Vorlian had reached his decision. The sky had not even begun to pale when he lumbered into flight. Taking the fight to another dragon was poor strategy, but he could see that he had little choice about it. Zuamar was a danger to them all. Besides he'd come here, into the territory Vorlian considered his own. The time had come to deal with him. Dragons were not early risers. They liked the heat of the sun to make flying easier. Vorlian hoped to be high up above his enemy's eyrie before then. Circling and waiting.
Zuamar had had traffic with creatures of smokeless flame before. He trusted them not at all, naturally. But they could make the kind of charm he needed, so he'd gone searching, and found them on a fumarole some seventy leagues away. They'd been cooperative. And he could spare a few hundred humans and some alvar to pay the debt. If they wanted slaves, they'd get them. He wanted to catch the guilty dragon. He was sure that it would turn out to be his neighbor, Vorlian. Upstart. This way he'd know for certain, and catch the human mage.
The amulet with the ducat in it pulled towards the dragon-magic that had flavored it.
Zuamar expected to fly to Starsey.
Instead he found himself drawn back towards Yenfar. It was a long flight through the night. Anger lent him strength. So the offspring of a diseased wyrm thought to raid Yenfar while its master was away? He doubted that the dragon would get through the booby traps that protected his hoard. But it still made him nervous. And very angry. Angrier than he had been in centuries.
Fionn hastened down the long passages of the dvergar's hidden kingdom, up to the water-door. He could only go as fast as the dverg guide, but he wanted to run. It was going to be awkward if he got back to the inn late, after they'd got up. Besides there were risks to flying over Zuamar's—and then Vorlian's—territory in daylight. A black dragon was hard to see at night, and all too easy in daylight. He did not wait for a coracle-lift out but simply dived into the icy water and swam out, and then on rocks at the far side of the long pool transformed himself and took flight into the predawn.
And that was when he realized that he was too late and in trouble. Because laboring in from the south was the bulk of another dragon. And far off, to the west . . . was yet another set of wings silhouetted against the sky.
Fionn used the fact that he was fresh and relatively rested to beat his way up into the sky. He pondered the idea of fleeing and hoping that he could simply outfly the closer dragon and that the second one was merely there in passing. But the nearer dragon—it looked like Zuamar now, was using all of his strength to close the distance. And even if Fionn outflew him . . . well, the second dragon was between him and Starsey. So Fionn kept gaining height. He had an advantage up there. Zuamar might possibly burst one of his hearts flying like that, which would solve some of Fionn's problems. Fionn could not kill him. It was imprinted into the very threads of Fionn's being. Zuamar had no such constraints in his make-up. Of course if old carrion breath would drop dead or fly into a cliff himself—well, that went beyond the caution laid on Fionn by the First.
Zuamar—by dint of super-dragon effort—had managed to gain enough height to try a rising blast of flame, trying to sear his quarry's wind tendrils and wing webs. He wasn't to know Fionn was more resistant to dragonfire than all the others.
Vorlian saw the start of the aerial duel from a distance, spotting the gout of dragonflame from Zuamar. The big old dragon had quite a range of flame-cast! The smaller dragon flew on however, seemingly unaffected. It must be the distance, fooling my judgement, thought Vorlian. I'd swear he must have seared him. Vorlian too began to put every last bit of strength into reaching the battle before it was over. If the other dragon had only waited . . . well, maybe it would hurt or weaken Zuamar.
The two were high enough now to gain the first sunlight. And Vorlian could see now that the dragon being chased was black. Black and a great deal smaller than Zuamar.
It ought to be a one-sided contest.
Looking south, Fionn saw that Vorlian was the second dragon he'd seen, and that he was now heading for the two of them. Fionn allowed himself a brief irritated snort of flame. So these two had now allied? Unless they were most conveniently planning to fight each other? Well, he'd have to deal with the situation . . . best to get Zuamar out of the way quickly then. He turned in a sudden sharp dive, neatly tearing Zuamar's left outer wing-web on the way into a steep bank and a corkscrew away from frantic talons, to snatch at Zuamar's tail as he went past and tumble the heavier dragon onto the torn wing. Zuamar tried to turn and flame—and managed to burn his own wing.
Fionn, smaller, faster and not dead tired from a long flight, streaked below him and twisted up overhead again, as Zuamar struggled with one burned wing and with a near useless wingtip, to cope with his smaller attacker—who had managed to get behind and above him again, and . . . when Zuamar tried desperately to turn and dive . . . did not come in for the coup de grace. Instead he side-slipped and ripped a talon through the opposite wing-web. As a parting blow he gave Zuamar a wallop with his tail that was hard enough to crack the diamond-hard scales, and send Zuamar reeling across the sky. The aerial duel raged on, with the smaller, faster, more agile opponent driving Zuamar towards death from exhaustion if nothing else.
Vorlian saw—as he flew closer, how the smaller black dragon—that he had now recognized as the impertinent Fionn—gave the far larger Zuamar a lesson in aerial combat. But Fionn was obviously unprepared for his successes—he'd missed two good opportunities for the kill, and he seemed very little affected by Zuamar's frantic blasts of dragon-fire. If anything Zuamar kept burning himself.
