Spine of the Dragon

by Kevin J. Anderson

  The warrior lounged against the side of her throne, stroking Onn’s hair. She ignored him while she continued to dabble, raising her ice figures out of the floor. Beside the image of Kur, she fashioned a strikingly lovely wreth woman and told the story like a puppet show.

  “The part of Kur’s creation that he loved most was the woman Suth, my ancestor.” Onn smiled wistfully. “How could he not? She was the most perfect woman he had made, and Suth’s beauty must have been nearly equal to a god’s. Kur took her as his lover, showing her a passion unlike anything the wreths had ever known.”

  Rokk’s eyes sparkled. “She could not have been as lovely as you.”

  Onn alternated between being pleased with his persistence and being irritated by it. She focused instead on the sculpture of her great ancestor, the ancestor of all frostwreths. She adjusted Suth’s nose slightly, made the cheekbones higher, the chin more delicate.

  The little boy didn’t seem to understand much of what she was saying, nor did she expect him to. Her lips puckered into a frown. “Eventually though, for whatever reason, Kur took another lover, Raan, who was Suth’s younger sister.” With sharp exaggerated movements, she shaped a second young woman, whose beauty rivaled Suth’s. Queen Onn’s face twisted in a flicker of anger. “Raan tried to steal the god away from her own sister. The jealousy led to violence.”

  Onn bent her long fingers, and Raan’s frozen face distorted and shattered into fragments that tinkled across the floor. The warrior Rokk laughed in delight, and Birch let out a gasp.

  “Kur said that while both women could claim his love, neither could claim him as their own. But in their actions, he saw his error. Kur was a young, idealistic god, and his first world was flawed by dark emotions of hatred, anger, jealousy, violence—a reflection of fundamental flaws in himself. Kur’s own weaknesses were manifested, and amplified, in the wreth race he had made.

  “So Kur purged those defects from within himself, and out of them he fashioned Ossus, the great dragon that embodied all the flaws of a god, the darkness and poison. Thus purified, Kur knew he could have erased the world and made a better one, but he was too attached to his own creations … to Suth.” Onn pouted. “And I suppose to Raan as well. So he gave his people a chance at redemption.”

  Birch blinked up at her. Onn crossed one long leg over the other.

  “The world could never be perfect so long as it contained all his anger and violence, as personified in Ossus. If his children, his wreths, could destroy the dragon at the heart of the world, then he would take them away to a new paradise.”

  Rokk casually came around to the front of her throne and sat at Onn’s feet, leaning against her legs as he watched the sculpture show.

  “And then Kur vanished. He has not been seen for many thousands of years.” The boy continued to stare at the sculptures on the floor. “The wreths split into factions, those following Suth and those following Raan, who became the sandwreths. Their hatred for us was as pernicious as the evil embodied in Ossus himself. The followers of Raan meant to destroy us so they could have Kur to themselves. They did not wish to share paradise.”

  When Onn huffed, tendrils of cold steam curled out of her mouth. Birch looked up at her, as if she had blown smoke rings for his amusement.

  Before she could finish her grand tale, a small figure entered the throne chamber, one of the silent drones that served the wreths. It was gray skinned and humanlike, its features flat and crudely formed. Drones were poor imitations of even the human race, which the wreths had created so long ago when their power was strongest, but because the land’s magic had been wrung dry, Onn and her mages could no longer make creatures as sophisticated as humans. Now, in these latter days, such drones were the best the frostwreths could fashion.

  Perhaps she could learn something from this human child who sat cold and hungry on her dais.

  In meek servitude, the drone walked forward with a tray bearing small bowls of food, which he offered the queen and Chief Warrior Rokk.

  “I assume you are hungry,” Onn said to Rokk.

  “I’m hungry for your love, my queen.” He sprang to his feet and gallantly snatched the tray from the drone’s hands. “But we can dine first.” From one of the plates he plucked fleshy, spiced lichens that grew within the cracks of the glacier.

  “Feed the boy,” Onn said. “He needs to eat to stay alive. Since you bothered to preserve him, let us see if he can be useful to us.”

