Expiring Covenant (Black Lake Book 1)

Chapter 24
Iza

~

I hate the second part of my name, as do my four bull siblin’s, not that they matter. We’ll have to go through life with ’loch hung around our necks. Iza, Tir, Kyn, Tae, Syl aren’t bad names by themselves, but if I ever have the opportunity to introduce myself to another dragon, I’ll never be usin’ Iza’loch. Iza will do. It’s elegant in its simplicity.

Darin’ the ledge, I extend my wings and my four siblin’s complain about me blockin’ the sun. I hate bein’ surrounded by the four weaklin’s. If food wasn’t in good supply, I wouldn’t have thought twice about nudgin’ each of them off the precipice. I would’ve fledged already if the four weren’t holdin’ me back. I step forward and exercise my wings, liftin’ into the air. I hover as long as I can with the breeze, before settlin’ slowly.

My dam would reprimand me if she caught me doin’ that. Mo’sale and Ash’et cajole endlessly that they don’t want the little bulls bein’ encouraged to follow me. They aren’t ready. Will they ever be? I rest a moment and look over at the little fools, at their spindly little wings.

Bulls are a worthless lot.

I don’t have the vocabulary to properly categorize them, but bein’ unimpressed with them does not fully capture my loathin’. They’re insignificant. If they manage to fledge at all it will be a miracle. Unfathomable they could ever grow to be as beautiful as my sire. The only bull I’ll prolly ever care about. And just barely. He does work hard to keep my stomach full. But I know the silly little bulls are his favorite. He’s a poor judge of character and intellect.

~

Winter persists. Through the nights, the seven of us nestle together at the back of the cavern. Every day after sunnin’ on the ledge half the mornin’, Ash’et and Mo’sale float away to do the huntin’ required to keep me and my idjit siblin’s fed, though I question the purpose of sustainin’ the weak bulls. They’ll never serve any purpose.

But I often wonder what good even my dam’s mate serves, now. My sire looks at me distastefully as I pick over the best of everythin’ delivered to us on the ledge. The little bulls know not to challenge me. I deserve the better bits. I am the queen fledglin’, after all. Mo’sale occasionally voices his regrets, for Ash’et cursin’ them with a queen. He used the word curse. His gall knows no bounds. He’s no better than his little bulls.

“Bulls,” he dared to say, “are much more pleasant.” Pleasant. Bein’ pleasant serves no purpose. If a dragon can’t be amazin’, it serves no purpose.

It’s a shame Ash’et, my dam, is cobbled with such a rude mate. She could do better. Not that there are any other dragons anywhere in the Range, as far as I know. Surely if there are, they would have run Mo’sale off by now.

When Mo’sale leaves the lair, I often consider pushin’ his precious little bulls over the ledge. The wolves might enjoy dinin’ on their carcasses. I enjoy listenin’ to those creatures serenadin’ the twilight.

~

Summer has finally arrived and the sun invigorates. I find that my four siblin’s irritate me less. My standards must be lowerin’. Or I’m bein’ worn down. Their conversation seems less insultin’. Their thoughts before usually focused upon defecation and digestion. Now they might even discuss the meanin’ woven into our dam and sire’s stories. For me, I spend my intellectual pursuits considerin’ the intent behind the queen’s words. As a bull centuries younger than his mate, Mo’sale’s experiences, and lessons, fail to impress.

Ash’et and Mo’sale continue to fret the four will follow me off the cliff before they’re ready. Dam and sire have naught to worry about. The bulls are the laziest thin’s I can imagine, willin’ to stay on our ledge for another ten seasons. I had long been visitin’ the near peaks alone by the time Ash’et and Mo’sale pushed the ignernt bulls toward the ledge, makin’ them exercise their wings.

I can’t fathom how they resist catchin’ the air under them. Ownin’ the sky. It’s the most marvelous experience in life. Ash’et and Mo’sale chafed over how far I fly from the lair, but have eventually given up the fussin’. I will do what I will do. I’m a queen.

The wings of the little alpha bull of the brood showed a hint of the hues Mo’sale sports, before Ash’et pushed him off the ledge one mornin’ when he wasn’t expectin’ it.

The three other siblin’s keened, watchin’ him flutter to the rocks below until he got the hang of his wings enough to break his fall. The day was failin’ by the time he made it back to the lair. After that day, Kyn, Tae, and Syl dutifully exercised their wings with siblin’ Tir, who learned by that frightenin’ lesson they don’t have forever to choose when they’re ready to fledge. Finally, we learn Ash’et’s patience is finite.

