Heart of Shadra

by Susan Faw

  Do not forget who your master is, growled Casper in return. It echoed along the bond to the tiny spot nestled in his mind that he knew to be the female Djinn named Damas. When she caught up to them, he would go over her obedience training once again. It was her duty to keep Mica under control at all times. If she failed him now, there would be punishment.

  They flew in silence for a while, then Mica opened her thoughts again. Have you ever considered that the emperor might not have shared all of his plans with you?

  Casper did not respond. Instead, he rolled his shoulders to ease the tension building there, the itch that confirmed his need for action, ignoring the question. “Can you still sense the foreign dragon?”

  Yes, she is on the same course but has slowed. I think she may be circling the area where they intend to stay for the night, said the dragon.

  “Fly as close as you dare. If you are certain they are halting their trip for the evening, then I want to go to the village of Schom, located on the Salt Road. I have an agent there who is recruiting for the mines. Take me there.” Mica swooped closer to the ground and sped up, checking the trail of the rebel dragon.

  Chapter 5

  Jinnaga

  SHIKOBA KNELT BY THE FIRESIDE, stirring the fading coals of the small fire over which their dinner had been warmed. They had chosen a copse of trees at the end of a stone-fenced pasture, where several shaggy sheep with heavy winter coats scratched through the crust of snow. They nuzzled the ground in search of non-existent dormant grasses. They would not be far from their barn, and by evening, someone would collect the strays, which meant that they were within an hour’s walk of the Shamankas’s home, provided that the sheep belonged to the Shamankas. Shikoba rummaged through the pack at her side and pulled out a bag that tinkled in her hand. Obsidian’s head rose and she sniffed the air. She was reclined under the tallest tree, curled up like a dog, her snout resting on her tail. She sniffed again, hopefully, and rumbled deep in her throat.

  “Yes, I know you are hungry,” said Shikoba aloud, “but we must make this bag last. I will mix it with the elixir. It will be difficult to obtain more here in Shadra.”

  Maybe these salt mines you speak of will have some edible deposits, thought Obsidian. My favourite is the spicy heat of lava. It is well seasoned.

  Shikoba laughed, as she pulled out a second bag and poured some of the grey powder into a large wooden basin. She added water from her water skein and then reached inside the smaller bag and withdrew a handful of shimmering gems. She put them in the bowl and stirred, all the while speaking the words she had been taught. Three stirs to the right, one to the left, repeat. After seven repetitions, she added a bit more water. Then she took the bowl to Obsidian, placing it down in front of her, and stepped out of the way. The dragon lifted her head and belched a blast of flame over the bowl. The fire licked all around the offering, and it swelled before their eyes to the size of a cow. When Obsidian ceased breathing on the bowl, the wood had disappeared and a giant faceted crystal sat before the dragon. Obsidian settled down beside the gem and scraped her teeth across the surface, breaking off chunks to chew. With a shattering sound and grinding it between her teeth, she ate. Contrary to what most people thought, dragons did not eat meat. Their favourite food consisted of the basic building blocks of magic: the elements of earth, wind, fire, water, and spirit. Gemstones combined many of those elements in their purest form.

  Shikoba returned to the fire and stirred the contents of a black pot, which contained a mix of grains cooking in water with a pinch of salt. Satisfied with the consistency, she ladled out their evening gruel, mixing in some dried fruit from her pack. She handed a bowl to Sarcee and then put a kettle over the remainder of the coals to heat for tea. Shikoba lowered herself onto a log and blew on the hot food. Her stomach rumbled in anticipation. The sweet concoction brought a smile to her lips as she shoveled a spoonful into her mouth, savouring its warming journey into her belly. She polished off the contents then placed the bowl down on the ground beside her before rummaging in her pack once again. Locating the parcel that contained the clues for their journey, she withdrew it and spread the contents out on the ground in front of her, examining them by the waning light of day. She was drawn to the gleaming, fragile bones. She picked up a knuckle, examining it. They were hollow and lightweight, lighter than they should be for a land animal.

  “I think these belong to a bird. See here? They are hollow inside.” She held up the bones to Sarcee, inviting his evaluation.