  “I should feed him?” the warrior asked in disbelief, then snapped at the drone. “Feed him!”

  The drone handed one of the dishes to Birch, and the boy stared at the food for a few seconds, as if it might be some kind of trap, then ravenously devoured it.

  The drone quietly turned and walked away across the frozen floor, avoiding the translucent carvings of Suth and Kur that rose from the tiles.

  Onn watched the diminutive creature. It served adequately, like all the others, but drones were interchangeable and disposable. When it reached the middle of the floor, she worked her magic, shaped the ice, and the head of the dragon rose silently behind the drone and opened an icicle-fanged mouth.

  Birch dropped his plate with a clatter. The drone turned, then looked up in dismay as the Ossus sculpture plunged down and swallowed him before withdrawing down into the ice of the floor, as if it were a deep lake. It disappeared beneath the mirror-smooth surface.

  Onn chuckled as she melted all the figures to leave a placid pool that froze solid. She glanced at Birch. “Did you enjoy that, child? Have you learned your first history lesson?” The wide-eyed boy didn’t seem to know the answer she wanted. She explained, “Once we eradicate the sandwreths, the daughters of Raan, we must slay Ossus to eradicate evil and violence from the world. Then Kur will return and bring us with him to paradise.”

  “It may still take a long time,” Rokk said.

  “Then we should start now.” She lowered her voice to a whisper, like the cold wind playing music around the towers of the frozen palace. “Oh, Kur must be a perfect lover.…”

  Rokk stroked her arm. “In the meantime, you have me, lovely queen.”

  “A poor substitute.”

  Birch sniffled again, tugged on his blanket, and hunkered down to wait.

  Rokk kissed the side of Onn’s face and ran the tip of his tongue along the scar her cousin had inflicted. “I will do my best, lovely queen.” He made it clear that he was no longer interested in history or legends, and after a few moments, neither was Onn.

  20

  LONG after dark, Konag Conndur basked in the comforting presence of the stars. It had been two days since the thunderstorm, and only a few puddles remained on the gazing deck of Convera Castle. The stars twinkled like ice chips overhead. Normally he felt refreshed and clear minded up here, but tonight his thoughts were heavy as he tried to look for answers. The stars were bright lights, other worlds—supposed paradises created by the old wreth gods. Conn didn’t know if he believed those ancient stories.

  He lay back on the padded bench with his arms at his sides, and stared upward. He could imagine falling into the sky. The adjacent bench remained empty. No matter how many times he brought Mandan up here, the prince complained about the cold, the late hour, the waste of time, unlike Adan, who had always shared his fascination with the stars.

  One dark night when Adan was fifteen, the two of them had spent hours in companionable silence watching a meteor shower that slashed across the sky. One particularly bright line of flame was accompanied by a shrill whistle and a popping noise before it vanished. Shortly afterward, Prince Adan had declared his choice of epithet—Starfall—and had never changed his mind. After his younger son became king of Suderra and traveled to the far side of the Commonwealth, he and his father exchanged frequent correspondence, full of wonder, speculations, and ideas.

  But the letter Conndur had received today brought disturbing and perplexing news. Why, after thousands of years, would the ancient race return from the depths of the desert? S
andwreths. Queen Voo. Names and events from those half-forgotten wars seemed like nothing more than children’s stories. The wreths had nearly destroyed themselves in their attempt to kill the mythical dragon—and each other. They had wounded Ossus, driven it deep underground, then battled themselves into near extinction. The surviving humans had spent two thousand years rebuilding the land, never imagining the wreths would come back.

  Adan would never make up such a tale. He was not prone to undue alarm, did not cringe from thunder and lightning.… According to his letter, the sandwreth queen warned that the human race should prepare for a great war, even hinted at an alliance. How great a crisis was this? How many wreths were there?

  But how could the konag worry about legends and vague warnings from the far side of the land when Osterra was under direct attack from Isharans and their godlings? The heinous raid on Mirrabay was just the latest in a string of incidents that included skirmishes at sea, warship sightings from the Fulcor Island garrison, innocent Commonwealth trading and fishing vessels gone missing. The real threat to the three kingdoms was obvious.