I took that day as my own cue. Followed Ash’et and Mo’sale daily to study how they hunt. As the herds adjusted to their predators in the sky, Ash’et and Mo’sale were forced to fly too far for me to follow.

It was on such a day I decided to soar in a direction my sire often said to avoid. I know the reason, though unspoken. I’m no idjit like my siblin’s. I maybe even looked forward to the chance of irritatin’ the lesser races that live on the north-eastern shore of the Lake.

The sun loomed directly overhead, turnin’ me invisible below, as I circled the enormous structure and the odd smaller ones here and there. The stock in the fields made my mouth water. But huntin’ them, and the lesser races who claim them, is strictly forbidden. Has to do with an ancient covenant. Mo’sale ingrained it upon my mind. But I don’t like it. Seems arbitrary. I take my time circlin’ in upon the narrow frame juttin’ into the Lake. A good place to land, to fret the lessers.

There are a number of the thin’s I’d seen out on the Lake, boats, they’re called, nuzzled beside the long, pine structure, but I don’t see any of the humankinds that usually dwell in them. A flock of smaller versions, called gnomes, flutter about. Might they be fair game? Pretty sure, no, despite Ash’et despisin’ the creatures. I turn my attention back, to concentrate on my landin’.

Maybe a little late—I should have backstroked much harder. I misjudge the stripped trees that make up the long, flat form, and hit hard. I jam a wing into a post, and careen into the boards, twist, then somersault hard. Half settled, I struggled to right myself, catchin’ the claws of the tops of my wings in the cracks between the slats.

I bugle in pain, and frustration, writhe to free myself. A staccato pum pum pum, like the sound of adult elk hooves, rattle. But instead of fleein’, the sound approaches. My chest rises for my throat. A thunderous flutter of birds surrounds me. I freeze in terror. Helpless.

“Be still,” a shrill voice tells me. “I’ll help ya get loose.”

I feel my claws bein’ gently turned one by one. After half an eternity, a wing freed, I twist to see what kind of beast could possibly be bold enough to come near my ferocious kind. It’s one of the thin’s I’ve frequently studied on the Lake—a smaller version of what Mo’sale called fishermen. I wince as the thin’ pulls at a deeply embedded wing-claw.

“I’m sorry,” the thin’ apologizes.

Its voice rings irritatin’ly high. My other wing pulls free and I fall forward, into the small creature. It topples, and I again plough my snout into the rough boards. After a near-panicked struggle I finally get my talons underneath me, manage to get properly upright, peer at my surroundin’s quickly for danger, then down at the pale animal’s face, its blue eyes.

“Are ya alright?” the thin’ asks.

I test my wings. Ow ow. Hurt everywhere. Snout to tail. I shudder against various pains, and then take in the small creature in front of me again. “What are ya?” I manage to ask.

It cocks its head. “Sorry. It took me a moment to understand what ya said. I’m a boy.”

“I’ve never heard of the race, boy. Are ya lyin’ to me?”

It laughs—had to be a laugh. “Boy isn’t a race. I’m a human, a human boy.”

I manipulate my wings tryin’ to ease an ache here and there. My right shoulder throbs somethin’ awful. Innately I know I shouldn’t demonstrate I might be seriously injured. That invites attack. Will I be able to fly to the lair? I sense my eyes flutterin’, whirlin’ in agitation. Without flight, I’m vulnerable. Ash’et will be enraged if she returns and I’m missin’.

“Ya don’t look too good,” the human boy says.

I look past it. A flock of full-grown humans have exited the larger structure up the way. Other lesser races are with them, and convergin’ from the left and right. A dwarf, unmistakable from my sire’s stories, lead them all down the hill. The dwarf swings an axe as it walks.

“Back away from the beast,” the dwarf shouts.

Pretty sure beast is a very condescendin’, insultin’ term. The idea that the two-legged might kill me flashes through my mind. I keen, then trumpet in despair. Ash’et and Mo’sale would be too far away to hear.

I should have heeded Mo’sale’s warnin’. Too late for that ingenious thought. Even a queen can err.

I lower my head and close my eyes. I jerk, feelin’ the touch of the human boy. His arms wrap around my neck.

“Don’t hurt her!” the boy shouts.

The grown humans come to a stop several paces away. I open one eye to see the dwarf glarin’ back. Its lower lip contorts in an odd fashion, its chin juts, axe swin’in’ next to his leg still.

“Looks as though yar curiosity just nearly killed ya, fledglin’,” a troll at the front of the gaggle grumbles. “Can ya fly, baby-queen?”

Though it doesn’t appear they intend to harm me, I decide it isn’t wise to answer the troll’s question.

