“I’m sure you can get it fired again.”
Morris clutched his chest, wincing again. “I’m not really sure I want to, to be honest.”
Jason glanced toward the back of the home. It was late, but the festival would still be ongoing. “I could help.”
“I’d like that.”
Jason gathered his coat, leggings, and boots, slipping into them, and when he was ready, Morris followed him out of the home. They found the jacket hanging from a hook outside, melting the snow around it.
The snow would return overnight, leaving no evidence of the coat ever having been there and no sign that the snow had been disturbed.
Morris slipped on the coat and buttoned it quickly before turning to him. “This should have been yours.”
“I wasn’t going to be ready to take over the cannon for quite a while,” he said.
“Still.”
Jason could only shrug.
Morris looked around. “I forget how far out you are.”
“It’s not so bad,” Jason said, nudging past him as he started back toward the festival plaza. Morris followed, saying nothing, and Jason was thankful that the man didn’t speak. There wasn’t anything that he could say, anyway. The closer they walked, the more the festival fire began to draw him. As they neared, he waved briefly to Kayla where she stood at the edge of the fire, thankful she’d come out, if only for warmth. He didn’t see any sign of Tessa, though she was likely with others. She’d done more than her part helping him get Morris to safety, and she didn’t need to be dragged into staying just because of him.
They weaved along the outside of the crowd, and Jason was thankful Morris didn’t try to get too close to the fire. He wouldn’t have been able to follow him, but then, Jason would’ve managed to reach the cannon regardless.
By the time they arrived at the cannon, they found it untouched. The bucket of powder near it remained.
“It’s a good thing we didn’t lose that,” Morris said. “It’s difficult enough to get supplies up here, and that powder is one of the hardest for us to find. Even in Varmin, they don’t have much powder.”
Morris leaned over the bucket and began to scoop more out.
Jason turned to the cannon, looking it over. He hadn’t examined it after the accident, but now that he was here, he studied it, running his hands along the surface. It was cold now, the metal having chilled. Perhaps that was part of the problem. A warm cannon often fired better, at least according to his father. The metal would expand and contract with the heat and cold, and it was more reliable when it was heated.
Unless Morris had done something wrong.
This was Morris’s first time firing the cannon, at least without any help. His father had done so for years and had been mentored for four years prior to taking over, a luxury Morris had not had. In that way, Jason probably had as much experience with the cannon as Morris.
Not that he expected Morris to acknowledge that claim. He wouldn’t have expected anyone to have come to him looking for help, and as he ran his hands along the surface, he remembered the way his father had instructed him. He searched now for anything that would be off.
“Search for irregularities,” his father had said, his hands pressing over Jason’s as he ran them along the length of the cannon. Always make sure that your tool is safe before you use it.
Jason could remember the way his father’s hands had felt upon his, the warmth of them, callouses making them rough.
“Only when you’re confident there’s nothing irregular about it can you move on to the next step.”
“What’s the next step?”
“Examine the barrel.”
He turned to the barrel of the cannon, peeking inside. With his silver eye, he was able to see the contours of the interior in a different way than even his father had. When his father had instructed him in looking along the barrel, he had done so, searching for any signs of irregularity along the metal, and hadn’t seen them during that first lesson.
Would he see anything now?
As he peered inside, he couldn’t be certain, but there was something that seemed off.
Morris reached him, a scoop of powder in hand.
“Hold on,” Jason said.
“What is it?”
“Inside the barrel,” he said.
He reached an arm inside and felt for the contour of the metal, tracing his hand along it. He started toward the front, sweeping it back. The residue from the powder smeared beneath his hand and he pushed past it, focusing beyond that, looking for anything else.
As he reached back, he found it. At first, he thought it was a crack, but that wasn’t it at all. There was something else. A harder lump.
Jason pulled his arm out, reached for his belt knife, and stuffed it down into the barrel, scraping along the edge. He didn’t think the knife was harder than the cannon, and as he scratched at the strange lump, he felt it finally give way.
Stretching as far as he could, he reached all the way into the cannon, pulling that lump out. It was solid, and seemed to be coated with residue. Almost as if it were a lump of powder, but that didn’t seem to be the case.
“What is that?” Morris asked.
Jason shrugged. “I don’t really know. My father told me to examine the cannon both outside and in before firing it.”
Morris nodded. “He told me the same.”
Jason studied the other man and realized Morris probably hadn’t done the necessary examination as he should have.
He wasn’t going to say anything about that. It wasn’t his role. He wasn’t the cannon master. Then again, Morris wasn’t the same cannon master his father had been.
“Make sure there’s nothing else inside, and you should be good to continue firing,” he said.
“Thanks for your help,” Morris answered.
Jason stood off to the side, watching as Morris packed the cannon. While he was doing that, Jason examined the lump he’d pulled from the inside. It was coated with residue, and he stuffed it into his jacket pocket to look at later. Sometimes the powder could do strange things, and with enough moisture, he suspected it could lump like that, though efforts were made to ensure that didn’t happen.
