Spine of the Dragon Read online

  Outside, the loose shutter slammed and crashed against the wall, tormented by the winds like a rat shaken by a terrier. Several more small panes in the now-vulnerable window rattled loose.

  Adan looked at his father-in-law. “If we don’t secure that shutter, the whole window will fall apart.”

  Hale nodded. “We’ll have to be fast, Starfall.”

  “I will be.” He released the latch on the glass window, which opened in a burst of breezes, and he barely caught it before all the panes could smash into fragments. Hale fought to take it from him.

  From the windowsill, Adan leaned out into the storm wind, stretching his arm to snatch the flapping shutter. His fingers slipped and he grabbed again. It was like catching a wild horse. Finally, he seized the edge, pulled the shutter back toward the window.

  As he did, Adan had a moment to look at the brown and smoky storm lashing through the streets of Bannriya, scouring the ancient walls. Other shuttered windows groaned under the barrage of sand and wind. Roof tiles flew about like dandelion fluff and clattered against walls. The sandstorm roared along, and for a moment he thought he saw what Penda had sensed: something dark, rumbling, ominous.

  He pulled the shutter back into place, blocking out the storm. “Quick, lash it!” Hale and the squire wrapped twine around the latch. The wooden shutter creaked as scouring wind pressed against it.

  With a sigh, Adan gently closed the leaded-glass inner window, too. Xar flapped his wings on his stand, as if acknowledging the king for taking care of a bothersome problem. Penda brushed her husband’s ruffled hair back into place and kissed him on the forehead. The dining hall finally returned to normal.

  The squire looked flushed and disconcerted. Hale Orr used his good hand to sweep dust from his fine silks. “There, now let us see what we can scrounge for dessert.”

  * * *

  Adan and Penda held each other through the night, although the howling winds kept them awake. The storm died down by dawn, and as day broke, the last vestiges of dust wandered through the streets like camp followers after a great battle.

  Adan got up early, anxious to see how the city had fared. He donned linen trousers and a silk shirt. With her ska riding precariously on the pad on her shoulder, Penda joined him. Hom hurried in, disappointed to find the king already dressed. He looked as if he hadn’t slept a wink. “Breakfast, Sire?”

  “Not yet, Hom.” Adan moved at a swift pace with Penda at his side.

  In the main hall, servants removed coverings from the windows and opened shutters to let bright sunshine through the streaked glass. Attendants tugged open the great castle doors to a cascade of fine dust.

  Outside, Adan saw no torn-off roofs or collapsed buildings, although drifts of dust blocked many of the doorways. “Now we clean up.”

  Shopkeepers emerged to assess the damage and used straw brooms to sweep away the accumulated sand. Children ran about stomping in the powdery mounds, sending up clouds of dust and leaving footprints.

  Joining Penda and Adan, Hale Orr used his arm stump to wipe grit from his forehead. “Cra, I’m glad we weren’t out in tents. It could have been much worse.”

  Suddenly, shouts came from the watchtowers on the city’s western wall that looked out upon the distant mountains. Signal flags went up on the high towers, and a bell rang out. Before long, Seenan and a second Banner guard ran up the hill toward the castle, wading through pools of dust. Their faces were caked with dirt. Seenan called out, “Sire—strangers! Visitors unlike any I’ve ever seen before!”

  “The storm brought them,” said the second guard.

  “Then let’s go greet them,” Adan said. “We always welcome visitors.”

  After saddling their favorite horses in the castle stables, Adan and his companions rode off down the drifted streets. Xar flew above the party and circled back to settle on Penda’s shoulder.

  When they reached the outer city wall, armed Banner guards were staring nervously down from the wall above the gate, which was still closed and barred. Riding up, Adan signaled for them to open the barrier. “Is this any way to greet visitors? If they rode through the storm, they may need help.”

  “As you command, Sire,” called one of the tower guards, but he sounded uncertain.

  Penda pulled her horse to a stop beside him, curious. Seenan looked worried, but he kept his horse back and held his tongue. Hale Orr sat in the saddle, quiet but curious.

