Beneath the great bulk of Humas Moles, the waves of crystal grass chimed, light dancing off their blades. Pale green skies spoke fair weather, something I had little desire to see this time of year. Ahead of us, the bulk of Solium Dactyli crested, a small hill of rubble dropped off that great block of granite and marble, seamed with sandstones of many hues, raised ages ago by the gods.
They never told us why they shaped it like a fish-hook, here in the midst of the great high prairies, far from most rivers holding fish. Pater says the gods tend to be that way, doing things for no reason we can see. Mater usually chides him for that. Avia smacks him, then shakes her spoon at me warning I'll be next. So I leave things like that to those whose grandparents have been sung on to their next life.
All my looking and thinking failed to keep the shadow that voice issued from eventually being answered. To my right, nearer Humas' bulk, walked a young, small dragon. Scales of grays, silvers and black, hints of green along his underside, ebony nose horn, bull horns and ridge plates along his spine. The wings, though furled, left separate trails of broken grass from his body.
"Umbradinor, you are both my friends. I would like you to meet each other, become friends. Or at least know you share a friend, and can find each other if I need help." Shaking my head left me regretting not braiding my hair that morning. Nonia stealing my leather straps that morning forced me leaving it freely waving amid the breeze.
"Do others know your friend?" Brad snaked his long neck about, amazing me again at how softly a creature his size could speak.
"They know of him. None really have met him." A sudden stop, forced by those horns facing me. That long neck gives Brad some serious advantages in our dealings.
"Thou worries me." The violet eyes gazing forward is a disconcerting sight. "Thou desireth mine meeting one no one else hath ever seen?" His exhale of disgust rocked me back. A dragon my age still tends being ten times my mass, add that to their exhalation muscles greatly increased by laying fire upon their foes, you do the math before calling me weak.
"Look around here, Umbradinor." My arms swept this area, partly shaded from the morning sun. for nearly a full mile in all directions, the gem hued crystal grass ruled. "What fools leave something invasive as crystal grass amid the best pasture and fodder hay lands the empire holds?"
Eyes rolled about on their own. That reptilian trait often left my stomach rolling from motion sickness if I followed them. I kept my eyes fixed ahead, where his nose horn's point lay near my throat. "Indeed. Mine eyes noted this, fearing thy people courted disaster again, as just after mine hatching."
He referred to the Battle of the Crystal Wastes, waged far northeast from either our homes. "Not that insanity, the courting of the earth demons. Look around you, carefully, amicus." Calling him friend proved a mistake.
"Socius. No more than that, thou art." Now his head rose, seeking the edges of the noxious grass patch. "Peculiar. Though art right. This place be contained. A spell? If so, I would ask learning such someday."
Laughing I started moving us further into the weeds, as my aunt called the place. "No spell, unless it be one cast by a simple alliance. We let this patch grow, my friend's family and others keep it in check, rooting out any strays outside, foraging on the shoots before they can spread."
"Convenient, Varamus." Umbradinor's wide head lowered near my ear, "We art not alone."
Noting the wake paralleling the path I followed already, I whispered back. "It's an old game. Let it play out, socius." It hurt, being only his ally, not his friend. Such is the way of dragons though.
A score and half again strides, we found the Throne. a large, square block of cap rock, tumbled a dozen miles out from the Molar, resting bench like upon a small rise. Many generations use by my family watching over herds seated here etched a seat amid it, facing south across our ranges. Around the stone, the earth lay stripped of most vegetation, a few clumps of the crystal grass, mostly the amethyst strains, neat rows of goldenrod lining the stone seat's sides, then two small clusters of jewel thistle around burrows.
Umbradinor's gaze caught mine. "Thy friend be gardener?"
Chattering squeaks filled the air behind us, followed by the crackling tinkles as crystal grass blades scattered through the higher stalks beyond the path. Umbradinor focused on those sounds, his nostrils flaring. Predatory instincts prove hard to suppress, something I understood. My own reactions around baked goods often demonstrate that. I thanked Enodia and Favonius, Goddess of Safe Rest and God of the West Winds, for letting us reach this place safely and wafting Umbradinor's draconic aroma away from where the noise arose.
