Spine of the Dragon

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “None of us is,” said Kollanan, nudging the horse forward. “It will get worse just up ahead when we see Lake Bakal.”

  Lasis sat tall in the saddle, his black finemail cloak hanging from his shoulders. His hand touched the ramer at his side. “And when we see the wreths.”

  Koll gestured with a gloved hand to where the road wound up to a high point. “Tafira and I always looked forward to crossing that ridge when we came to visit our grandsons. From there, Lake Bakal is a glorious sight, deep blue water surrounded by thick silver pines, and the town on the shore, fishing boats on the water.”

  As the horses topped the rise, Adan took in the expansive view of the lake, above which swirled a gauze of white wind. The deep waters were gray as metal. The boats were gone, crushed and frozen into the ice. The mountains beyond were barely visible due to blowing snow in the distance.

  “Ancestors’ blood,” Koll muttered. “That fortress is entirely new.”

  On the shore of Lake Bakal rose an enormous structure of stone and ice. Blocky defensive walls, support arches, and unfinished towers loomed high. Work crews moved about like ants, and even from this distance Adan could see that they weren’t human. Some of the wreths used magic, cutting ice from the lake, moving huge blocks of stone, dragging fresh pine logs. A large section of the lakeshore had already been denuded of trees.

  “That fortress covers much of the old town.” Koll glowered, not bothering to hide his anger and disgust. The muscles on the side of his jaw bunched. “The wreths told me that we were in the way. They said they could take whatever they wanted—and now they’ve done so.” He exhaled loudly, and steam curled from his mouth. “I will not let myself be swept aside because they decide I am in the way!”

  Lasis fixed his gaze on the construction site, as if calculating how many wreths he could slaughter if he ignited his ramer and charged in among them, but he came to his senses. “We will have to gather a vast army to drive them out. We can push them back.”

  “I wouldn’t even begin to know how to fight them,” Adan said, “no matter the size of our army.”

  As they stared at the wreth fortress, Storm snorted. They heard rustling branches, a crunching of snow behind them. The three men whirled to see movement in the underbrush, an elusive figure scuttling for shelter. It was a scrawny human dressed in rags and furs, with matted hair.

  Kollanan called out. “We won’t hurt you!”

  “Unless it’s a wreth spy,” Lasis said as he lurched after the figure. “What if we’ve been seen?”

  The rustling in the frozen scrub oak stopped. “I’m not a spy, and I hate the wreths!”

  Koll turned Storm about. “Come out and show yourself. I’m your king, Kollanan the Hammer. If you’re from Norterra, then you know me.”

  Lasis snatched a gangly young man out of the underbrush. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old. “I know my king!” the boy squeaked. “You’re Lady Jhaqi’s father. I did some work for town leader Gannon.”

  Koll felt heartsick. “You were from Lake Bakal?”

  Adan swung down off his mount, took off his heavy bear-fur cloak, and wrapped it around the miserable young man. “He looks freezing—and starving.”

  “B-both,” the young man said. He shivered. “And my face is dirty, too.”

  “What’s your name?” Koll asked.

  “Pokle. I was out here when the blizzard wall came. I saw the frostwreths, I saw the lake freeze.” He gasped.

  Koll said, “Keep your voice down, boy. Tell us what happened.” The Brava led the group deeper into the shelter of trees on the ridge.

  “I set my rabbit traps all around the lake, but that day I was just … just fishing, sitting on the rocks. I had two lines in the water, one pole in my hand, the other propped up between the boulders.” He pulled Adan’s furs tighter around him. “I thought the gray sky looked like snow, but not like any blizzard I’ve ever seen. I saw the wave come in, air so cold it shattered the trees. Wind and snow blowing, howling! Then the lake began to freeze, spreading from the opposite shore. It was solid ice!” He turned to Adan with a desperate edge in his voice. “I swear I saw it! Solid ice that spread across the lake, moving as fast as fire on dry grass.”

  Pokle seemed surprised that nobody questioned his fantastic story. “I scrambled away from the lakeshore just in time, and the ice froze my fishing lines solid. Then the snow came. I ducked into the bushes and felt the cold roaring around me. I huddled for hours, and when I climbed back out, uh—” His voice hitched. “The town was frozen. I never saw magic like that before!”

