candlelight of his room. It had been a gift from his grandmother on his twelfth birthday, six months after he’d first met Kirigama. That had occurred up in the meadows surrounding their farm, during his second stint as shepherd for one of their flocks.
Written by Jurai Maxet, Of Tooth and Claw dealt with the relationship and key moments of contact between the Drakes and peoples of what were now Nianen and Faeron (the current reach of the Congregate city-states), Taiiruz, and the Archipelagos (including the Doves) that encircled the south-eastern extent of the Arc. It also included the Surfan Delta (historically), home of the Compact, which had at one time stretched right from the Arc down to the shores of the southern Gulf. Maxet had been abroad one of the junks in Rusa’s fleet the night of the attack on Galairel, and his account of the sacking was the one of the most widely celebrated, and most often repeated, though of course others existed. Jurai, who had managed to survive the whole ordeal despite being one of the first through the breech in the city walls, after Baelmont and the other members of the Howling Maw and Wind Chasers had torn it down, had come away from the ordeal with a profound need to know more. His remaining years were therefore spent combing the libraries and private collections of the Arc Sea, and beyond, seeking references and chasing hints in old texts and songs, in his quest to understand the titans he’d stood beside in battle. The book was his epitaph.
Timo could well understand the man’s desires. Since that first night, when he’d gone for a piss behind a rock (he was still uncertain why he’d gone behind the rock, as if the sheep were going to be bothered about him whipping it out in front of them), and a shadow he’d assumed to be one of the many tors that littered the landscape here moved, he’d shared that same passion to know more; to understand.
You never became inured to their presence. Or at least not in his experience. It was a visceral thing; your body knew you were in danger, no matter how much your conscious mind argued to the contrary. Aeons of reflexive instinct could not be undone by a few years worth of casual association, regardless of how certain he was the Drake meant him no harm.
Standing next to Kirigama, his heart sang!
But for him it wasn’t, and never had been, completely mortal terror. At least half of the adrenaline coursing through his veins was born of a heady mixture of awe and lust. Not in the carnal sense, but something more akin to hero-worship. It was an ecstasy of belonging, of camaraderie, which had left little room for doubt in that child’s eyes, and none in the eyes of the young man he’d become.
Which was why he’d so readily acceded to the dragon’s request that afternoon.
I need to ask something of you.
They were walking along the track that bisected one of the farm’s barley fields. It was mid-week, and the Vale Families were ahead of schedule with preparations for the harvest, so his mother had given him leave to spend the afternoon in the hills, with the admonition that he return in time to see to the evening chores. These would mostly involve checking that everyone had his or her schedules for the following week. Not such a terrible task, given the company he would pass through during its execution, but a job nonetheless.
For now, the sky was a clear blue, but for the occasional scudding cloud passing languidly overhead, and sunset was a distant possibility, hours away. It was even relatively still, down here on the ground, though he had been assured that the wind was up, above the thermals rising from the slopes. In honour of the heat he was dressed in loose shorts and a vest, with a light linen shirt covering his already tanned arms and shoulders. His sisters always made fun of him for the way he freckled – across his collar bone as well as the bridge of his slightly too broad nose – knowing he was self conscious of his wiry frame and the way it looked; he’d yet to acquire a man’s musculature, though his bones had already settled into the broader set of an adult, and he’d had to ask his father to teach him to use a razor last summer.
Today his feet were bare, sandals slung by their throngs from his satchel. A scarf bound about his head as an impromptu hood helped keep sunstroke at bay and also served the useful purpose of taming his rebellious, sun bleached hair, though several strands had still managed to work their way loose. He’d settled for tucking them behind his ear, unprepared to go through the rigmarole of removing the scarf and re-tying it.
A pair of tinted sun protectors – shades, the latest fashion at Court apparently
, or so his sister had said when she presented them at his last birthday – kept the glare out of his eyes.
The Drake was loping along to his right, so as not to throw him in shadow, his slow gait carefully matched to Timo’s own long legged pace, meaning he walked at what for him was probably barely a crawl. The companionable sauntering might have been easier were Timo mounted, but as yet they’d been unable to persuade any of the farm’s llamas to come closer than the far side of a field in the Drake’s presence. A fact his older sister, who had nominal charge of the family’s livestock, took as a personal affront, apparently feeling her charges lack of balls somehow detracted from her own displays of steely nerves whenever Kir chose to come down to the farmstead itself.