Then again, his father had been the one to make those efforts. He didn’t know if Morris was doing the same things that his father would’ve done. It was possible that Morris wasn’t nearly as prepared as Jason’s father would have been.
When Morris was done packing the powder, he ran a fuse out and motioned for Jason to move out of the way. He complied, standing off to the side. Morris added another sprinkling of powder—the colorant—and tipped the cannon up, aiming it toward the sky.
Turning back to Jason, he winked.
“A little something special,” he said.
“How special?”
“You’ll see.”
He reached the end of the fuse, pulled out a splint, and tapped it together, sparking a light. The fuse ignited and the flame raced along it, reaching the inside of the cannon.
Jason covered his ears.
He looked up, waiting for the explosion.
None came.
Morris frowned.
“What did I do?”
Jason shook his head. “I—”
The cannon thundered.
Sparks burst from the end. They crackled, sending a fireball shooting into the sky. It was orange and yellow, and it gradually flickered over to a blue hue.
The crowd behind them cheered, some clapping their hands, but Jason only frowned. He understood what Morris had been getting at. The fireball was large—much larger than they normally were. It meant that Morris had packed more powder than he probably should have.
Could that have been his problem? Maybe he had been packing too much powder in all along. In doing so, it would lead to a strange explosion like what he’d just experienced.
“It looks like you’ve got things figured out,” Jason said.
Morris grinned, heading toward the barrel
and grabbing another scoop of powder. Several others drifted out of the crowd, heading toward them, and Jason backed away. He wasn’t going to stay here while Morris worked, not with some of the others who wanted to watch.
“That was the best explosion yet,” someone said.
“Even bigger than we’re used to.”
“Sometimes you have to go big,” Morris said. He started coughing, and Jason glanced over, noticing how he winced and clutched his chest.
The fool was going to end up injured again if he wasn’t careful. If he continued to fire the cannon like that, using too much powder, it might explode on him. Worse, if he didn’t examine it before and after each firing, others were going to get hurt.
That wasn’t Jason’s problem. He wasn’t the cannon master.
With Morris now serving as the cannon master, it was possible—even probable—he never would be.
He headed away and drifted down the side of the slope. The back side of the mountain led into a rocky bowl, and on the other side of it, the mountain sloped down to another village. It was small, barely more than a collection of a few houses that had a fairly easy time reaching this village for the festivities. They didn’t set off on their own. Beyond that was the nearest city, Varmin, over three days away.
The hunting should be better in that direction, but the upper portion was usually picked over by the people from his village and the one below, forcing hunters to descend further. It was part of the reason he chose to go around the front face of the mountain. It was snowier, but there was the chance that others wouldn’t have been there. Even were he invited with the hunting parties, he wasn’t sure he’d go along.
A dark shape caught his attention and he paused.
An enormous ballista was anchored to the mountain. In the darkness of the night, it was difficult to make out much about the ballista other than the gleaming end of it. As long as Jason had been in the village, he’d never seen it fired. No one had, as far as he knew. It was a remnant of a time before, a remnant from when the dragons still attacked. The ballista had been their only defense.
Similar weapons circled the entirety of the peak, surrounding the village. There were seven of them, anchored deeply, kept clean from snow, someone else’s job to ensure they were ready to fire. All of them were loaded with the precious trees, long, slender trunks sharpened, tipped with enormous metal barbs, and prepared to fire at a moment’s notice.
Thankfully, that moment had never come in all the time he’d been here. Jason wasn’t sure what he would do if it did. Certainly he wouldn’t be ready to fight, and he doubted he would be prepared for the possibility he would need to deal with a dragon attacking. No one would be ready for that.
The cannon fired again, another thunderous sound, and he glanced back. One of the others with Morris let out a whoop of laughter, and Jason could only shake his head. They were making a mistake. Morris had to know it. His father would’ve trained him better than that, but the other man still didn’t seem to care. More likely than not, Morris wasn’t even bothering to check whether the cannon was safe in between uses. It had been his own fault the cannon had misfired.
He was drawn to the ballistae and headed toward the nearest one. When he reached it, he ran his hand along the trunk, feeling the smooth surface of it. Time had weathered the wood, but it was smooth, stout, and still impressive.
It was hard to imagine what it would have been like to see it fired. They used a similar powder as with the cannon, firing the ballistae a great distance, far enough that they could take out a dragon from the town itself.
“I bet they wouldn’t even know,” a nearby voice said.
Jason dropped to the ground, using his white coat and pants to blend into the snow. At least in the darkness and with the snow, he would be relatively obscured.
“As soon as you fire it, someone’s going to know.”
“Sure. They’ll know then, but we’ll be long gone.”
Jason lifted his head, trying to see. Who would it be?
It sounded like Reltash, but firing one of the ballistae wasn’t something he would do. They didn’t have any replacement bolts. They would weaken the town. Even Reltash wouldn’t be foolish enough to do that.
