Spine of the Dragon

by Kevin J. Anderson

  He leaned close to kiss her, and she swatted him. “Put on a shirt. You sweat like a horse!”

  “There are no horses on rooftops.” He pulled her close. “You never minded before.”

  “I mind when I choose to.” She pulled away with a smile, and he admired her, shaking his head at how lucky he was. Tafira could outmatch the beauty of any woman half her age. Truly, she was the most precious spoil of that awful war.

  The household crew prepared to serve the early dinner, one of the few Isharan traditions his wife kept from her past life. Though Fellstaff Castle had skilled cooks, Tafira supervised them in the kitchens because she knew the right combinations of expensive imported spices. Her Isharan dishes were distinct from the venison, mutton, fish, and root vegetables common in Norterra, but her recipes were the only things she still cherished from her childhood home, along with one small figurine that represented the minor godling from her home village. Tafira held no fondness for those days, which was not surprising, since her own people had tried to kill her.

  During that war, he and the Commonwealth army had spent more than a year living off the land from village to village, conquering Isharan territory even though their roving army didn’t have sufficient numbers to hold it. For months, Koll’s troops struck and retreated, then struck somewhere else, keeping the Isharans in a state of fear.

  Because the people in the Commonwealth had no gods to please, their greatest personal goal was to lead a long life and leave a great legacy. Their deeds were all that endured after they were gone. The soldiers had sailed off to invade Ishara with heroic hearts, but constant pillaging, hatred, and distance from home changed the men. Even Koll the Hammer had become jaded.

  Some of his soldiers went mad with bloodlust, their hearts full of poison instead of compassion. He saw brave men and good friends become monsters. Once, when riding back from patrol, he came upon his troops ransacking an Isharan village called Sarcen. Seeing easy prey, his soldiers set homes on fire, rode down and trampled children, hacked old women with their swords. In their shock, the people of Sarcen couldn’t even awaken their weak local godling from its slumber. But Kollanan charged in among them, twirling his battle hammer over his head and commanding his own men to stop. He was forced to kill two of his out-of-control line commanders to stop the massacre. That was when he had also saved Tafira.

  Three decades later, she still looked as compelling as the day he swept her up, placed her on the back of his horse, and rode away from the smoking aftermath of Sarcen.

  Now, after washing up, Kollanan pulled on a fine cotton shirt, strolled into the castle’s withdrawing room, and poured himself a glass of a dry Suderran wine as he waited for dinner to be set out.

  A muscular blond man entered the room, quiet as a cat. The Brava’s face was square and weathered, with flat features, high cheekbones, and the familiar almond eyes. He wore his traditional black leather breeches, boots, and jerkin, the finemail draped like silk over his chest, an assortment of weapons at his belt, as well as the golden ramer band. Comfortable in the castle, Lasis had left off his finemail-lined cloak, though he would never let down his guard.

  Businesslike, the loyal Brava held out a sheaf of papers. “I have monthly reports from all eight counties, Sire, including harvest projections from the farmlands, a report of cotton growers disputing a boundary with Suderra, and also a proposed demarcation of forestland for the woodcutters so they can enlarge our winter stockpiles of firewood.”

  Koll picked up the reports, scanned numbers from the vassal lords. “Didn’t we discover a rich vein of coal in the western counties? Can’t the villages use coal to heat their homes?”

  “Most prefer fresh wood, Sire—as do I.” Lasis sniffed. “The smell of coal is not to my liking.”

  Five years after the end of the Isharan war, when Kollanan had retired to his kingdom to live in peace, the young Brava had come to Fellstaff to offer his services. Lasis said he liked the idea of a king who walked away from conflict to devote his life to farming instead of war. “I don’t like conflict either.”

  Koll remembered that day and recalled his skepticism. “That seems a dubious qualification for a Brava. Are you afraid to fight?”

  Lasis had not been insulted. “I am no coward, but you will need my strength if you want true peace in Norterra. The only way you can have peace is with a man like me bonded to your service. I will ensure that it happens.”