  “And you’ve been hiding here since then?” Koll asked.

  “I couldn’t go back home!” Pokle cried. “What was I going to do? I went to my traps and found three rabbits. I had enough to eat, and I used their fur to make hand coverings.” He held up his hands, which were wrapped in warm scraps. “It was a nice autumn day when it all started—I wasn’t dressed for cold like this.”

  Lasis regarded him curiously. “Why did you stay? With the town and the lake frozen and everyone gone, why didn’t you make your way to the road? Head south to Fellstaff, or at least one of the villages?”

  The boy glanced around wildly. “There are frostwreths here! They slip through the forests, and they’re always watching! How did I know the wreths hadn’t frozen the entire world? I found a hunter’s shack where I could keep warm, and I hid there. I was afraid to go out into the open. And then I saw you.” He looked from one king to the other, and a glimmer of hope lit his expression. “Did you come to fight the wreths? Are you going to drive them away?”

  “I don’t know yet, lad,” Koll said. “But we’ll find a way. This is my kingdom, and I promise I’ll keep you safe. Come back with us, where it’s warm.”

  The boy was shuddering. “Yes, please. I think … I think I’ve had enough of this place.”

  Adan interrupted, “This fight goes beyond just our two kingdoms. The Commonwealth is at stake. I wrote to the konag already—”

  “I wrote to my brother, too, but a written message will not convey the danger of the wreths.” Koll looked at him. “You and I must go see Conndur in person, Nephew. We have to make him understand how urgent this is.”

  33

  AFTER the Utauk tribal gathering, Hale Orr rode hard toward the coast of Osterra, where he hoped to find a ship. His overland ride was exhilarating and exhausting, but he felt the extra weight he had put on during his quieter—yes, lazier—life since his daughter had married Starfall. He had meant to retire from the nomadic life and watch Penda thrive alongside her husband. Now he had his own adventure.

  Dressed in colorful silks and riding a horse with a saddle studded with brass circles, Hale looked like any other trader, but the Utauks in Windyhead, the southernmost Osterran port, recognized him for who he was. The crimson and black and the family symbol on his leathers told others that he was a grandson of Shella din Orr.

  Walking out onto Windyhead’s longest pier, he waved to the crew of a two-masted trading ship, the Glissand. They were busy inventorying their goods: leather hides and fur pelts, packages of dried winterberries wrapped in oilcloth, small chests of dragonblood rubies and saltpearls.

  He spoke with the voyagier, a man named Mak Dur, who gave him a bow of respect. “We would be pleased to have you aboard, Hale Orr. If you join us, I’ll name you merchant captain.”

  “Cra, it’s been a long time since anyone called me that! I accept your offer, Mak Dur.” Hale traced a circle in the air, and the voyagier responded in kind. As merchant captain, Hale would not command the Glissand, nor manage the crew—that part remained under the purview of the voyagier, who was the real captain—but he did choose their destination. “Put on extra food and water because we have a long voyage. Instead of heading up the coast, we’ll turn east to the open sea. Our first stop will be Fulcor Island.”

  Mak Dur’s eyes lit up. “Ah, the watch station is due to be resupplied, and we are always paid well by the konag to support t
hem.”

  “But we will only pause there briefly.” After a moment, Hale continued, “I intend for us to sail the rest of the way to Ishara. I have important questions to ask in Serepol.”

  The crew muttered in surprise. They were not afraid to trade with the distant continent, but this meant they would be longer away from home.

  “Yes, that will be more profitable for us,” the voyagier pointed out. “I’ve had a crate of shadowglass packed in the hold for two months, but no priestlords to sell it to. This is a perfect opportunity.”

  Shards of the strange black material were harvested from ancient wreth battlefields. Hale himself wore a tiny chip of shadowglass in an ear pendant. Isharan priestlords paid extremely high prices for the substance, which allowed them to view their godlings.

  The next day, the Glissand sailed off from Windyhead with the villagers waving farewell. Utauk trading vessels were distinctive in design, with a wide-beamed hull, riding low in the water, and two masts with tan sails painted with a large circle.