  Conndur could barely control the rage of his own vassal lords, and the people on the coasts were terrified of the raiders. Lord Cade, nearly apoplectic about the danger to his people high on the northern coast, had already used his own saltpearl wealth to equip a private standing army.

  But … wreths? Conn found his son’s report as intriguing as it was unsettling. As konag, he should arrange to meet with sandwreth emissaries, even if he had to travel all the way to Suderra. But first, he had to rebuild Mirrabay and defend against further Isharan attacks.

  Wreths! What could it possibly mean?

  * * *

  Convera Castle stood high on a wedge-shaped bluff above the confluence of the two great rivers. The Bluewater poured down from Norterra, wide enough to accommodate barges and cargo boats for great distances. The wilder Crickyeth River flowed out of the Dragonspine Mountains, the rugged boundary between Osterra and the other two kingdoms in the Commonwealth.

  With fertile farmlands all around, the city had built up along each river and filled the wedge of land in between. The defensible bluff between the joined rivers rose more than two hundred feet at the point, with sheer cliffs plunging down to the water. The castle had stood above the ever-growing city for more than a thousand years. A warren of passageways, reinforced storerooms, prison cells, and armories ran throughout the bluff beneath the castle proper.

  Utho knew of other secret chambers down here, used for darker purposes. Someday perhaps he would show Prince Mandan, if it became necessary, but not today. He had promised Conndur he would teach the prince more about the harsh realities of leadership and warfare.

  Utho led the reluctant young man into the winding passageways inside the bluff. The tall Brava carried a crackling torch, ducking to avoid the low ceiling, while Mandan held a small lantern, impatient with the walk, which took him away from his other interests. “Why do we need to look at all the stored weapons? We haven’t used them in years, and nothing has changed.”

  “The political situation continually changes. The Isharans are always out there, always wanting to kill us. Remember Mirrabay. Never assume defenses are as strong as you expect. I’ve sworn to protect you, and the Commonwealth, but I cannot do it alone. In order to be a good konag, you need to see all this, and learn.”

  Mandan ducked under an even lower stone ceiling at an intersection of tunnels. “I wanted to finish my new painting today. It’s Lady Surri, another girl they want to make me marry.” He frowned with disinterest.

  Utho nodded solemnly. “I understand, my prince. Sometimes we have love, and sometimes we have duty.” He had truly loved Mareka, his human wife, but he also had a responsibility to keep the Brava bloodline strong, and he had other children he would never know. “Flesh, blood, and heart are different things. We do our best to satisfy all three.”

  Mandan reluctantly accepted what his mentor had to say. “Someday I’ll decide.” He suddenly smiled as an idea occurred to him. “Maybe it would help if I painted Mirrabay and the godling, so others can see the horrors the Isharans inflict on us. If you describe all the blood and death in detail, I can capture it and make everyone afraid of the Isharans.” He sounded eager now, interested. “I’ve never seen a real battlefield.”

  “Be thankful you did not see it with your own eyes. Mirrabay was beautiful at one time…” Utho remembered when the sun would rise out of the eastern sea, and the light shattered into bright beams and reflected into the town. He held on to the beautiful memory, then put it away, refusing to let the Isharans ruin that image for him. “We have to be ready if those animals come here to the Confluence.”

  Mandan swallowed, as if he had never imagined the possibility.

  Utho stopped at a thick door, removed an iron key from a pocket, and turned it in the lock. “If we are ever attacked, my prince, you need to know what weaponry the Commonwealth has. Someday you might have to lead the armies yourself.” Extending his torch, he stepped into an enormous chamber with rough ceilings supported by pillars at regular intervals. “This room alone contains enough steel to equip a marching army.” The yellow light reflected off countless metal blades, tarnished with age. “Five hundred swords right at hand, with another thousand in additional chambers throughout the bluff. We also have fortified armories distributed across Convera City.”