  Sentries worked the two-man cranks, winding ropes around giant wheels to the sound of ratcheting gears. The huge gates swung open on groaning, dusty hinges. King Adan’s horse shied and snorted.

  Outside the city, a hundred or so figures waited, dressed in scales and tan leather. At first glance, they looked like humans, but they were not human. Tall and angular, they had warm brown skin and topaz eyes that tapered to elongated points. Their long, wild hair glittered a pale yellow, as if spun from gold and bone, and was adorned with twisted metal that gleamed in the harsh morning light. Though they had arrived with the dust storm, they appeared spotless.

  The strangers rode on stout, two-legged lizard creatures with large heads and yellow eyes. Remembering his history and the drawings he had seen in ancient records, Adan knew that these creatures, called augas, were beasts of burden shaped from desert reptiles. Three of the scaly mounts plodded forward, their riders looking imperiously at Adan, who could hardly believe what the storm had brought.

  A harbinger, Penda had said.

  Wreths, the ancient race that had created humanity as their slaves, had not been seen for more than two thousand years. Their statues and ruins littered the landscape, and Adan looked at the toppled stone figure each day as he passed outside the castle. Everyone thought the warring wreth factions had obliterated each other long ago.

  Now a hundred of them had emerged from the wasteland to stand before his city. To see King Adan.

  2

  THE striped sails of the Isharan warship strained against the magic-induced breezes pushing them toward the coast of Osterra, easternmost of the three kingdoms in the Commonwealth.

  At the bow, Priestlord Klovus clenched his hands on the salt-weathered wood of the deck rail and watched as the ship cleaved the water. Glancing at the iron fist of the battering ram that thrust forward at the prow, he felt ready to smash the hated Osterrans.

  The lookout called down from the mainmast, “Coast ahead! We’ll reach Mirrabay within the hour.”

  “If we’re on course,” the captain muttered from the middeck, pacing back and forth and ready for battle.

  “We are on course,” Klovus affirmed, making sure all the sailors could hear him. “The godling guides us to our destination.”

  As key priestlord of Ishara, he focused the energies of the sailors and soldiers. Their faith was strong because the godling down in the hold was strong, and they would witness its power soon when Klovus unleashed it against the weak fishing village. Enemy blood would flow, and flames and smoke would rise to the sky like celebratory cheers.

  The anxious crew consisted of a hundred toughened men and women who were eager for the raid. To build excitement and certainty, Klovus called out, “Bring out your swords and shields. Don’t expect the godling to do all the fighting for you!”

  The sailors rushed to the ship’s armory closets. The first mate unlocked the doors and handed out curved swords, daggers, and ironwood cudgels. They had set sail in secret from Serepol Harbor under cover of darkness, determined to reach the shore of the Commonwealth across the sea. Klovus had prayed with them, rallied them. Every member of the crew was primed and hungry for war.

  The godling was hungry as well.

  The summoned wind swept the warship along, bringing the foreign coast noticeably closer. Ahead lay the tired old world, the continent the Isharans had abandoned long ago after the devastating wreth wars. His brave people had claimed a new land for themselves, virgin soil that sparkled with magic, unlike the weary and damaged Commonwealth.

  “The godless are vulnerable,
” Klovus called out, though the crew needed no further inspiration. “Our war never actually ended decades ago, and while they may have forgotten what they did to us as they scrabble for their pathetic existence, we have not forgotten.” He smiled. “And today, we will give them a painful reminder.”

  Eager sailors, dressed in light hemp pants and rough-spun shirts, strapped on swords, buckled leather armor over their chests, tucked daggers into their belts, tried on and exchanged helmets for a better fit. Klovus, wearing his dark blue caftan with his golden rank symbol around his neck, nodded encouragement, glad to see the crew’s eagerness, their jaws clenched in hatred.

  Even though the two continents had established an uneasy peace with a treaty signed by Empra Iluris and Konag Cronin thirty years ago, there was no peace in their hearts. Klovus and the twelve district priestlords never let their followers forget, even if their own empra didn’t understand. This raid would reawaken their fervor, heat up their blood.

