Fox’s Tongue and Kirin’s Bone

Aaron had once stood over a map in Orin’s council room, and taken a step from the coastline all the way into Onekin itself: an easy enough flight, for a dragon.

Easier still to fly straight north, to the forests and cliffs beyond the enclave, where humanity had no eyes. The enclave, where humanity had all but exiled their king—barely guarded—on the basis of the dragons’ own strange behavior. And then those same dragons had retreated at spring’s end just as usual, so that everyone would assume they’d gone home. Home on the dragon’s isle, where there was now a kirin killing the Late Wake’s scouts and making it near impossible to stay there for long by the very nature of its presence: a kirin with an emperor was a kirin with pull, and humanity had no emperor of their own to guard their loyalties. The dragons had worked hard, to make sure they barely had a king.

And so the last of the adult O’Sheas—the last of the line keeping humanity united—was at the farthest town from any backup, guarded largely by those who’d been chosen to watch him die.

And now they were under attack by dragons, just in case King Orin needed a little help with the dying. Well played, that.

Aaron stood now by his arrow slit window, and watched the first dragon dive.

Humans had chosen this stretch of the cliffside with purpose: the stone here curved back towards itself in a crescent, allowing the ballista rooms scattered about the cliff to cover for one another. A rather important feature, when the large windows they fired through were the most likely place for a dragon to enter.

As the dragon dove, it was answered both by the window it targeted and by shots from across the way. It evaded the first; had to tuck its wings and drop like a stone to escape the rest. A second tested their defenses soon after, to much the same result.

It was near impossible to tell how many there were. They were camouflaged, bodies dark against a black sky, distinguishable more by how brightly the false stars glittered on their sides than by any true silhouette.

Another dragon made a run. It dropped away as the others had, but the night was young.

Aaron scanned the sky again. Found the only dragon-shaped thing not bothering overly much with camouflage. It spiraled lazily above the others, playing with shooting stars and light bursts over its sides. A dragon’s Death.

One dragon’s Death. And it might just be that counting Deaths was becoming less of a reliable indicator on how a battle was meant to go, but Aaron couldn’t help but compare that singular number to all the Deaths who’d been hanging about the enclavers recently.

That was… likely not good.

He’d had plans for if dragons attacked Onekin. Not incredibly well-laid plans, given how much they relied on others to set things up for him, but plans. He did not have plans for dragons here.

The griffins had retreated from the seaward side of the fort. He could still hear their shrieks through the stone walls, but what meaning they’d held was lost under the nearer shouts of men and women and running boots and the rattling of heavy things being moved about as the militia stirred itself.

Five dragons broke from those above, and dove down all at once. Ballistae across the fort thrummed as they drew fire from all sides.

Which was the point.

Each ballistae could cover for the others, but they could only be reloaded so fast. And that last testing of their defenses—that last taunting of the militia’s fire—had left those defenses near empty.

The dragons fell on them in a dark wave, scales glittering with stars humanity had no right being so near to as they spat tarballs at every window in their path. They retreated again, just as swiftly, dropping out of range and flying low over the waves until it was safe to ascend once more.

They’d been moving too fast to properly aim their fire. But already smoke was billowing through one window, with the shouts and screams of men coming distantly to Aaron’s own, and the night was yet young. Each ballista down was one more hole in their defense. If the dragons could take out one window at each sweep—even one window every third sweep, every fourth—they’d have the fort crippled by dawn.

This far north, it would be a full day or more before any meaningful reinforcements could reach them, even if a message had been sent the moment the dragon’s had been spotted. None had. In fact, it was likely that the only way a message could make it through was if the messenger could cut through the forest; there was no way a horse and rider would make it past this gauntlet on the coastal road.

Well played, indeed. And that might rather explain why the dragons had seemed to have it out for Aaron, specifically. He was the only one who could

get a message out. So. Should he?

Another dragon dove. The ballista rooms held their fire. It spiraled back up, tauntingly in range for the whole arc of its flight.

Smoke from the burning room finally reached Aaron’s nose, the acrid burn of dragon tar clinging to the back of his throat no matter how he swallowed. Seals barked on the beach far below, woken by the unwelcome drama above.

Aaron in breaths until his breaths were steady. Then he checked his knives, and took his new sword along in case Adelaide saw him—or he needed something to bludgeon a person with—and stepped from his room. This wasn’t the fight he’d been expecting. But, well. He’d been planning for if King Orin decided to live. He’d just… move those plans along, then. During an active attack. Right.

It wasn’t complete pandemonium out in the hall. But it was entirely obvious that this wasn’t the sort of flying attack they’d been prepared for. For one thing, they were only now rushing to bring the sand bags out of storage. Aaron flattened himself out of the way as a cart of the stuff rolled past, the man behind it moving at a run. Sand was about the only thing that could safely snuff dragon fire. In Salt’s Mane, they kept it piled in the back of each ballista room. But it took up a fair bit of space, and griffins weren’t known for spitting fire.

He went to the Lady’s rooms first. Because it was near enough, and likely to have what he needed, whether or not she was there.

She was. She stood at the foot of her bed, deciding between cloaks.

“Which do you think?” she asked, as if he’d not just let himself in. “Griffin is my favorite for versatility, of course, but this may not be the best company to wear it with.”

“I’ll be needing the griffin, actually, if you please.”

“Why not wear your own, and we can match. I’d thought you had it stored in your rooms here. You did make such a display of wearing it north.”

A display to which she’d paid attention. Well. That had been the point, in making a show of it.