  Interested despite himself, Mandan followed Utho. Holding up his lantern, he paused to look at a rack that held ten upright pikes. “These are all leftover from my father’s war, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, the thousand ships brought these weapons home from Ishara after the death of Bolam, and they probably left as many behind in enemy corpses.” Anger tightened his chest, but Utho couldn’t deny his satisfaction at the thought of countless dead Isharans. He looked in a barrel filled with assorted armor components and made a mental note that these would have to be cleaned, repaired, sorted. “We have helms and shields, spears, maces, war axes. Other rooms hold thousands of fletched arrows and quarrels, quivers, longbows, and crossbows.”

  Mandan picked up a heavy weapon. “And a battle hammer, like the one my uncle Kollanan used.”

  “Each weapon has a precise name, a specific use, a particular method of training. You need to learn them, and I will teach you. Harden you.” When Mandan looked overwhelmed, Utho added quietly, “But not all at once. We’ll start simply.” He led the prince back out of the armory chamber and locked the door behind them. “Come to the overlook. It will give you a greater perspective on how defensible Convera is.”

  Utho went to the outer walls of the bluff to a large barred window, from which they could look down the cliffs to the rivers below. Mandan rattled the iron bars, fascinated by the long drop. “Are these bars meant to stop invaders? No one could climb all the way up from the river anyway.”

  The prince was still quite naïve, which was all the more reason for Utho to direct his training. Any Brava could scale these cliffs if necessary, but he did not point that out. “There are thirty more such openings up and down the bluff, guarding both rivers. From up here, defenders could hurl boulders, rain down arrows, and cast fire on any enemy vessels that came up the Joined River from the sea.” His nostrils flared as he drew in a long breath. “The day I see Isharan ships sail up the river, I’ll know that we Bravas have failed the Commonwealth.” His hand drifted to the gold band clipped at his side, letting a finger stray across the sharp points that could draw blood.

  Mandan looked down. “You’d protect us with your ramer. You’d save me.”

  Utho removed the spell-etched metal band, held it out. “A Brava should use his ramer only when needed.” The prince’s eyes widened, but he seemed afraid to touch the cuff. “We are alone here, my prince. Let me show you what we can do. A Brava does not draw on the fire lightly.”

  He fitted the gold band around his wrist and clamped it tight. A bead of dark red blood welled up from the sharp golden teeth, and a fringe o
f flame ignited around the rim, fed by the fuel of his magic and the anger in his blood.

  As Mandan backed away, Utho extended his anger, and the flame grew, wrapping over his hand as he straightened his fingers, forming a far brighter torch than the one he carried into the tunnels.

  “Many humans have wreth blood of varying degrees. Our creator race took human lovers, especially in the latter years of the war when they needed to breed more fighters. After countless generations, many people across the land don’t even know they have wreth blood.”

  “But the Bravas know,” Mandan said.

  “We remain as pure as possible, half-breeds as strong as our first generation. Bravas can use some wreth magic, which we have adapted into something entirely our own. In particular, this.”

  Utho lifted his hand and watched the bright flame sear the air. “The gods created wreths, and wreths created humans, but wreths never acted as our benevolent creators. We were nothing to them, but they are long gone … and we remain. We’re on our own, my prince. We live our lives and make our legacies.” The ramer brightened, its flame extended. “And unlike the Isharans, we don’t create those abomination godlings. Our race already has everything we could need.”

  The coiled energy was difficult to control, and the blade extended longer. He thrust his blazing hand through the bars, where the ramer fire could snap and thrash outside in the open air.

  Concentrating on his hatred for the Isharans, who had killed his family and soiled the history of the world, Utho extended the fire into an incandescent whip. Far below, riverboats drifted down the Bluewater, and he could see tiny figures on the deck, pointing up at him.

  Mandan was brave enough to reach out and touch his arm, intrigued by the dangerous weapon. “Why do we need that if the Commonwealth isn’t at war?”

  Utho came back to himself, drawing his arm back inside, and letting the ramer blade die to a flickering ring around the band. He extinguished the flame and unclipped the ramer from his wrist, where blood still oozed out of the wounds. “We may be at peace, but one can hope that won’t always be the case.”