  The open sea and bright sunshine were invigorating, and Hale Orr drew a deep breath of the clean air until he felt his lungs would burst. They headed toward Fulcor Island, a large bastion of rock at a strategic point halfway between the two continents. Fulcor was currently held by the Commonwealth, but over the course of history, control of the stone-walled fortress had shifted again and again like the marker ribbon in a rope-pulling contest.

  The Utauk tribes had always been neutral, willing to trade with the three kingdoms and with Ishara, but remained loyal to their own way of life. Other than its strategic importance, Fulcor Island was of little commercial interest, except for the fact that the garrison’s isolation made the soldiers eager customers. Commonwealth ships brought basic supplies as needed, while Utauk traders delivered other amenities, reminders of home, and they were always welcome.

  Hale faced the wind and let himself be lulled by the deceptive peace while he considered the dangerous reports from the Utauk network, as well as the unsettling arrival of the sandwreths. Isharans had their own magic, with godlings and priestlords. As far as he knew, wreths had never been part of Ishara, so it seemed unlikely they would have seen any sign of the ancient race on their shores, but he had to know what the Isharans were likely to do if an unexpected conflict broke out in distant Suderra. Given the stories of coastal raids, Hale feared that the Isharans might be gearing up for war, too. They held a historic grudge against the old world and wanted to strike back, which would be nonsensical and destructive to both sides.

  For more than a millennium, the wandering Utauk tribes had laid down a safety net of commerce, trading among all villages and towns and fostering the need for imported goods. Barely noticed, the ubiquitous traders knitted the fabric of dependencies together. Utauk ships filed no voyage plan and did not present their logs to any harbormaster on either continent, but they brought goods back and forth. It was the best way to promote peace between Ishara and the Commonwealth.

  Hale had no idea how to calculate the cost of a war with the wreths, though.

  * * *

  Two days into their voyage, the lookout spotted the gray outcropping of Fulcor Island ahead. It rose like a mountain from the water, surrounded by churning foam that marked reefs extending like claws around the fortress.

  Mak Dur consulted his charts, licked his finger, and thrust it into the air to caress the wind. “Exactly where we want to be.” He handed Hale a spyglass tube filled with focusing oil. With his good hand, Hale placed it against his eye and fumbled to adjust the runes. The twisting curls of oil brought the distant island into clear focus.

  Fulcor looked stark and uninviting. Other than fresh water, the island had few resources. Its value was primarily strategic because of its location between the two continents. The sheer cliffs merged into the gray stone wall of the squat and forbidding fortress. Even at high tide, waves foamed around the reefs, adding an extra angry line of defense.

  The voyagier took back the focusing glass. “We are approaching from the southwest, so we’ll have to sail around. There’s only one narrow, defensible harbor cove enclosed by high cliffs, which is on the north end. The reefs are more dangerous on this side.” Mak Dur frowned. “There have been recent Isharan coastal raids, so most Utauk trading ships stay close to the Commonwealth shores. We haven’t been out this far in months.”

  Still watching the island, Hale gasped and stepped closer to the rail, as if those few feet would make a difference in what he saw. “Cra, look—those are people! Over the cliff!”

  Extending his good hand, he took the focusing glass back from the voyagier and turned it toward the fortress. Black specks plunged from the high stone walls, flailing figures too large to be swooping seabirds. There were men and women tumbling from the fortress wall, either jumping or being hurled down into the gnashing water around the reefs.

  “Three more!” Hale kept staring, adjusting the optic oil. “Why are they jumping?” Four more bodies went over the wall and fell to their deaths. The swirling currents would quickly wash them away, leaving no bodies for anyone to see. No evidence.

  The voyagier grew serious and took the lens back. “Do we keep going? Is there a threat to us?”

  Hale spoke with confidence that he hoped was justified. “We are Utauks, and we bring much-needed goods. We are always safe.” He paused, then added quietly, “Cra, we have to go there and learn what we can. Something is happening here.” He unconsciously lifted one finger to make the sign of a circle in the air.

