Epilogue
Wistala sat in the old troll cave, near the entrance where the air was cleaner, and dictated her memories of the battle that destroyed the Wheel of Fire, and much of the combined barbarian power in the north, to Lada.
Of Rayg she had no happy news. A great many dwarves fled down their mysterious holes to the darkroads as Thul’s Hardhold fell, and as Rayg hadn’t been carried off by the barbarians or been found among the dead, she assumed he’d fled for his life with them. The barbarians had caused so much destruction, it was doubtful that he could return through Hardhold, even if he wanted to. But he was in the company of dwarves who would respect him, very different circumstances from abject slavery in the north.
The thaneship had passed to Ragwrist, of all people, as Mossbell was the largest estate in the thanedom with Galahall divided between Hammar’s barbarian relations. Wistala had sold him Mossbell for a song—literally, for he had a wonderful voice. Now Ragwrist complained of his generosity to his tenants, driving him to the poverty of only drinking wines from the less renowned vineyards.
The circus went to Brok, who kept it out of barbarian lands, where dwarves were increasingly unwelcome, perhaps justifiably.
The Green Dragon Inn still stood, and tall tales had grown up around it and its sign. People in later years reached up to touch it for luck, and heard stories so bizarre and inaccurate, Wistala would have smiled to hear.
Widow Lessup retired with Yari-Tab in the modestly restored Mossbell hall and devoted herself to feeding and supervising the surviving cats, who kept the mice from nibbling the hooves of Dsossa’s “north herd” of white horses.
What remained of the Wheel of Fire Dwarves came under the leadership of Lord Lobok, who, if he ever led his fighting dwarves out of the mountains again, would be assured an entertaining place in the annals of military history.
Speaking of which, Wistala had no particular desire to accomplish a war history, but the librarians had asked for a dragon’s-eye memoir, and they would get one. It was the least an Agent of Librarians could do, before setting off in search of her brother.
As she talked, chose phrases, and answered the occasional question, Wistala’s thoughts kept returning to the dilemma of dragons. On the one sii, there was the sort of grasping survival of dragons like that smelly wretch in the far north—scattering, hermitage, or worst, assassination—and on the other a useful servitude, a survival that depended on being of use to others, like the man-carrying dragons more and more sailors of the northern part of the Inland Ocean reported.
Could dragons cooperate, form an order like the old city-states of Hypat? Certainly an extended family could, as the odd dragons of the Sadda-Vale proved. And if they did, suppose a Masmodon or a Fangbreaker or worse arose at the council table? Selfishness and greed were not the least of dragon faults.
Oddly enough, she wished she could talk the matter over with that dragon DharSii. He had unpleasant manners, to be sure, and was the most arrogant creature who ever cracked an egg, but she could trust him to give an intelligent opinion. And perhaps even more important, an honest one. For in obtaining his opinion, she’d have to sum up her life and actions—she wondered if she’d done right or wrong, though why she should care what he would think of her past she did not know.
The Wheel of Fire would butcher no more hatchlings in their home cave, and Hammar’s half-Hypatian, half-barbarian plot to gain power in war and conquest had vanished in the catafoua mouth, and the Dragonblade had hung up his spear, even if he wasn’t exactly raising chickens. She’d kept her promises—
Save the last one to Father.
But felt little satisfaction in were-blood. Avenging her own was a grim duty, like breaking a bullock’s back in a dive so that you could eat, and just as necessary to survival. Ignoring those who kill others in the hope they won’t get around to you only means that when they appear to take your head and scales, they would apply all they learned in other victories, making your chances against them so much the worse.
“Does that have to go in?” Lada asked.
“What do you mean?” Wistala said, brought back to the dictation.
“The battle. Betrayals. Incompetence, even cowardice. Boats falling, mud everywhere, blood running from balconies, carrion birds poking marrow from bones, dwarves hanging from bridges, burned corpses, but worst of all, no hero whose courage and skill is put to the ultimate test.”
“They asked for a history, they shall have my history. If someone else will have the battle take place on a spring-green field with pennants at the lance points and songs sung over the honored dead, let them write it thus. This history is a story of death begetting death, and should end with carrion birds, for they are the only ones who come out the better at the end.
“Speaking of which—steaks and cakes, but I’m hungry. Enough of this wordplay. Let’s head over to Mossbell and eat!”