Taller stalks rimming the clearing parted, a malformed one brursting out, waddling towards the rock bench. Fast on his tail, a small armored pig raced out after the invader, the source of the playful squeals.
Squeals which ended abruptly, the creature's head whipping towards the unexpected bulk in it's territory. Glimmer of a small, brilliant ruby high on its head, between but slightly ahead of the ears. Much like a wagon halted fast when a teamster notes a cliff ahead, the creature locked all legs, leaving ruts across rich brown soil exposed here.
"EATS-ME! EATS-ME! RUN!" No sound carried those words, as the small critter bolted fast to the nearest burrow entry.
Turning, I smiled at Umbradinor's cocked skull. His eyes darted to the hole and back to me, Even that massive snout of his cut the arc a few times. My smile started to fade, remembering tales told around campfires and in winter wagons about dragons and carbuncli.
A rumble of words allayed that fear. "Jewel swine doth speak?"
Sighing, I realized the task before might cost great effort to bring about. "Yes, Quite well, actually." Looking at the hole, still issuing screams speaking my little friends terror, I blew out a long breath of frustration, glaring daggers at my handicapped cousin, gloating on the bench. "That, Talon of the Shadows, is Soludrin."
Curved nose horn lowered to tap my chest gently. "Thou desireth mine conversing with mine meals before consumption?"
Throwing my arms upwards, I turned to try coaxing Soludrin from his home. During that walk, I let Ringelius have an earful over following us.
* * *
Dealing with Soludrin often involves many long periods squatting outside a burrow, coaxing him into stepping out. Sometimes this only requires a short time. This time around the horarium back in my parents' wagon probably ran through the two colors of sand twice, a thing I calculated off shadow angles changing. Twinges speaking of cramps soon to come established residence within my calf and thigh muscles, not improving my attitude about this mess. I chided my self half aloud over not warning off my cousin's approach this time.
"Soludrin, I apologize."
My skull itched internally when he replied. "Billen betray trust. Brings eater!" Chattering accompanied the words thrust into my mind. "Pact clear! No Eats-Us allowed!"
My sigh of frustration evoked laughter from Ringelius. Which merely soured my previously fine mood further.
"Stop it, cousin." Reminding Ringelius that his blood-forged kinship formed a bond I was trying to bend a bit also accomplished little, his grin and dance atop the bench continuing. Stunted legs, too short for his thick torso, tapped out a merry victory he felt achieved fairly. Avia would box his ears if she caught him at this.
"No! I finally won!" Swinging heavily muscled arms, short by a quarter the reach he ought possess, the son of the sister of my father pranced, joy of his finally achieving victory in the game overwhelming what little wisdom he owned. "Rex Radix! Rex Radix! Come knock me off now, you little snot snout!"
"Keep it up, I might turn you into a radish!" My glare failed denting Ringelius's joy. "Not kidding, cousin. Lay off while I talk to Soludrin."
"NO! Radish not heal hurt!" I winced. Soludrin's implication I attempted bribery hurt my pride, our long friendship and all hopes I might mend our relationship.
"Dancing radishes indeed upseteth the stomach." I winced at Umbradinor's rumbling quip. That comment probably set back my negotiations another turning of the sand bottles.
Surprisingly, a snout tip poked out the entry to my left abruptly. "See, plans stewing Soludrin. Eats-me's hunger never ends." Despite the worried words, some bit of curious humor tinged that telepathic message.
A waft of rotting carcass odor puffed across my neck, burning my nose. "Nay, small one. Great auroch mine devoured under rising sun. Days before mine hunger return." It amazed me, something the size my draconic friend possessed able to tread up behind me unawares.
I waved Umbradinor back, arm arcing swiftly several times. "Talking food is not helping at all, Grey Claw."
Astonishingly, Soludrin contradicted me quickly. "No eats-me?"
"Not today. Wouldst thou prefer I returneth later, when famished?" The grimace that evoked added a sore neck to my litany of negotiation pains. The accompanying mirth, both verbal and psychic, washed past me ignored.
Though not by all.
"No eats-me today? Eats-me when?" Those thoughts held curiosity's flavor, which for some reason reminded me of (nutmeg) hiding inside fruit bread.