A show, it was worth noting, that his other sister did not ape.
As they approached the ancient oak tree that rose from the stone wall at the far edge of the field, Kirigama moved ahead, poking his nose with a snort into the branches. A muffled squawk and a snap and he withdrew it again, eyes pulsing briefly in self-satisfaction.
“Quail?”
Pheasant.
Lowering himself to a patch of dusty earth, he jerked his muzzle questioningly at a branch.
“Cheers, but I should be alright,” Timo replied, after eyeing the trunk. Hoisting his satchel a little higher, he clambered up, coming to rest on the low bough with a satisfied sigh, smiling at the cooler air afforded by the dappled shade of hundreds of leaves above his head. Pulling out an apple, he turned expectantly to his companion, who had been drawing in the dirt under his branch with an unsheathed claw.
“So, you were saying?”
It was incredibly difficult to judge emotion on a face that held none of the normal cues you’re used to reading, but Timo felt he had been a friend of the dragon for long enough now to recognise some of the signs that indicated mood. The shift of muscles beneath his hide still played an important part, as did the dilation and contraction of those beautiful golden irises, or the lie of his tufted, lynx-like ears, one of which was pierced with a pair of marched silver torcs. Then, too, there was the play of colours across his chromatophores, particularly about the throat sacks and down his flanks, the speed and hue particularly damning when Kir wasn’t consciously controlling them, rather like his own blush reflex. The Drake’s stillness now, head turned slightly to one side as he regarded the boy on his perch, was indicative of a deeper turmoil if Timo was any judge of these things. He’d learnt through trial and error however that one did not hurry information from the Wind Chaser, any more than you’d get a straight answer out of his mother if she wasn’t in the mood to give one. Patience would yield, so he sat quietly, chewing on his apple as the bees buzzed lazily across the meadow spread out before them, paring off sections with his pocket knife to drop for the group of blue and great tits that had been dust bathing in the Drake’s shade.
You are aware of the strife currently afflicting your ruling Families?
Timo looked up, pausing part way through chewing a segment. He’d been expecting something concerning the donation of a particular livestock delicacy, or possibly some issue of grooming the Drake wished assistance with. This sounded altogether more interesting.
“I’ve heard some of the seasonal workers talk about it in the evenings over the last few months,” he allowed cautiously, having chewed and swallowed. He dropped the core absently to the ground below. “Why?”
There has been a new development. One which may propagate changes across your ruling class. The Drake’s tail snapped forwards with a suddenness that left Timo’s heart in his throat, skewering a magpie that had come to harass the tits on the tip of one of its extended spines. Raising his tail, Kir made the morsel disappear in a flash of teeth that was like having the door to an armoury open and close quickly in front of you. Complete with the heat from the furnace, and the slight tang of molten iron. We would like to be privy to the possible ramifications of this information, and the changes it may portend.
A decent education was a must when dealing with the Drakes. Timo once again blessed his elderly language tutor, purposefully taking a couple of thoughtful breaths to calm his racing pulse. “The Senate will accept your envoy, surely?” he asked carefully, pushing his wayward fringe back into place once again.
The Drake turned his snout away meaningfully. We would rather our interest was not so publicly known.
Timo absorbed this thoughtfully. The ‘we’ in this case was most likely the Wind Chasers, the Clouder of Drakes that called the network of canyons riddling the mountains to the south home, though it could conceivably refer to a much broader collective, perhaps even the entire Drake population of the Arc Sea. From the hints Kirigama let slip, however, the Wind Chasers were not currently on speaking terms with the Howling Maw. As for the Jade Claw, Kir was (purposefully, he suspected) evasive. His casual mention of several of the eloped, however, led Timo to deduce those individuals were not as hermetic as their official status suggested.
“So you want to discover what’s going on without revealing its you making the enquiries…” he gasped, hands rushing to his mouth. “You want me to go to the capital…!?”
No.
Timo lowered his hands, and raised an eyebrow, knowing the Drake was far more erudite at reading human expression than he was dragon.