  Lasis stayed in Fellstaff Castle for much of the time, but he also roamed the eight counties as a paladin, helping where he was needed, saving people where he could, or meting out justice if he couldn’t arrive in time to save them.

  Because the Brava did his work so well, and because King Kollanan ruled so effectively, Lasis soon found that his services as a guard were not needed as much. With the king’s permission, he would ride off on sojourns of his own. He stopped an assassination attempt down in Suderra during the first year of young King Adan’s rule, when one of the deposed regents sought to return to power. Lasis refused to tell Kollanan the details of what he had done there in the southern kingdom. “The results are all that matter, Sire.” And Koll had accepted that.

  Now, sitting in his chair, Koll scanned the documents and nodded his approval just as Tafira called them to dinner. “Let Konag Conndur worry about politics, taxes, and history. My kingdom is doing well enough.”

  He sat next to Tafira at the head of the grand table. She served braised venison cut into bite-sized pieces mixed with noodles, a brown sauce, and pepper flakes that sizzled like fire on the tongue. As they ate, she glanced at several empty seats at the table. “I wish Jhaqi and her husband would visit. It’s been too long since we’ve heard from them.”

  Koll turned to his wife with a knowing smile. “You just want to see our grandsons.” He took a gulp of wine to wash down the spices. “But now that you mention it, there should be more traffic from the north. It has been nearly two weeks since we’ve had word from Lake Bakal.”

  “Shall we send a messenger? Next week is Tomko’s birthday. We should send gifts.”

  “He’ll be five years old, won’t he?”

  “Four. Birch is five. You lose track of time, Husband.”

  “Only because I’m so happy to be with you, beloved.” She accepted the compliment as her due. He made up his mind. “I’m due for a nice ride. I’ll head up there myself tomorrow, while the weather holds. I carved some new toys for the two boys, and I can deliver them in person.”

  Lasis finished his meal. “I will accompany you, Sire, for your protection.”

  “I don’t need protection in my own kingdom.” Koll huffed, though he knew the Brava was merely doing his duty. “It’s only three days—I’ve made the ride many times.”

  He didn’t want to cause his wife any concern, but as he considered, he found the long silence from their daughter, and the entire village of Lake Bakal, to be worrisome. Koll intended to get to the bottom of it.

  7

  WITH the weakened godling huddled in the cargo hold as the warship departed, Priestlord Klovus watched black smoke rise from the devastated village. His heart swelled with triumph as the sails billowed with magical wind that drove the ship eastward, back home to the continent of Ishara.

  Wasting no time, Klovus summoned the bound prisoners taken from Mirrabay. They would serve their purpose now, because the godling needed rejuvenation. Some of the Commonwealth men and women struggled and spat, while others seemed too defeated to resist as he hauled them in front of the golden chute. Their blood was weak, but so was the godling after its exertions. Far from the magic-infused shores of Ishara, the deity dwindled, even though the faith of the sailors remained strong. Klovus had to be careful not to let them see any weakness.

  As soldiers held one prisoner after another, the priestlord slashed their throats and drained their blood into the chute that poured into the hold. Once used up, their bodies were tossed overboard.

  “Hear us, save us!” the crew chanted as each victim
serviced the godling.

  Their blood fed the deity, but its energy remained at a manageable level, still within the priestlord’s control. Klovus knew this godling personally, had tended it when he had just been an ur-priest at the harbor temple, before his promotion to the main temple in Serepol as key priestlord of all Ishara.

  When the captives were all used up, Klovus sensed that the godling was stabilized. He examined the sleeve of his caftan and noticed a blood spot on the fabric. He scratched it with a fingernail, but the stain ran deep. He would have to burn the garment later, since it was contaminated with the blood of the godless.

  With the magic strengthened again, their voyage home would be safe and swift, but the priestlord would face his next battle when he saw the empra. She did not agree with his plans, had not sanctioned this raid. In fact, she preferred peace to power.…

  During the quiet voyage, the Isharan soldiers nursed their wounds on the open deck. Three surgeons sewed up the worst injuries suffered at Mirrabay, many of which had been inflicted by the Brava man. Twenty-four raiders had died in the attack, but the coastal village had lost hundreds, thanks to the godling, in addition to the ten sacrifices they had just made here.