Rumbling roils of draconic laughter cavorted the air behind me. The apprehension Umbradinor exuded walking here long gone, replaced with something more palatable. The draconis tend towards projective empathy, Avia once told me. That ability, some calling it mistakenly an aura, evoked the fear of devouring too many associated with Umbradinor's kindred. "Later, perchance."
Dragons reckon time intervals far different than ephemeral folk, living lives counted easier by the rise and fall of kingdoms not cycles the seasons roll through. I knew not how long Soludrin's species lived, though our friendship extended across many decades now. My realized to date spoke to his own youth, many those related to him east of the Molar possessing far greater size, closer a warthog than piglet he resembled. Taking a cue off Umbradinor's words, I tossed out a quick thought. "Perhaps several snows?"
The Talon of Shadows accepted my hint. "Or more. Even now, thou wouldst not satisfy a portion a hatchling fails finishing."
From time to time, my donum, the abilities laid by the gods upon those sharing my green blood, intrude upon my mind, showing me a world beyond ours, yet touching it. A place where echoes of the living show as halos of color rising from each living creature's animas. Spirit sight, some call it. Third eye perception our (priest) spoke to me of such a thing. A rare gift, even amongst we others call elves. Migraine vision, in my opinion. Might let me see the feelings and hints of a soul's actions to come, vaguely, through the iron spike ache that doni between my real world eyes.
Over the soft golden yellow tones normal to him, and all those friendly towards me, a slight red layer tinged his aura. Under that, the faint brown and amethyst central core beat in tune to his heart, rapid and fast. Or so I assumed. His armored hide prevented one from seeing the swell blood created where arteries neared surface. The anger faded off, leaving a faint green tone, something often related to envy, with flashes of blue curious doubt shifting from soft lake blue to deep indigo. Indecision such a dark emotion, its shadows even turn black. Perhaps I could salvage this.
Soludrin's head followed his nose out, the long snout twitching between sniffs. The thick smell of scales and moss dragons give off, at least to my nose, bothered him still. A sneeze announced that. "No Eats-me now?"
Umbradinor's own quirky humor rose up, extending foreleg slowly, single extended talon tapping lightly that small ruby on my little friend's forehead. "Eats-you-later. Many snows later. Thy gem and self be too tiny for mine appetite." That rumble from his cart sized body shook the flowers around the burrow. "And I troth thou this. Mine consumption of thee shall be announced turns round Jzhun's bright orb afore fang toucheth thy flesh."
"Jewel get bigger. Trade gems for more not-eats-me snows?" Flinching from that touch, but sideways, not into his home, Soludrin's courage spoke volumes, to dare bargain with a dragon for life.
"Mayhap being thy socius doth promise good for we both, mine small ally." Laying his fore claw on the ground, Umbradinor shocked me, his aura rising up silvery with gold hints of Truth sparkling amid deep grey shadows his line held affinity with. "Mine pledge to grant thee five snow seasons life henceforth each gem received, trothing thee thirty snows in addition for thy bravery."
Above us, on the small rise around the throne, Ringelius danced about, breaking into some drivel song about kings and mountains. A silly ditty, one children learned for fun on top of learning history. Grimacing at the high notes he broke with his baritone voice, I wished there was snow, to toss balls of at him.
Soludrin reached the same conclusion, apparently. "Ally means help wars, yes?"
Umbradinor's draconic dislike of foolish jesters rose to the occasion, glaring up the hill. "Indeed, it doth."
I closed my eyes, praying my pineal one shut to avoid the coming mayhem.
* * *
"Still Rex Radix! Not getting me off this hill!"
How my stunted cousinheld on amazed me. Soludrin's many burrows, quite a few hidden, unlike the one our negotiations occurred at. I actually relented, opening my eyes after my pineal vision subsided. I missed the first few passes in this strange match, guessing at tactics and failures by the noise.
The sixth pass proved nearly perfect for the attackers. Umbradinor charged through a cluster of briars Soludrin started cultivating a few years back. My littlest friend snuck in, under the cover of the noise, waiting for combat to be engaged before racing out aiming for Ringelius's knees. Despite the pains he lives with from his disability, my cousin actually possess incredible acrobatic ability. Much of that beaten into him during our youth, by bullies and those of the blood purity factions.
