Spine of the Dragon

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “Sometimes Utauk luck deserts us.” Hale lifted his stump as proof.

  Though much of the magic in the land had been used up during the devastation of the ancient wars, Utauks could still draw on their enhanced luck, a subtle form of magic. They could increase their odds just a little, give a hard-to-define nudge so a fish might notice a lure in a stream, or help dice roll to the right number, or deflect an enemy’s arrow by just enough to miss a vital organ.

  But Utauk good fortune was capricious and unreliable. Hale’s left hand had gotten cut during a knife fight when he was young. Either Utauk luck had failed him, or his rival had more luck than he did. The cut went deep, and his opponent declared victory as Hale wrapped his bleeding wrist in bandages. In the following days, the wound grew infected and gangrenous, until his grandmother was forced to chop his hand off.

  Hale touched Glik’s shoulder with the smooth end of his stump. “You’ll find another ska, child. Some of the tribes sell them. I could inquire among the caravans.”

  “Nothing can replace Ori,” Glik said, forlorn. “He helped guide my dreams, kept the nightmares from getting so bad.”

  The two climbed to the outer gates of the castle, which were draped with the banners of Suderra and the Commonwealth. Penda hurried out to welcome them, with the green ska on her shoulder. When she saw the orphan girl, Penda lit up. “Glik, you’re back!”

  The girl came forward to touch Xar’s elongated, scaly snout. “I always come back, Sister.” She shook her head and snorted. “You’re married and pregnant! Haven’t given up on seeing the whole world, have you? Come explore with me.”

  Xar flapped his wings, clicking and buzzing as if to say he wanted to go out and explore. Penda touched her abdomen. “My days of traveling aren’t over yet.”

  Glik stroked the reptile bird’s feathers. “Beautiful ska.”

  Xar fluffed up his plumage at the compliment, but Penda’s expression fell. She sensed something wrong. “Ori?”

  “Lost in a dust storm,” Hale explained for her.

  “More than just a storm,” Glik said. “Ori broke our link and left me. We always shared our visions. Can’t be sure, but I think he wanted to protect me from something.”

  Penda touched her adopted sister’s tousled hair. “I’m so sorry.”

  Awkwardly, Glik changed the subject, flashing a glance at Hale. “I want to eat. You promised.”

  “First, you have to get cleaned up,” Penda said, making the girl grimace. “And while you eat, I need to speak privately with my father.”

  Hale wondered if Penda had received another strange premonition. “Of course, dear heart. Let’s go to my quarters, where I can sit and have a rest.”

  She snorted. “Rest? Aren’t you the man who once walked for four days straight without sleeping while you were courting my mother?”

  “That is how the story goes. Alanna was worth it.”

  After Glik ran off with servants, Hale guided his daughter to his private quarters behind them. Even inside the castle, he had made his rooms a reflection of his past, covering the stone walls and ceiling with cloth hangings, and dangling incense burners on chains, so he felt as if he were living inside a lavish Utauk tent. He had come to enjoy the warm fireplace, dry blankets, the roof over his head. He didn’t miss traveling endlessly in caravans, building encampments in the hills, or standing on the open deck of a trading ship, but he remained very much involved in what the tribes were doing, what they saw and knew. With the ominous portents his people had seen, the information network seemed more important now than ever.

  After placing her ska on a stand next to the door, Penda sat on his bed. He knew his daughter well enough to notice the worry lines on her forehead, the concern in her eyes. “Now then, dear heart, what do you need from me?”

  “I’ve thought about this at great length.” She reached into a foldpocket in her swirling skirts and withdrew a honey-gold lump of amber wrapped with gold wire. “You gave me this pendant years ago. With all that’s happening in the world and the baby growing inside me, it is time for me to spend this.”