“Just go and get some powder from the barrel,” someone else said.
This time, he was certain it was Ingrid. He recognized the voice, though why would she be dumb enough to try something like that?
If he stayed here, they would know he’d heard them talking about firing off the ballistae.
The cannon fired again.
“See? He’s not gone at all.”
“Fine. Maybe he’s not gone. We can wait until he settles down, and then we can go for some of the powder.”
“We shouldn’t,” one of the voices said.
“Would you be quiet? What does it matter? There are six more. Why shouldn’t we have a little fun?”
That was definitely Reltash.
He didn’t want to be here when they attempted to fire one of the ballistae. Not only was it a mistake, but it would bring the anger of the town elders and the mayor.
The voices started to head away from him, and he breathed out a sigh of relief.
Would they actually try to do that?
Normally, he would’ve said no, but with that group, he wasn’t sure. Reltash likely thought himself protected from any consequences. His father ranked high enough in the city, was wealthy enough that he wouldn’t have to worry, though he wouldn’t be able to buy a replacement bolt. The trees were long gone from this part of the mountain. Nothing like that grew nearby. Anything they could procure to replace any loosed bolts would be far down the slope, and it would be nearly impossible to bring back up the mountainside.
Crawling along the snow, Jason tried to stay invisible. He headed down the slope for a little while before turning back up. He wound his way back into the village, and as he reentered the crowd, he bumped into someone.
“Dreshen. I didn’t think you’d be at the festival,” Reltash said.
Jason’s heart hammered. Would he know Jason had been near enough to hear what they were planning? “No? Probably because I was busy helping Morris with the cannon.”
“Helping? Like you used to help your daddy?”
Jason resisted the urge to snap at him. “Right. I used to help him. And at least I know how to use powder and not blow myself up.”
Reltash glared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What do you think it means?”
The other man glowered at him. “You’d better be careful with that powder, Dreshen. Even Morris had a little trouble tonight.”
“What do you know about what happened?”
Reltash only grinned at him.
Jason took a deep breath and pushed past him, but he couldn’t ignore the sense that Reltash glared at him, his stare lingering on Jason’s back.
4
Jason stared at the snowy hillside. He held his bow at the ready, fully drawn so that his hand just barely touched his face. He wasn’t sure if what he detected was real or not, but there seemed to be a hint of movement on the other side of the ridge that he could just barely make out through his silver eye.
It was at times like these that he appreciated his eye. If nothing else, he wanted to find a rabbit. A squirrel, or anything. His stomach rumbled. The hunk of sweet bread he’d eaten had only taken the edge off his hunger, nothing more than that, and he needed to find something to sustain them over the next couple of days.
Creeping forward, he used the natural camouflage of his bearskin clothing, letting it blend into the snow. A fresh blanket covered the ground, and because of that, it didn’t crunch under his boots. It gave a little more traction as well, making movement easier. He’d seen no sign of prints but felt confident that he would come across something.
Hunting requires patience and deliberation and finally quick action.
He reached the ridge line. As he looked down, his breath caught.
A herd of deer.
He’d never been so lucky to see an entire herd before. He knew they were out there, and there were some who were lucky enough to have come across them, but Jason was not one of them. In all the times he’d been hunting, he’d never seen that many deer. It was rare to come across a single deer, let alone six, like he did now. If he were able to bring down even a single one, he’d have food for a month. It had been a long time since he’d managed to catch one. The last time was when his father had still been alive.
He held his hand steady, afraid to move at all. If he did, he feared the animals would notice, and if they did…
Checking his arrow, he held it steady. He focused on the deer, making sure his aim was true. Which one would he pick? For the first time, he had a choice. In this case, he had to go for the largest, didn’t he?
The largest would likely be the strongest. It would be more likely to fight and to run.
If he went with the largest dear, he would run the risk of it running off, even if it were injured. He had no false belief he’d be able to keep up with an injured deer bounding away.
Shifting his aim, he focused on a medium-sized one.
If he were quick, he could pull another arrow from the quiver, and—
The deer started to move.
…quick action.
He had to act now.
Jason fired.
As soon as he did, he reached for another arrow, nocking it in a smooth motion. His father had taught him archery, and his father had been skilled, though Jason liked to think he was even more skilled than his father. Most of that came from the dragon sight.
The first arrow struck and he fired again, catching the deer a second time in the neck. The creature fell.
The others were startled, and they ran.
He stalked over toward the deer, and when he reached it, he said a quiet prayer to Dayvos before flashing his knife across the creature’s throat. He waited for it to bleed out and started to drag it back to the village.
He’d been successful.
There were more deer, and if he were lucky, he might even be able to track them.
An emotion he hadn’t felt in quite some time surged in his cold chest. Hope.
Ice Dragon: An Epic Fantasy Adventure (The Dragon Misfits Book 1) Page 4