  Meanwhile, the entity rested down in the hold. Through his sandals, Klovus felt energy pulsing through the deck boards from below. Taking advantage of the respite, the captain ordered his men to check the hatch covers on the hull ports to make certain the godling was secure. The captain was a religious man, but also sensible, and they all knew what the thing could do if it broke free. Klovus would keep it weak enough, yet content.

  As priestlord, though, he wasn’t overly worried about the godling. He had bought its loyalty and knew he could control it, even if none of the sailors did. He used his symbiotic connection, drawing upon the deity’s innate strength, calming and feeding it in return. Klovus had always felt the great bond, the strength of the many godlings. He was their true speaker, their true representative.

  The entity had expended its rage in an appropriate fashion and could now lie dormant until it was needed again. When the warship returned to Serepol, Klovus would restore the godling to its home temple at the harbor’s edge, sealing it behind its spelldoor. This one wasn’t even Serepol’s greatest godling—Klovus would never have taken all protection from the capital city, no matter his disagreements with the empra.

  As the ship sailed on, the captain approached him. His sleeveless hemp shirt opened on a hairy chest, and he had tied a white head scarf in place. “Are you satisfied with the raid, Priestlord?”

  “The godling demonstrated its power, and the people of Mirrabay will never forget us. Stories will travel across the three kingdoms. Everyone will fear what we can do.” Perhaps even the empra …

  Frowning, the captain leaned closer. “Aren’t you worried that Konag Conndur will strike back? He’ll want revenge against Ishara for what we did.”

  “If he tries, he will be devastated.” Klovus hoped, in fact, that the Commonwealth would respond, and then Empra Iluris would have to take her role seriously. “They have no gods. Therefore, they have no chance against us.”

  The captain glanced toward the deck hatch. “I think the godling is still hungry, even after the sacrifices. It used so much energy when it attacked the village that the sailors are concerned. We should have taken more prisoners for sacrifice.”

  Klovus hid his expression of disgust. “The godling doesn’t thrive on the tainted blood of such people.” He also didn’t want the entity to grow too unruly before he could seal it back into its temple. “Have no fear, the godling will grant us a safe voyage. We’ll be home soon.”

  The captain remained uneasy. “But what if we are beset by storms? Tomorrow we sail past Fulcor Island—what if the Commonwealth garrison there sends warships to attack us?” He lowered his voice so the other sailors couldn’t hear. “In its current state, is the godling strong enough to protect us?”

  Without the anchor of its home temple, Klovus feared the entity might decide it liked freedom better, but he could maintain the balance. “Our sailors can offer more blood if they wish. Let them sustain the godling during our voyage. Have no fear.”

  “Hear us, save us.” The captain nodded with a relieved smile. “I have no fear, because I know its strength.” Adjusting his scarf, he went looking for volunteers among his able-bodied crew.

  In Ishara, each of the thirteen districts had its own primary godling in a temple managed by a ruling priestlord, but other villages and localities had lesser godlings that were created, strengthened, and maintained by the nurturing believers. The inherent magic in the new world distilled their beliefs into a tangible entity, a local godling endowed with the very powers the people believed in. Seeing the physical manifestation of those beliefs served to strengthen the people’s faith, which in turn strengthened the godling. The cycle fed itself. Most Isharans did not understand or question the nuances, but the godlings reflected the mood as well as the nature of the district and the people.

  Ishara was a pristine continent, settled by ambitious pilgrims who had left the devastated old world well over a thousand years ago. The wreth wars had wrung out the old continent like a frayed washcloth, and the land held very little magic anymore. The people of the Commonwealth were too weak to create godlings of their own.

  But the faith of the Isharan settlers, amplified by the magic in their land, had manifested something marvelous. With this raid, Klovus had demonstrated the power of a relatively minor godling, even far from home. With that evidence in hand, he would have the leverage to insist that the empra resume construction on the Magnifica temple in Serepol. When finished, the Magnifica would be the most wondrous structure ever built by humans, housing the most powerful godling ever manifested … but only if the stubborn empra would let it be completed.