Somehow, he managed a back flip from losing his balance, laid out vertical as a startled dragon sailed over him, not yet to airborne speed, wings folded in. A rolling ball of armored plates tumbled underneath him, squealing his anger over the miss. Umbradinor tends to lift his tail when airborne, whether flying or leaping, which allowed Ringelius space for finishing his flip, laying his feet into draconic haunches. Despite being too short for his body, that boy's legs were strong, Powerful enough to change Umbradinor's pounce into a headlong roll down the far side of the mound.
He even managed planting both feet on the ground with no stutter step most folks required after such a flip. Head pivoting around seeking his foes' fates. Seeing both vanquished, he leapt back upon my normal seat, resuming his performance of dance and song.
"The mighty king still holds on! Vanquishing foes while voicing songs!" Ringelius, despite having a laugh resembling bells, cannot sing worth a damn, as I stated before. More than half his fights since coming of age involved bards upset about his "desecrating the beauty of music" or other similar crimes involving his awful, bawdry limericks. This did nothing for my headache, unless increasing the pain can be counted.
Behind me, crunching gravel announced new arrivals. Looking back, the left side of my mouth quirked upwards. Another cousin, Norbanus escorted one familiar with such battles, and several others. Looking upwards, I sought some absolution for the battle above, as the seventh and eighth skirmishes raged around the stone bench.
The love of my life being there was not the issue. Nonia grew up with us, fighting and joking right there with the Triconis, as my male cousins and I often were spoken of, due our many tricks and pranks over the years. What pained me was the presence of other fellow elves. Namely the commanders of my turma and the Caterva or squadron we served as part of. Two others stood there as well. One regal, commanding, despite a dishevled appearance, and several old foes and a family friend who bore me some animosity recently I knew no reason for.
"Childish games. Typical of ones not worthy the blood they bear." Decimillius Orbillius Sticcius, our local constable assigned back here from the Bruttilium capital. A centurion of the Left Hand, the elite one hundred warrior-mages from the island clans. Not someone to trifle with, despite his abrasive demeanor and lack of tact inviting such.
Rising, I greeted the others. "Dux, Decuriio." I bowed to my chain of command, catching a glimpse of their apparently untidy companion's armor. Delicate inlays of rudy gold crafted into intricate designs, marking him as of considerable rank. A special officer, one who commanded all the militant branches, technically, even if the Centuria Sinistra ignored that post most times. Folding down upon one knee, I settled my sword hand palm down to the dirt. "Praetor. Forgive me not recognizing you before."
A soft chuckle faded into renewed combat above. "Practice skirmish, I take it." The words fell into the lull after their ninth attempt, another dismal failure judging by Ringelius's crowing behind me.
His light hearted tone gave me hope, so I quipped a response tinged with humor. "Territorial dispute, Dom. I am here to negotiate with the parties if they wish." Glancing under my arm, noting steam rising from draconic nostrils. Umbradinor's frustration over failing to connect solidly with my cousin appeared to reach point of imminent mayhem. "I fear my services may need to be under arms shortly instead."
My Caterva's commander spoke softly. "Not a wise idea, viri." I hate it when people remind me that walking the soil of Andrakams this long is nothing for one of my kind, many whom mark their ages by centuries, not years. Young man, though, sometimes can be used as a compliment. Lifting my face, I spent many heartbeats attempting discernment of that.
No luck there, Under his thick, wavy brown hair, my commander's high forehead held lines of concentration on the battle raging above us. The brown leathers of the Custos lay loose on his thin frame, his left shoulder bearing a strange beadwork of three spears. Normally heads of equies would be there, three to mark his rank as Catervo Legatus. Three spears represented a Legion rank, that of a Third Rank Spearman. He also wore the amethyst ribbon of one who served under the Praetor at the Crystal Wastes. Grey eyes, ringed in blue spoke his clan as Umbrias, of the same Five Gens my own kinfolk belonged.
The current pass at the hilltop appeared more a series of skirmishes, failing each time. Somewhere up there, my midget cousin found a branch big enough to utilize in staff fashion. Weapons and the making of them were much more his forte than magic or tracking most folks from the plains knew.