“Do you trust me?” he asked. Which was a rather absurd question. But that was also rather the point. They’d just had a talk about this, after all.

“No,” she said, stepping aside. “But I do expect to be entertained.”

He gave her the brief grin that deserved. She gave him the cloak. He draped it over his shoulders, even as she picked out another for herself; her black basilisk was another favorite, after all, and not as likely to get her shot by their own side as the green dragon scales under it.

“Well then,” she said, fastening it closed. “Lead the way.”

There was a staging room down the stair, as central to the ballista rooms as anything could be with them stretched along the full width of the fort. They had to dodge more carts of sand, and bundles of ballista bolts, as they made their way inside. This was the sort of room that was pointed out to every good militia member the moment they stepped foot in the fort: here was the place to report for orders when an attack came.

There were second and third locations should this first room fall, of course. But it was good to find this one not already on fire.

Less good to find King Orin against one wall, retching. Even as they entered, he spat the last of it from his mouth, and rejoined the table where the fort’s nobles and the local militia commanders were gathered over maps of town and fort. It was steadier than Aaron had seen him stand in days. Amazing what a person could rally themselves for, when they weren’t just waiting to die. His Majesty had managed to get into his gambeson and a few other pieces, but hadn’t bothered with either chainmail or plate. Jeshinkra stood on one side of him, hand on her sword; Adelaide on his other. She spotted Aaron through the bustle of the room, her eyes scanning him over like she expected he’d have already managed to get himself injured; when she caught the sword at his side, she gave a nod. Then she moved over at the table, making space like she expected him to join her side. Like it wasn’t even a thing that needed discussing.

Having a sister continued to be strange.

Rose and Lochlann were here as well—not at the table, but to the room’s side, standing in a group of some others, getting briefed by one of the higher ranked militia members. Aaron nodded quickly to them, but it was to the command table he and the Lady went.

“Did you even have a plan to deploy those famed enclave crossbows,” Adelaide was saying, as they approached, “or are you too afraid of your own people to unlock the armory?”

There was, indeed, a stunning lack of enclavers being trusted in the command room. Hadn’t been many in the halls, either. Aaron had assumed they were rushing to the armory, finally being allowed their weapons; judging by the key ring still on the captain of the guard’s belt, that had been overly optimistic of him. Aaron jostled against him as he joined his sister’s side. The Lady gave him an amused little glance, but didn’t otherwise call him out as those keys migrated along to his pocket.

“They’re enclavers,” the Lord Protector said, because he didn’t need to be so crude as to say they’re not our people

when it was so clearly understood. “Weapons disappear during attacks. Weapons always disappear during attacks. It wouldn’t surprise me if they’ve thrown their lot in with the dragons, to trick us into arming them while our backs are turned, same as they used to try tricking us with griffin attacks. They’re not human—”

“Let us save the debates on who is human,” said Orin, “until there aren’t dragonsat our door. Lord Sung, your concerns for the enclavers’ safety are founded. As are your concerns, Lord Protector. The armory will remain locked until close quarters weapons are needed. When they are needed, they will be distributed.”

From the look on their faces, it was abundantly clear that neither Adelaide nor the Held Land’s lord favored that solution.

But their king had spoken. And they were listening. Even if it was simply because he was the only one with the rank to mediate between them, they were listening. For tonight, at least, he was their king again.

“Your Majesty,” Aaron said, because formal was best, when trying to prop someone else up as worthy of respect. “Have you thought on getting a message out?”

“I rather thought that was your job, royal messenger,” Orin replied. He was leaning against the table a bit, and rather paler than a healthy man should be, but there was a steel to him.

“It is,” Aaron said. “And I’ll be delegating. To her.”

The Lady raised an eyebrow at the thumb he’d hooked her way, which was the least surprised reaction around the table.

“You are going to send away one of our single most effective fighters,” Orin repeated, “just as the battle begins?”

“No one can make it by the road,” Aaron said. “It’s too exposed, and the dragons will be expecting it. But I sincerely doubt they’re watching the seas.”

The Lady’s eyes brightened. “The selkies.”

“Are there any, among the seals here?” Aaron asked.

“There always are. Though I’ve never spoken with those here,” she said.

Jeshinkra exchanged a look with Orin.

“It won’t hurt,” the king allowed. “How soon could a message reach the nearest town?”

“That rather depends on how motivated I can make them,” the Lady said. “And whether we can trust them to relay the message from pod to pod, or must rely on those I speak with here to make the journey. Half a day at the earliest; never, at the latest.”

“Perhaps the promise of as many fish as we can roast for them, so long as we’re still alive to do the cooking?” Aaron suggested.

The Lady’s lips quirked. “A steep bargain. I’ll see what I can manage.”

“And why does the Lady herself need to go?” Orin asked. “This is your job, Lord Sung.”

Apparently His Majesty was feeling formal, too, in front of all these other lords. But ‘Lord Sung’ for both Aaron and his sister was going to get confusing, if it kept up long. Even worse if someone started calling the Lady that, too.

Good thing he wasn’t planning on staying long. It had been Orin’s question, but it was the Lady’s gaze Aaron held as he answered.

“There’s more I need to do here. You’ll have to trust me.”

And if that trust happened to send her out alone on the seaward side during an active attack from that direction, well. For once, that wasn’t actually the point. And it wasn’t like he’d be any safer where he was going.

“And what, exactly, am I trusting you with?” Orin asked.

“Your Majesty,” the Lady said, her eyes still on Aaron’s, and a certain delight growing in her own. “I suggest you trust my apprentice. And have the bells ring six, if you please. Things are about to get… entertaining.”