The human-boy speaks. “I think she hit her head pretty hard. She has scrapes all over her. Can I take care of her?”

“I’ll send Eina down in a bit to help ya. Try to keep the thin’ quiet for now.”

“My name is Iza,” I say. “I’m not a thin’.”

A wave of noise, maybe chuckles, moves over the crowd. Distinctly different in tone from Mo’sale’s, but there appears no anger. What else could it be if not humor? Are they amused by my situation? The lessers happy to see their superior in a bad way?

“Beg yar pardon,” the giant says, turnin’ and walkin’ away.

The rest of the herd follows it. Obviously the excitement of my arrival isn’t that grand. I take that as a little insultin’ in itself. I sniff at the air, and realize their departure is more likely tied to the aromas waftin’ down the hill. It must be feedin’ time for the lesser creatures.

The smaller human, the boy, stands up on the bench that lines the side of the pier, perhaps so he can get closer to my eye level. It starts chattin’ away as though it thinks I might care about whatever trivia fills its itty bitty head. It blathers on much like my bull siblin’s.

So a boy must be a bull.

The thought disappoints, but it explains a lot, such as why no one worried I might eat him. My respect for humans rise a tad. It appears they don’t think too much of their younger bulls either. I look over at the boy and extend my neck to get closer, admittedly curious, and smell the thin’. It—no, he—doesn’t smell that soiled, not too differently than my siblin’s. Much less musky.

He says, “My name’s Lucas,” as though I should care.

I try out a wing and whine at the pain that jabs at my shoulder. Seems unlikely I’m gonna get away from the thin’—boy.

“Iza is a pretty name,” he says, and talks on for the longest time about the names of his family members and friends, and the folk he has met at the Inn.

I must have started gettin’ used to the pitch of the tiny bull’s voice because it no longer sounds as irritatin’. He reaches out to touch me, and I twitch nervously. He stubbornly strokes the sensitive flesh under my wing. I refuse to act intimidated, and stand frozen.

“Ya’re much softer than ya look.” His hand washes across my wing and onto my shoulder.

The touch feels surprisin’ly good. Very relaxin’. Soothin’.

The warm sun and the sing-song of his voice turns me drowsy. If I was at the lair, I prolly would have been spread out over the rocks sleepin’. I close my eyes. The voice continues. He’s from a plain village two valleys away to the north, he says, visitin’ the Lake with his grandparents. I can’t help myself—I had to ask what a grandparent is. His explanation goes on much longer than necessary and I find myself inexplicably stretchin’ out on the pier, sleep wrappin’ me in its lethargy. It’s warmer down here, far below the lair. I could adjust to it.

~

I wake to the deep voice of another giant. Instinctively know it’s a female kind. “This will burn a little,” the hen warns as she washes the gashes in my wings. “Lucas, follow behind me and gently rub in the salve like I showed ya.”

The alternatin’ sensation of fire and ice soothes. Their attention races oddly refreshin’, and I relax, lyin’ back, spread out to my fullest extent as the troll hen examines my shoulder, and the human boy massages gently. I greedily arch and rotate to give him access to my body, the caress, wonderful. The lesser races aren’t so bad after all. They’re pretty nice, maybe. Prolly wouldn’t taste that great. Be a tad bony.

The far off trumpet only got me to cock my head at first. But the fear I hear in it makes me rush to rise. I push my head back and trumpet a reply, and the air around us fills with birds that nest underneath the pier and on the shore.

A steady stream of trumpets reverberates. Ash’et is very angry. Mo’sale sounds as though an angry bull chases him. I continue to answer their panicked calls. A herd of the humans, mixed with a few of the other lesser races flow out of the larger structure up the hill again.

Lucas holds his hands over his ears, and the female troll does the same as the herd nears.

“I’m sorry,” I tell Lucas, archin’ my head out to him and nuzzlin’ him. “I bellowed into yar face, didn’t I.”

“That’s okay. Are they mad?” he asks.

I try to make the gurglin’ sound I heard Lucas use, but it doesn’t sound right. I snort. “My dam is very mad.”

The trumpetin’ nears and I apologize that I have to reply. The human boy nods his head as he continues strokin’ my hide. I turn aside to focus the blast away from him, trumpetin’ long and loudly, until I’m sure my—I believe the word Lucas taught me is parents—recognize where I am. I warble in apprehension.

As my dam and sire backstroke to land along the side of the pier several moments later, I prostrate myself before them in submission—it couldn’t hurt. Ash’et and Mo’sale perch silently, loomin’ over me and the herd of lesser races crammin’ the boardwalk.