  While Mak Dur adjusted course, the sailors extended the tan canvas to make sure their Utauk circle was visible, so the Glissand wouldn’t be attacked by any Fulcor naval vessels. Their course avoided the danger of the reefs and took them away from the bloodstains in the water.

  34

  AS the wagon procession moved down the wide imperial road, jouncing over hard ruts, Empra Iluris rocked with the motion of her carriage. The high wheels seemed to magnify the bumps in the road, despite her plump cushions.

  The empra’s procession across the districts of Ishara was led by Captani Vos and twenty uniformed hawk guards in polished helmets and red silk capes marked with the coat of arms of her family, their family. Her newest adopted guards, Cyril, Boro, and Nedd, had joined the company, and Iluris saw the warm expressions on their faces. She believed that kindness and generosity were the surest way to earn loyalty. Fear also worked, though it was a far less certain method.

  The priestlords and their godlings drew strength from the faith of the people, but the people loved and revered their empra as well. As she traveled among them, she realized that as ruler she drew a certain kind of magic from the land as well.

  Iluris sat back in the carriage and watched the countryside roll by. Behind her, she could hear the clop of hooves, the rattle of wheels, and the jingle of fine decorative bells that sounded like a delicate rain of metal. Supply wagons and two other passenger carriages rolled farther down the line.

  On their way to the town of Olbo in the Dhabban District, Iluris took advantage of the blessed hours of silence to contemplate her own thoughts, rather than listen to Priestlord Klovus. Because she had invited him to join the procession, the key priestlord imagined that he had returned to her good graces, but she hadn’t forgotten his unsanctioned raid on Osterra. Klovus still basked in his victory, the fool. He claimed the tensions made the godlings stronger. Any day now, Iluris was sure a violent counterstrike would come from Konag Conndur and the Commonwealth navy, and then Ishara would be forced to respond.

  Reaching into a pouch tucked between the cushions, Iluris removed a bitter almond, bit into the furry green nut, and enjoyed the tartness. Upon starting her procession five days ago, her entourage had traveled in a great circle around the outskirts of Serepol. She listened to her people cheer, sent out the call for candidates to be considered as her successor, then rode away to the outlying lands. She would tour all thirteen districts, see the whole land, and be reminded of how her people had th
rived in the decades of peace.

  She had already crossed the districts of Ishiki and Salimbul, and now the procession rolled across the grasslands of Dhabban, where families wandered the open plains tending herds of sheep and antelope. The achingly green grasses stretched as far as she could see. The dirt road looked like a long, tan ribbon draped across the grasses. Captani Vos had declared they would reach Olbo before sunset, and Cyril rode ahead to prepare the town. There would be feasts, games, and exhibitions, and inevitably some people would make their case as to why they should be Ishara’s next leader.

  So far, she had heard interesting pitches from wily businessmen or grizzled old battle commanders who had fought in the last war against the Commonwealth. She liked some of them, but none seemed perfect, not yet. She wasn’t in a hurry, though. Dhabban was only the fourth district she had visited, and there were so many people, so many good people, in Ishara that she had no doubt of finding a worthy successor.

  The procession leader shouted for a halt, and voices called up and down the line. Iluris looked out the open carriage window and saw a twisted black tree that had been struck by lightning. It stood like a sentinel in the grasses, the only visible landmark on the plain.

  Captani Vos rode up on his dapple-gray horse, his armor, sash, and cape covered with dust from the road. “Mother, we can see the town ahead, and I wanted to give you warning, in case you need to prepare.”

  “Thank you, Vos.” Her legs and buttocks were sore, and she needed to relieve herself. “Set up the privacy pavilion for me, please. I should ride into Olbo refreshed.”

  Her hawk guards unpacked a bolt of blue silk, which they wrapped around a framework of poles stuck into the soft grasses. The empra entered her privy, while the men simply relieved themselves on the side of the road. Priestlord Klovus scuttled off into the taller grasses.

  She finished quickly, and the guards packed up her privy, ready to ride on as soon as she had situated herself. She was plumping up her cushions when Nerev, her lanky chamberlain, tapped politely on the door of her carriage. “May I join you for the ride into town, Excellency? I would like to discuss the list of candidates so far.”