  Hale remembered the day he had given the promise to her, the day she had become a woman. He had explained what might be expected of her, as the daughter of a prominent Utauk chief. He had planted dreams in her, promising her good fortune and a great legacy, but when she held out the amber promissory pendant now, he balked. “Let’s not be hasty, dear heart. I am your father, and I will always love you. But this can only be claimed once.”

  “Once, yes, and the time is now. I vowed to my Starfall.”

  Hale remained reluctant. The talisman was a promise between father and daughter, a symbol. She could use it to claim any favor from him, at any price. The Utauk tribes did not take such things lightly.

  “I’m determined,” she said.

  “You always were determined.” He stroked her brow with his good hand. “So beautiful, surpassing even your mother. Adan Starfall didn’t stand a chance when you made up your mind to have him.”

  “You still think it was just part of a scheme,” Penda said with a sniff.

  “It was a scheme, whatever else you think. We discussed it in great detail—that you would find him, lure him, seduce him. You did what I asked, dear heart. In fact, you’ve done more than I asked. I never thought you’d succeed so well.”

  “You taught me not to do anything I don’t want to. It was my choice to marry Adan. I love him.”

  Accepting the amber pendant from his daughter, he sighed and slumped back among the cushions. He cupped it in his palm, rolling it back and forth. “What do you wish to spend this on?”

  “It’s for me and my husband.” She hesitated. “And for all of Suderra.”

  “That must be quite a wish.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “Just as I am now part of this land, wedded to the king and in the line of Suderran kings, my husband is a part of the Utauk tribes by marrying me.” She looked at him defiantly. “Do you deny it?”

  “I can’t fault your logic.”

  Penda knelt beside him like the sweet daughter he remembered. She folded his fingers over the amber pendant in his hand, forcing him to hold it tightly. “If the wreths are returning, then there can be no secrets. No secrets at all. We have to do this, Father.” Her brown eyes met his, and she pressed the amber pendant harder against his palm. “I want you to tell my Starfall everything.”

  17

  ALTHOUGH Empra Iluris had thwarted further construction on the Magnifica temple for decades, the priestlords continued their work underground, unseen. The temple was already far larger than any outsider suspected. Loyal acolytes had constructed underchambers and vaulted containment areas for Ishara’s most powerful godling. They would never let it become weak.

  The hidden chambers were also used for other secret activities. At the moment, Priestlord Klovus’s gaze was intent on the group of men trying to kill one another. His attention did not waver.

  The six fighters were barefoot, stripped to the waist. Sweat and oil slicked their golden-brown skin. They carried no weapons, not for this part of their training. No Black Eel needed more than his body to kill or maim. Each one of the elite assassins was himself a living weapon.

  Klovus watched the candidates, assessing them. The underground training chamber echoed with the smack of flesh against flesh, hard blows into knotted muscle, an outburst of breath from exertion, a hiss through clenched teeth. But never a hint of pain. the priestlord’s eyes followed the blur of their movement. These duels had already winnowed down the best fifty to thirty, and these new ones were nearly ready for full deployment.

  Though he was not easily impressed, Klovus knew the capabilities of these killers and was satisfied by what he saw. Black Eels. Nightmares incarnate, quick as shadows and as deadly as rumors. Among the common people, they were known only in whispered stories. No one but high-level priestlords had ever seen Black Eels; even their victims rarely saw them coming.

  Once, Empra Ilur
is had asked Klovus about the mysterious assassins. “Tell me, Key Priestlord, do these Black Eels exist?” The woman could be sweet and cooperative, hinting at just how strong their alliance might be, but he knew she didn’t share his vision for an invincible Ishara.

  Klovus had responded to her question with an innocent and curious look. “Black Eels, Excellency? How do you even know that name?”

  “Because people love to talk.” She pressed, “Now, do they exist?”

  He waved a hand, flashing his many rings. “The people make up stories to amuse their drab and difficult lives.”

  “Yes, they do … and sometimes they are correct.” She offered a sweet, poisonous smile and repeated, “Do the Black Eels exist?”