  Upon taking the throne three decades ago, young Iluris had halted construction, much to the dismay of the priestlords. She first used the war against the Commonwealth as an excuse, and had concocted other reasons every year since. She simply didn’t want the godlings or the priestlords to have too much power. She had always been difficult.…

  On the third day of the voyage home, the waters turned choppy with a gathering storm, and Klovus conceded that it would be wise to strengthen the godling. Sailor volunteers stood in line near the golden chute, passing a knife from one to the next. The crew members slashed their forearms and spilled blood into the chute, collecting enough to satisfy the deity.

  Klovus led them in their prayers. “Hear us, save us.”

  “Hear us, save us.”

  On the far side of the deck, he saw the surgeons speaking in low voices, concerned as they tended a severely injured soldier who lay coughing and convulsing. They knelt over him, their garments stained with his blood. They had wrapped strips of linen around a deep sword cut in his side, but the bandages were soaked with red. Klovus knew the man was breathing his last.

  The priestlord stepped away from the collection chute, took the knife from the line of sailors cutting their arms. “I need this.” Holding the blade, he stepped over to the dying man. In his blue caftan, he loomed over the bleeding soldier, who reached up with a clutching hand. Klovus quietly asked the surgeons, “Is there no chance?”

  They shook their heads.

  The wounded man raised his head. Though he could barely see, his eyes locked on the priestlord’s, and he choked out the words, “Give me to the godling. Please.”

  It was exactly as Klovus had hoped. Even if the man hadn’t offered, the priestlord would have taken matters into his own hands. To the dying soldier, he said, “You are a brave man, and it is a worthy sacrifice.” He called two of the sailors. “Help me carry him to the sacrificial chute. Quickly! If we don’t do this before he dies, the strongest power will be wasted.”

  The injured man groaned as they lifted him from where he lay. “Careful,” one of the sailors whispered. “Gently.”

  “We don’t have time to be gentle,” Klovus
said. “The blood of a dead man is a far inferior sacrifice. Hurry.”

  Choosing speed over delicacy, the sailors carried the man to the opening above the hold, leaving a pile of blood-soaked bandages behind. The priestlord grasped the dying man by the shoulders, while the sailors maneuvered into position.

  The soldier gurgled and twitched over the golden chute. Klovus grasped his matted hair, yanked his head back, and with a quick jerk of the sacrificial knife, slit his throat. The sailors held the man by his feet while he bled the last of his bubbling red life down into the hold.

  “Hear us, save us.”

  The godling absorbed the blood, the magic, and the strength. The ship itself seemed to thrum with the entity’s delight at this unexpected feast. Klovus looked at his sticky fingers as the dead man sagged. The sailors lowered the body and rested his gaping throat on the chute, so as not to waste a drop, until the soldier had nothing left to give.

  When the blood was drained, Klovus said, “He offered all he had. The godling appreciates the sacrifice.”

  Feeling tangible strength return to their ship, emanated by the deity below, the soldiers celebrated. As the warship continued across the open sea toward Ishara, the priestlord inhaled deeply, smelling salt air and victory instead of the lingering stench of blood.

  8

  FROM the pinnacle tower in her palace, Empra Iluris stared out at the busy harbor of Serepol, the capital city of Ishara. Numerous fishing boats, trading ships, and armed patrol vessels plied the waters, but she still saw no sign of the warship that Priestlord Klovus had commandeered.

  The damned fool is trying to start a war!

  She had instructed her hawk guards to inform her the moment the rogue ship returned to Isharan waters. She wanted to tear the key priestlord limb from limb for what he had done, but politics would prevent her from doing so. Considering the flames he had already fanned among the people, Klovus might even be welcomed home as a hero. Though her reign had been marked by decades of peace, some Isharans truly wanted war rather than the prosperity she had brought to the land. Klovus’s provocations might ruin everything she had worked for.