  The robust warship approached a sheltered bay, where local fishing boats trolled their nets in the calm waters. The smaller boats tacked against capricious breezes, but the Isharan warship rushed along on an arrow-straight course, driven by magic.

  Turning his back to the doomed harbor village, the priestlord raised his voice. “We strike quickly! Set fire to their town, kill as many as possible, and take some hostages. We will sail home, borne on the sounds of their grief.”

  “Hear us, save us,” the crew chanted. It sounded more like a cheer than a prayer.

  The godling heard them. Even through the deck boards, Klovus could feel the simmering power of the restless deity that huddled within the cargo hold, waiting to be set loose.

  Cinching the caftan’s sash around his stocky waist, Klovus scratched his cheek. In preparation for their victory, he had shaved his head and round face with a razor-edged dagger and applied oils to his skin. He wanted to look imposing, not unkempt … though he suspected that Mirrabay would remember little more than the godling once it attacked.

  Driven headlong and churning a white wake, the warship sailed past frantic fishing boats that scattered to escape the invaders. Klovus wanted those poor wretches to witness the devastation of their homes, the slaughter of their families. None of them would be able to reach shore in time to help in the fight.

  Some villagers had already identified the Isharan ship by its distinctive red-and-white sails and battering-ram prow. They would know this ship was not part of the Commonwealth navy, but a raiding vessel from the new world.

  Neither continent wanted all-out war, according to Empra Iluris, but the provocative raids continued, with or without her knowledge. Skirmishes like this one kept the wounds open and the pain fresh. The godling that Klovus had brought—a secondary entity from the harbor temple in Serepol—would show the three kingdoms that they could never hope to win.

  During the voyage from Ishara, the sailors had slashed their forearms, collectively spilling fresh blood into a glazed clay urn. When the offering urn was full, Klovus had sealed the cap with wax, using a hint of magic to preserve the blood and keep it fresh for the sacrifice just before battle. Now that the ship approached Mirrabay, it was time.

  “I offer the sacrifice as you offer your warrior hearts,” Klovus called. “Say your prayers, and I shall deliver the blood.”

  The armed sailors raised their voices in a loud summons. “Hear us, save us!” The chant so often spoken in the temples used the power of faith to strengthen the godlings that they themselves had created. The magic inherent in the new land was made manifest through their own beliefs, and now the priestlord could control it.

  Two sailors carried the blood-filled urn to the middle of the deck, where Klovus waited at a small access hatch. The gold-plated hatch had an upraised lip to capture any stray droplets of blood meant for the sacrifice. “Our godling drinks deeply and draws strength from your belief.”

  “Hear us, save us!”

  As they chanted, Klovus tilted the urn and poured the collected blood through the chute into the hold. The restless godling stirred, consuming all the anger instilled in the blood by Isharan believers. Klovus felt the entity’s presence increase.

  The magical wind picked up, and the Isharan warship surged toward the coast. Ahead, signal fires blazed on towers as watchers called Mirrabay to arms. Loud bells rang out. Villagers ran about, some gathering weapons, others fleeing inland.

  As the warship passed fishing boats and coast-hugging cargo ships, Isharan archers launched fire arrows. Klovus enjoyed watching their sails catch fire and their crews dive overboard to escape the conflagration. Many would drown before they made it back to shore.

  Simply causing pain to the godless Commonwealth was sufficient reason to conduct this raid, but the key priestlord had more at stake. He was eager to make his point to Empra Iluris, to demonstrate the power and effectiveness of their godlings. The stubborn woman frustrated Klovus, but he would find a way to convince her.

  After the blood sacrifice, the hull boards swelled and groaned as power grew in the hold below. The priestlord would have to unleash the godling soon, or it might destroy their ship.

  He hurried along the deck, looking over the side and down the hull. The wooden hatch covers remained in place, sealing the hold shut, but they could be opened quickly. He shouted for the sailors. “Grab the ropes! Be ready to release the latches.”

  The impatient godling battered against the coverings, trying to break free. A crack shivered along one of the hull planks.