Whirling his walking stick about in some barbaric dance, likely learned during one of his many disappearances, Ringelius kept foes at bay, This could be a prolonged battle. Decades of losing this little fight drove him to win this one. Sharp raps and whistles filled the air, that stave proving an apt weapon for my short patraelis. Ruddy red hair flying the boy showed grace one never expected given his disability.
Behind this exalted group, another batch of people walked up the trail. Ones very familiar to me. Nonia, Norbanus, and Matertera Antonia Minora, my mother's sister. The one I was named for, Decimus Billenius Dives.
And Nonia's face told me she was both amused at Ringelius's victory after so many tries, and angry I was not in the fray. When the love of your life has that look, you have to join battle, regardless the wisdom such might reveal your lacking.
* * *
I rose slowly from the dust, brushing dirt from my leather braccea. The sudden stiffness to my face more from Dives being here. While I strived to live up to the legend and standards he represented, my (godfather)'s racism and prejudices against those deformed.
"(namesake)." His stiff attitude, anger at this game delaying whatever plans he held. Command of a turma instead of having the Catervae as his posting. Of late, despite the long friendship between this old friend of my parents, there was a tension between me and him.
The reason for that tension, Nonia, now made her own dismissive gesture at the play battle to keep the hill raging behind me.
"Not in that battle? Really, letting Ringelius take that throne from poor Soludrin without supporting him.' The anger was more mock, but that nettle was meant to prick my pride a bit, getting me moving.
"Just biding my time, letting patraelis's ego swell up." I attempted to make it seem that way. Actually, it still amazed me that Grey Claw had yet to connect a solid blow on my cousin. "And a better audience than just the grass and wind." Several eyes looked my way. Removing my belt slowly, I made my own decision to enter this battle unarmed. Probably a poor decision, given the way Ringelius dealt with the others using that staff.
The most recent pass forced us to scamper, diverting my belt from Nonia's hands. My dance to avoid about fifty stone of rolling dragon left that item of my uniform pressed into the Praetor's regal hands. Grimacing at my own presumptions, angry now at my hand being forced, I stared up at the hill, wincing as once more, my cousin began singing that silly ditty.
Technically, using weapons in a game of king of the hill is forbidden. We tend to look the other way when my cousin bends those rules, making up for shorter reach and limited speed. This day, he showed no such impediments. That gave me a bit of freedom, bending rules my own self.
Glancing around, I noted a saber sized branch, nearly a match to my own blade's length, obviously used once by Soludrin for bedding, but well weathered from months back out in the open. Grinning, I seized it, turning to Nonia, raising it in salute. Her grimace spoke volumes as to her feelings. No doubt, she would not accept me protecting her honor in this. Which was fine by me. Nonia is better with her pilum than I with a blade, most days.
My friends spent the moment regrouping on the far side of the rise, Ringelius dancing the top a bit more cautiously now, green spots of blood marking a scrape he'd gained this last pass. At least my allies were drawing blood, though failing. I began making my way up the small rise quietly.
Moving silent in terrain is an important skill among the guardians of the borders, the Custos I served with now. Not to mention the years I spent amid the herds in my adolescence, watching for predators, keeping those nervous aurochs bunched up at night. Spooking the beasts meant death, all too often, so one learned silence in motions.
This is not undetectable, though. Stars exploding in my head in synch with the whistle of that staff whirling reminded me of that. Pain left me stumbling off to my right, blinded for a moment. Give my cousin his dues, the boy has luck, even if he lacks wisdom. A scaly avalanche tumbled over me, just as left leg sank deep in one of Soludrin's bolt holes. Umbradinor's roar lost a bit of its playful edge, taking on a very dangerous undertone rumble as his chest flattened me onto my back. While I understand some bits of the reptilian language, I refuse even hinting what my draco friend promised in the way of mayhem, lest treaties be breached by the threats.
Not to say my own language proved much better. While Orcish is a terrible jaw breaker language, cursing in it is very satisfying. Forbidden by most clans rules and considered grounds for death by islanders, but very satisfying.
Over left, squeals, rattles and a minor rockslide informed me this battle might consume considerable time, if the one most familiar with the ground failed this often. Above me, scales rasped carefully, Umbradinor's apology filling the air.