The troll hen is beside me again, and she speaks to my—parents.

“I’m Eina. I’ve been helpin’ yar young queen,” she says. “She hurt her shoulder badly, but I can’t find anythin’ broken. I believe it’s only a strain and bad bruises, but don’t think she should fly for a few days.”

Ash’et threw her head back in rage and trumpets. Mo’sale pushes against her, rubbin’ his head against her breast tryin’ to calm her. I close my eyes, embarrassed by the Dragonish words that erupt from the queen. I’ve never seen her this angry, and she has four little bulls that strain her patience every moment. I hope my two new friends don’t understand Dragonish. My sire growls admonishments and endearments. Ash’et swings her head back and forth to push him away.

“Ya best step back,” I tell Lucas softly. “Ash’et doesn’t like ya touchin’ me.”

The troll hen bends down and takes his hand and leads him away several steps. I watch the human boy—is intrigued the right word? His eyes have turned red and his lips turn out oddly. It could only be some kind of distress. It saddens me, a little. It, he, may be simple minded, but is very kind. Oddly, doesn’t fear my irate dam.

The queen trumpets harshly again in answer to her mate’s insistent urgin’s, and she leaps into the air, wingtips comin’ so close to those on the pier, many barely manage to avoid bein’ hit. A strike by the eighteen-inch claws along the edges of her wings could have been fatal, as fragile as these lesser creatures appear. Mo’sale trumpets an angry rebuke at his queen.

Slowly, I raise my head and turn to face my sire. The bull hops, not too gracefully, off the railin’ to join me on the deck. I’m surprised that he reaches out and draws his long neck along mine in a caress. He speaks to me in Dragonish.

“They’ve been very kind,” I answer in Standish.

He looks over and meets the female troll’s eyes, who steps forward. “She can’t stay on the pier at night. It gets too cold once the sun goes down. I must take her to our barn.”

Mo’sale growls, clearly unhappy with that suggestion. I imagine how the queen would have reacted. Blood would have splattered everywhere. Likely.

“I know I’ll be safe,” I tell Mo’sale.

He anxiously twists his head in a tight figure-eight.

“Ya have my word, nothin’ will happen to her,” the troll hen growls.

Mo’sale stops his keenin’ and extends his neck to bring his face inches away from the troll’s. His eyes whirl, and not in the fashion when he’s fishin’ for Ash’et’s attention.

I almost trumpet in laughter when the troll reaches out and pats Mo’sale’s snout. My sire stiffens at the touch, but after a moment he shows his teeth.

“I hope that doesn’t mean ya’re gettin’ ready to eat me.”

I snort. “He’s in a better humor.”

“Good news,” the troll says.

I wasn’t sure if that was a joke. I watch Mo’sale and the troll glare at each other a long moment. They appear to share a lot of information without words, but I have no clue what. My sire finally turns to me and nuzzles me again, in that uncommon way. Never has he touched me like that.

Quietly he says, “Ya’re prolly hungry. I’ll bring ya a buck to eat.”

He awkwardly turns in the tight space, extends his wings, carefully checks his clearance, before leapin’ up and strokin’ down, barely missin’ the pier’s railin’.

“Let me show ya where yar home will be for the next couple days,” the troll says.

“Ya said yar name is Eina. I’m Iza,” I say, takin’ my first clumsy steps forward.

The sky is a dragon’s domain, not the ground. Ducks have a more graceful waddle, maybe. We’re very top heavy. Nature didn’t design our curved talons for walkin’, either. I try to ignore the snaggin’ sensation against the wood, how awkward I feel stridin’ behind the two lesser creatures. Have I ever taken more than three or four steps at a time before?

“Happy to make yar acquaintance,” Eina says.

I try out the expression. “Happy to make yar acquaintance.” But my thoughts shift to how wonderful it’s gonna be to spend days away from my clutch-mates. They’re so irritatin’. This Lucas may be a tad fond of his own voice, but nothin’ like the continuous assault of four ignert bulls.

Though I look forward to the time away from the lair, I understand thin’s could have gone very differently. “Would ya do me a favor?” I say.

The troll nods without turnin’ around. The gray tangles of hair reachin’ to her waist fold this way and that way in the breeze. A breeze thankfully not as sharp as I’m used to in the heights.

“Will ya tell that dwarf, and the others, thank ya for not killin’ me?”

The troll makes an angry-sounding, strummin’ noise deep in her chest, but her lips turn upward in that fashion a dragon could never manage. Maybe not an angry sound.

“I never would’ve let them hurt ya,” Lucas says, reachin’ out and strokin’ my wing.

~