  “Hurry! Turn the godling loose. Let it do its work.”

  “Hear us, save us.” The sailors grunted as they tugged on the ropes, jerking pegs free so they could lift the hatch covers.

  With a wash of steam and spray, the imprisoned godling burst forth, only partially corporeal. It poured out of the openings like some gelatinous, unstoppable force, sparkling, thrashing as it tried to pull itself into a physical form: a fearsome monster made of liquid and beliefs. Klovus let out a gasp.

  The warship rocked with the disturbance, as if heaving a sigh of relief, and the freed godling surged into the harbor and swept like a boiling storm toward the defenseless people of Mirrabay.

  “Go,” Klovus whispered, not as a prayer, but as one speaking encouragement to a friend. “Wreak your divine havoc.”

  3

  MIRRABAY held dark and haunting memories for Utho. He had traveled here to face his personal demons, but now that the detested Isharans had arrived, the blood, death, and pain would begin all over again. He still wanted to kill that entire race for what they had done to his wife and daughters so many years ago. At least this time he was here to fight back.

  Utho of the Reef, an elite Brava guard, was tall, lean, and muscular, with close-cropped steel-gray hair. He was a grim and incomparable fighter, right-hand man to Konag Conndur. Utho’s wide, clean-shaven face had prominent cheekbones, his eyes narrow and slightly almond shaped, indicating his half-wreth blood. As a Brava, he wore black leather chest armor and breeches, black boots, a shirt of protective finemail, and a black cloak, also lined with finemail. He was an imposing figure.

  When he saw the enemy warship approach Mirrabay, his face hardened into a mask of challenge. The sight of the red-and-white sails spurred him to action. “Stand and fight!” He ran out onto the piers, his boots thundering on the wooden slats. “You know what these animals will do.”

  The village responded. Nimble boys with torches clambered up towers on either side of the bay to ignite greenwood signal fires, sending curls of smoke into the sky. The gray plumes could be seen for miles up and down the coast, but Utho knew the raiders would strike, burn, kill, and retreat before any other town could send reinforcements.

  The threat of an Isharan raid was a constant concern, and the coastal villages could never be truly ready—not for this. In their hearts they were just fishermen and townspeople, not ruthless warriors. Not Bravas, like him.

  Utho thought of his wife, Mareka, and their two girls butchered
by Isharans while he was away at the war thirty years ago. Today, though, he was here. He and his companion, a young Brava man named Onder, were the only hope for these people.

  The town’s defenders rushed into their homes to retrieve spears and pikes mounted on walls, bows and arrows used for hunting, swords that had been in families for generations. Mothers kissed their husbands goodbye and swept their children into the hills, while other women stayed behind to fight for their town.

  Onder, the other Brava, who served as a new paladin on this part of the coast, joined Utho at the end of the dock. He had sandy-blond hair and a pink complexion that made his face look freshly scrubbed; he also had the distinctive features of a wreth half-breed. Though only in his early twenties, Onder was a good fighter and enforcer, familiar with various weapons. Utho had sparred with him several times, but he doubted his younger companion had ever faced a real Isharan enemy before.

  As they watched the ominous oncoming ship, Utho saw an unexpected flicker of fear cross the other Brava’s face, but he quelled it. “Will we be able to fight them?”

  “We are Bravas. It is in our blood and our destiny to defend the Commonwealth.”

  Villagers scrambled to build makeshift barriers in the streets. These people remembered when parts of Mirrabay had burned to the ground decades ago. Some older fighters still bore scars from that defeat, and everyone knew the horrific stories. Utho was proud to watch them pull together and face their fears.

  “They are brave,” he said to Onder in a low voice, “but they don’t hate the Isharans as much as I do. Are you ready?”

  Onder clenched his teeth and nodded.

  The Isharan vessel plowed into the harbor like a wild bull. Side hatches lifted up, and something monstrous sparkled and stirred in the warship’s hold. Utho caught his breath even before the ravening thing exploded out of the hull and surged into the bay. He gasped, unable to believe what he saw. “The bastards brought a godling! To our shores!”