  Recalling a dismissive comment Iluris had once made about the godlings, Klovus finally answered with an obsequious smile, “If you believe in them, Empra, and if the people believe in them, then in some fashion they must exist.”

  Of course, the Black Eels were quite real, and Klovus controlled them.

  In the vaults beneath the unfinished Magnifica, the six candidates attacked in a melee of blows with fists, elbows, knees, feet, and shoulders. Each fighter defended himself perfectly. These trainees followed no rules, because in real combat there were no rules—only life or death, skill or failure. Each Black Eel had the goal of defeating all the others. Sometimes they squared off individually; other times they formed fluid alliances, four against two, three against one. They were not allowed to stop fighting until at least one of the six lay defeated or dead, but they were all so equally matched.

  For now, none of them would use magic, though Black Eels did have the ability to summon constrained bursts of fire or to harden parts of their skin into iron, making them impervious to a sword strike. Conversely, they could soften their skin like clay and make their features malleable. With intense concentration, they could shift their appearance to take on another person’s form. That skill proved useful when stealth, physical strength, and deadly weapons were insufficient.

  Black Eels were sworn from childhood to serve the priestlords and the godlings. To serve him. If only all the people in Ishara were so devoted …

  The stone walls of the chamber were adorned with both fearsome and benevolent aspects of the primary Serepol godling. He glanced at the images and could sense the presence and the power concentrated here.

  Most Isharans could feel godlings thrumming in their temples, but others had a much closer affinity to the entities. Such people were the ones drawn to serve in the priesthood, where they could commune directly with the godling.

  Klovus had felt the pull of the entities since he was just an acolyte, and after sacrifices he felt the power strengthen, the beliefs of the people made manifest. He rose in the ranks from acolyte to priest to ur-priest. He had managed the temple of the harbor godling, then rose to become priestlord of Serepol District. Finally, through his ambition and talent, because of his special connection with the main Serepol godling, he became the key priestlord of all Ishara.

  In order for their land and their culture to survive, each person had to make sacrifices. All the people knew it, and Priestlord Klovus became the recipient of their devotions and offerings. He was an energetic man in a very important position, and he had his own needs and appetites.

  Women petitioners offered their warm bodies, dedicating themselves to the Serepol godling—through Klovus. He had numerous lovers and more requests than even he could accommodate. He hated to disappoint anyone so eager, because it seemed disrespectful to the godling. Everyone had to give what they could as part of their sacrifice.

  Some of those women, particularly the young ones, were nervous and weepy, their bodies trembling beneath him. Some were bitter and resentful, young wives devoted to their sad-eyed husbands, but driven by desperation to make sure their prayers were heard. Klovus reassured the guilt-racked wives that love for a godling was entirely different from love for one’s husband, even though it might appear to take the same physical act. Klovus actually preferred the reluctant ones, for when those women gave themselves to him, he knew that the price meant something to them. Sacrifices could take many forms, but they had to be felt as sacrifices in order to strengthen the godling.

  Others behaved like whores, giving themselves with wild enthusiasm, using their hands and mouths in ways that never failed to surprise him. When they had proved their sheer devotion, Klovus would bless them, promising to do what he could to achieve their requests, though the godling often worked in subtle or intangible ways.

  He also received young boys as tender offerings. Even though such pleasures were not to his tastes, he felt it was not fair to deny them. The people offered whatever they could, and some families only had young boys. He remembered the first time an angry father had presented him with a shivering and dull-eyed boy, no more than nine years old. “Take him and have your way, then give us your blessing.” When Klovus had tried to brush them away, fury flared in the father’s eyes. “Who are you to question our devotion and our sacrifice to the godling? Are we to be damned because we have no daughter to spread her legs for you?”

  Realizing the truth of the statement, Klovus reminded himself that he was the godling’s representative, and it wasn’t his place to judge or decline a sacrifice. That was what the people believed. What if the godling wanted this?