Even were I to transport you, we would not be able to out pace the news currently in transit. It is not the initial report we wish to intercept, however.
Keeping the thrill of excitement that blossomed at that prospect as under-wraps as he could, he leant forwards with what he hoped was polite interest. “What did you have in mind then?”
Approximately one cycle from now, a messenger will make port in Ibaeran. From there he will make his way inland, arriving approximately three evenings later at the Emperor’s Summer Residence. Railu Soone will receive him personally.
Timo’s slow nodding turned to wide-eyed incredulity as he stared at the now silent Drake.
There was something infinitely smug underlying his friend’s unruffled regard.
“You’re not suggesting I garner a place at their table, are you?” he asked, carefully disengaging his hands from where they’d been gripping the branch white-knuckle tight.
We are not.
Timo nodded slowly, glancing out across the field for a moment. Hoisting his bag, he levered himself off of his perch, landing neatly on the ground with a small puff of dust. “Do you mind?”
Not at all.
Standing, the Drake gestured with the flat blade of his tail for Timo to precede him across the stile straddling the low wall, before making the short hop himself, landing with a dainty care that hardly carried through the hard-packed earth. Together, they set off across the next field, Timo lowering his shades once more now they were out in the sun again.
After a few paces he glanced across at his silent companion. “What exactly is it you’d have me do?”
The Drake shifted his head slightly, the orb of one massive eye scrutinising him. Listen. Listen, and report all that you hear.
“I see.”
He pondered for a moment, trying to sort his concerns rationally into order of importance. Not easy, given that a part of him was laughing at the idea of even contemplating what Kir implied, whilst another aspect of the boy who called himself Timo Coertez shouted from the sidelines, demanding to know why he was even bothering to prevaricate. They both knew he was going to accept…
“What about the Swords?”
Security can be circumvented.
Timo wasn’t so sure about that. The Swords formed the elite of the Congregate’s standing army, the Tor. Only the most promising made it into their ranks, men and women whose heart and soul belonged to Congregate, as embodied in its ruler. If the Drake felt able to dismiss them as a concern so easily then either he was very sure of whatever contingency he had up his metaphorical sleeve, or else Timo had been groomed as little more than a pawn. Disposable. A regrettable loss, but one the Clouder
could live with.
His ego refused to let him think like that.
“Okay,” he said, forcing the word out before rationality had him choke it back. “I’ll help. What’s the plan?”
When we have confirmation of the envoy’s arrival at the Whaler’s City, I will bring word to you. The Drake regarded him steadily. Three nights after that we will meet, at sunset, within the circle of Evangeline’s Sentinels. You should bring nothing but the clothes on your back – something dark, and warm, would be best. And wear no metal. Understood?
Timo nodded uncertainly. “The Sentinels. No metal. Wear something dark.”
Good. I will bring everything else you require. The Drake paused in the middle of the field, and Timo halted at his side, gazing up at his friend. Amidst the gently undulating grass, the beast’s head descended to come level with his, so that the slightly acrid scent of the dragon’s breath surrounded him like the smoke from a bonfire. The beard of quills that protruded from beneath his chin flattened themselves against his scales as Kir lowered his muzzle to rest briefly, lightly on Timo’s shoulder, a faint blush of carmine and rose chasing through the duller rust oranges and reds that were his predominant markings at this time of year. Your trust in this means a lot to me.
Timo nodded mutely, eyes gone suddenly misty as the great head left his shoulder, the dragon turning towards the southwest.
I must leave you now to attend to the necessary preparations. There was a rustle like wind through the corn as he stretched his pinions, the feathery scaling covering their muscular joints a deep indigo shot through with burgundy, fading out to shards of sky blue reaching back from the trailing edge of his sails. Until then?
“Until then,” he agreed, lips quirking in what he hoped was a smile.
Jerking his snout in acknowledgement, Kir raised his wings, eyes dimming slightly as he lowered their inner lids. Then he was airborne, with a snap like a felled tree, the small hurricane of his take off hitting Timo an instant later as he raised one hand to further shield his eyes, squinting into the sun so he might trace the magnificent sight of the Drake climbing skywards, wings beating powerfully as he turned south on the rising thermals, back towards his kith.
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