"Forgive mine fall, Varamus."
Getting my leg free of the wide burrow, the size saving me from broken thigh, I waved him off. "The fault is on me, Grey Claw. Entering the fray unannounced."
"That blow thou interrupted, Ringelius meant for mine snout. Mine thanks for saving that indignity from mineself." His bulk moved swiftly, more slither than walk, allowing my old friend a faster turn back into battle. "Thou hast a plan?"
Touching the rising goose-egg on my temple, I winced, knowing the headaches the next few weeks promised agonies comparable to my vision migraines. "Yeah. Knock him senseless and stuff his mouth with nettles."
Despite his normally haughty draconic demeanor, Grey Claw knows well my humors and angers. "There exists herbs that render one mute for ages, or so mine sire hath spoken."
Given the way the song grated on raw nerves now, I held on to that idea. "Later. For now, pounce to the right of the throne, when he dances off, call it out for me. I have an idea." Fingers rose to my collar, where I kept two needles for emergency situations.
Technically, there is a ban on using magic on our duels to rule this little hillock. There is also one about someone singing during the matches, so if he could break the rules, so could I. Muttering the incantations of power, my left hand arced upwards, my mind envisioning two flaming ballistae missiles arcing up to fall back in a few seconds to the front and back of the throne.
Using that flare of light as cover, Soludrin must have charged in, not knowing my intent. My plan fell in ruin, Umbradinor forced to divert his leap a bit, into one falling force bolt, Ringelius bowling Soludrin under the other. The concussions sent both rolling down the hill. probably senseless the way things fell so far.
Accepting the set back, I fell back on that ultimate strategy. The blind charge up the hill. With magic on the menu, Ringelius's axe now arced the air, leather sheathed still, but not something one wished to have connect on flesh. Ducking under the swing, yelling my rage, my branch shot forward to stab.
Only to find the little (pain in the neck/ass) was feinting with that swing. He'd fallen flat on his back, letting me race over him, laying the handle into my torso. Right on that spot most bipedal creature's share below the ribs that leaves one doubled over, gasping for air and cursing the gods for letting your foe exist. Could have been worse, about three hands down, and you are cursing the gods for not letting you die from the pain, if a male.
Down and out does not imply out of the fray. No, when laid out inches from your goal, the battle tends trampling those kissing dirt. Proven less than a fingernail of sand later, when Umbradinor was forced to painfully twits a clawed foot away from my balled up form. My breath failed to return swiftly, as just after almost gathering it back into my chest, Soludrin crashed down on my side, sending the air fleeing my grasp again.
Nonia joined the fray, seeing us boys getting our heads handed to us, fairing slightly better, I think. At least her cries were still warbling battle cries, not screeches of pain. Gathering my tattered dignity, I rose to one knee. Slowly, with the unsteadiness a colt shows after birth. Not good enough for physical combat, but well enough for a desperate last attempt. Norbanus charged the hill, holding his own staff in spear fashion, forcing Ringelius to leap over the wooden shaft, then twist a bit along the long axis of the throne.
Under my belt buckle, I store a small bit of grease. Folks may wonder why, and all I can say is a game some of the short ones play with stick and ball inspired this cache of slippery material. They use it to apply to the ball, illegally, for a wobbly spin to their throws. My use is more arcane, finger tip tossing a drop of the grease towards the throne, whispering the spell learned just for such occasions.
Attempting another fancy landing, Ringelius yelped, his feet sailing out from under him, head cracking on the stone, then rolling down the far side of the hill. Soludrin, assisted by Grey Claw's forearms cradling the stone, managed to leap up on top.
In my head words trilled as my little friend celebrated his victory, even if assisted. "Hill Mine! Me King!"
Pulling myself up, I staggered around the mound, seeking my foe. Finding him face down in one of the carbunli's garden patches. He rolled over as I managed approaching, leaning heavily on my stick. In his mouth, a reddish purple bulb about two fingers in width held between his teeth. Spitting that offending vegetable out, he sighed.
"You were right. King of the Radishes."
Nearby, our elders laughed and applauded, well entertained I am sure. I just hoped they felt like rewarding our performance with some feast at sundown.
The End?
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