  The father had roughly shoved the boy forward. “I’ve already broken him in for you. He knows what to do.”

  And the boy did.

  While he reveled in such physical pleasures, Klovus needed other tools to build up the power of Ishara. Such as the Black Eels.

  The cadre of assassins trained under his general guidance. These six were among the most competent Black Eels, but new recruits were always being tested beneath the district temples. Children were taken from the streets, pressed into service, and put through a trial by fire. Barely one in ten survived to this point.

  As they fought each other, he tried not to fixate on the Black Eels as individuals, because so many died in the process. In this excellent group, though, he did know the one named Zaha, who was perhaps the best of the trainees. Zaha had thick black hair and bushy, dark eyebrows that could easily be altered through his camouflage magic. He fought against the other five, not as their commander, but as simply one other trainee.

  The Black Eels broke into three one-on-one fights. Zaha and his opponent were equally matched, meeting blow with blow. Even such remarkable speed and skill, however, took on a certain monotony after half an hour.

  Then, Zaha’s opponent faltered, missed a block, and Zaha landed a hard fist in the middle of his face, breaking his nose with an audible crunch. In a blur, he pushed his opponent backward into the two adjacent fighters. Interrupted, they turned upon the new enemy, instantly joining forces against the weaker opponent. Vek, Klovus remembered. The injured man’s name was Vek.

  The three pounced together, driving Vek to the hard stone floor. The man, already gushing blood from his smashed nose, raised his hands in a blur to defend himself. One of the other Black Eels caught Vek’s arm and drove it hard against his knee, snapping the arm at the elbow.

  Even then, the fallen Black Eel did not let out a grunt of pain. The second fighter began raining hammer blows on Vek’s ribs and kidneys. Zaha grabbed the man’s ears, lifted his head, and with a sharp crack, snapped his neck.

  Exhausted, the three stood, looking down at their work. The dead assassin lay on the floor, his face covered with a wide splash of scarlet blood. The other dueling pair also stopped their fight, and the remaining Black Eels turned to face Klovus.

  Vek had been trained for years, and it seemed like a waste, but by his own requirement, the elite group could include only the best of the best. The training was also a winnowing, and that particular Black Eel had failed. With one gone, now the rest of them could move forward.

  Zaha glanced at the blood staining his knuckles, and wiped it on the cloth wrapped around his hips. “We are Black Eels,” h
e said, in a deep, dead voice. “If we can be killed, we should be killed.”

  “You lost one of your number,” Klovus said, “but the rest of you have gotten better. Elevate more new trainees from the other groups and harden them as quickly as possible. I don’t know how soon I might require your services.”

  Especially if Empra Iluris continued to be problematic.

  He departed from the underlevels of the Magnifica temple and decided he would accept a sacrifice this evening from the pretty female supplicants who came to worship.

  18

  THE terrified warhorse galloped along the forest paths, racing away from the unnatural, bitter cold. Hunched over Storm’s back under the dense silver pines, Kollanan rode as far and as fast as he could, but after a time when he heard no sounds of pursuit from the shaggy white mounts, he realized that the wreths had let him escape. They simply didn’t consider him a worthwhile threat.

  His tears had long since dried, but his heart was consumed with grief and anger. Koll clung to his exhausted horse, staring into the distance of memories that swirled with the now-silenced laughter of Tomko and Birch. He remembered the boys playing with their toys, squabbling as young brothers did, then quickly forgetting the feud. Jhaqi would chastise them, but in a good-natured, patient way, and have them play with other boys their age. Her husband Gannon had been a calm man—too calm, Koll thought, because he didn’t get angry even during town council meetings. He wondered what they had thought as the malignant blizzard swept over the town, killing every person at Lake Bakal. Because they were in the way.

  The warhorse carried him toward home. Koll lost track of time. He was in a hurry, yet he dreaded telling Tafira what he had seen. All those poor, good people …