* * *
Zuamar recognized his opponent. And knew fear. He knew that Fionn was not just smaller. He'd also been there from the very origins of this plane. Fionn had been the same size back then, unlike other dragons that kept growing with age. Zuamar suspected that he was not quite the same kind of dragon as the others of Tasmarin. He'd . . . known too much. Always had a smart answer. Zuamar had been a relatively young dragon then, but the older ones, dead now, had been wary of him. Now Zuamar knew why. Fionn was wholly unaffected by Zuamar's fire, and far too fast for the talons or tail. Zuamar, burned by his own fire, dazed, and now suddenly feeling the exhaustion and fear that Jakarin must have felt, began to flee. It made him an easy target, he knew. He tried to look back and defend himself as he struggled to fly away.
Only the black dragon wasn't following. He was gaining height again.
Zuamar could only think of one reason. The death dive. The hard, neck-snapping strike. And the hard-bodied little dragon was capable of that, if he got high enough. Zuamar flew, neck turned to look back at the black nemesis . . . If he could sideslip at the last minute . . .
It was only when he flew into a wash of dragon fire that Zuamar realized that he'd got the wrong reason entirely. And, seeing Vorlian there, desperation led him into a last frantic effort. He made no attempt to sheer off. Just collided mid-air with the other dragon. They fell together in a rending tangle of tearing claws and thrashing tails.
The hungry earth below reached for them both. At the last minute both struggled free, flapping wildly.
But Zuamar, with torn wing webs, found that he could not stop falling.
Then rock stopped him instead.
The last thing he knew was that he had failed: human mages would not all be destroyed. Neither would the dragon that had raided his territory.
Vorlian barely managed to spiral out of the tangle to catch air in outspread, desperate wings. He had fallen too fast and too far! There was no way he could remain airborne. The injury from the storm was a screaming agony now, as he frantically air-braked. It was still never going to be enough. He landed hard.
With a muddy splash.
Zuamar had struck a rock-ridge. Vorlian had been luckier. He'd landed in a peat bog instead, and had struck it moving a great deal slower than Zuamar had.
He was in pain, covered in glutinous black mud, and his wing was injured.
But he was alive.
Zuamar was not. It took a great deal of force to sever a dragon head. The speed of the fall and impact with the rocks had provided that.
Vorlian tried to move. Winced. He was a sitting duck like this. He struggled to pull free of the bog.
Fionn glided in to a perfect four point landing on a rock spike—out of easy flaming range. But then he hadn't taken advantage of Zuamar's incapacity either. Maybe he didn't want to flame Vorlian? The black dragon appeared completely uninjured, and perfectly capable of killing a trapped dragon.
"Just what, in the name of the seven hot places, are you doing here, Vorlian?" the smaller dragon asked. Fionn's voice was tinged with irritation, but he did not sound particularly aggressive about his questioning.
Vorlian was too sore for sophistry. "I came over here to fight Zuamar. He's been tresspassing in my air-space. Threatening my kine with elimination."
Fionn snorted. "He was one of the old ones, Vorlian. He's had more dragon fights than you've had sheep for breakfast. I always thought you were one of those who could rise above this. Anyway, I have things to do, and you appear not too badly hurt. Are you going to live without my help? Because I'm running late. Got Tasmarin to destroy, and time and arcane forces wait for no dragon."
He always made those inane comments—but he did not seem to have any interest in taking advantage of the situation Vorlian found himself in. "I've hurt a wing. I don't think I can fly for a few days. And I am stuck in this vile mud," said Vorlian.
Fionn chuckled. "The mud saved your life. So I'd be polite about it. Speaking from experience—you're sinking into it, and the more you struggle deeper you'll get. There is only one way out. You need to transform yourself. You do still remember how?" asked Fionn, sardonically.
"It is demeaning to take on any form but that of noblest of creatures," Vorlian said, shocked despite the circumstances.
"I'm sure your mother said that to you," said Fionn. "But right now you need to ask whether drowning in mud is any less demeaning. A wyrm—one of the old forms—should get you out. If it was good enough for your forefathers, it's good enough for you. And don't go looking for Zuamar's hoard when you do get out. He had some of the nastiest traps that you can imagine. Now, I will leave you to decide whether you prefer being demeaned or drowned. I've got work to do."
And he took off gracefully and flew away to the east. Toward Starsey.
Vorlian had to wonder about his own hoard.
And then if he could still remember how to do what every young dragon did . . . and was told off by its mother for doing.
Vorlian wondered just who Fionn was. And what his business could be. Vorlian wasn't even sure which island he had his eyrie on. He was always just around.
After one or two abortive attempts Vorlian found that cellular memory still worked. He became a mighty wyrm and managed to wriggle his way free of the bog. He could no longer see Fionn in the sky, and in truth he was too sore and exhausted to care. He dragged himself into the cover of a nearby pine-wood and slept like the dead.