  Sarcee took them and examined them closer. “They might be from an aquatic beast, too. I have seen bones like these wash up on the shores of Jintessa.”

  “Really?” Shikoba leaned in closer to look at the bones in Sarcee’s hands. “What beast is that? It must have a name.”

  “We call them sea dragons. They are thought to be a watery cousin of the drake.”

  Shikoba pondered the bones. “Humans do not venture into the waters around Gaia. They are said to be infested by monsters. All who venture out onto the seas perish. This is partly why you do not see humans in Jintessa. They cannot cross the cursed seas. The Shadrian have stories about the monsters, though. Legends, really. No one cares to prove if the monsters exist or not.”

  “Ignorance is never wise,” said Sarcee. He handed the bones back to Shikoba. “We can ask the Shamankas tomorrow what she knows of these things. Perhaps she can read the runes on the parchment or point us to someone who can.”

  Shikoba turned over the small bones in her hand, then set them aside. She picked up a slender one that was a different shape than the others and held it out to Sarcee. “Do you think this bone is from the same creature?”

  Sarcee examined the greying bone, holding it up to one eye. “It is opaque. Very fragile. I do not know, Shikoba. It might be. But I don’t think so.”

  All of the bones are from the king of the seas, confirmed Obsidian. It is a wingless cousin to the dragon. We call it a jinnaga, a sea drake, said Obsidian.

  Shikoba’s head came up, and she pinned the dragon with a look. “There are other types of dragons? You kept that quiet.”

  I was still finishing my dinner. To emphasize the point, she snuffled around in the dirt, searching for any slivers she may have missed of the crystal treat.

  Shikoba ignored the thought. “So do you have anything else to add to the conversation?”

  The dragon moved her shoulders in their equivalent of a shrug then thought, The drakes keep to themselves. They live in the deepest waters, waters that would extinguish the flame of my kin. We do not spend time with them because our habitats are so different. Sea drakes, sea dragons, it is all the same. The dragons of the sea have many different names. But they are intelligent, I can tell you that much. Oh and they have multiple heads.

  Shikoba’s eyes widened in surprise. “Multiple heads? How can that work?”

  They do not seem to have a problem with it, said Obsidian.

  Sarcee chuckled. “You will never lay eyes on one, so you need not fear, Shikoba. They live at the deepest levels of the seas. Humans cannot survive in that depth of water. Sea drakes rarely come to the surface. In fact, I think the only reason they come to the surface is to spawn.”

  “Really?” asked Shikoba, curious. “They are air breathing?”

  “They lay eggs, similar to aerial dragons. Sometimes they will seek out caves above the water to lay their young. But yes, they can survive on the surface, too. They choose to live in the depths of their watery home,” said Sarcee.

  Shikoba sat back and sighed. “Now, that would be amazing. I would love to see a sea drake. Do they breathe fire, too?”

  Sarcee shook his head. “No, they do not breathe fire. They breathe lightning. Great flickering bolts of energy. Their whole body will light up when they are fully charged.”

  “Oh! That must be beautiful!” said Shikoba, her imagination caught by the mental image shared by Obsidian.

  “And deadly. You are warned to never be in the presence of an angr
y jinnaga. It will be the last thing you ever do.”

  “Well, I am not likely to meet one, am I?” Shikoba wrapped up the parcel and returned it to her pack. “We should get some rest. I want to be at the Shamankas’s home at first light.”

  As they settled down for sleep, Shikoba’s thoughts relaxed into musings about the Jinnaga. She faded off into slumber, her dreams filled with soaring sea drakes and giant jellyfish, all flying through the air to land on the shore, a great hoard of invading sea creatures that suddenly grew land appendages and learned to talk. Her last thought while drifting off to sleep, was how she was going to feed them all.

  Chapter 6

  Pangolin Town

  PANGOLIN TOWN WAS A ROUGH, uncultured pimple swelled to bursting by too many miners and too many taverns. Wooden structures, slapped together into long houses, stood all of three feet apart along the entire length of Salt Road, the main thoroughfare. Muddy for half of the year and frozen for the other half, the passing wagons stirred up clouds of dirt that coated the front of the long houses with a grey crust of soil that changed into a sticky clay with the spring rains. The heavy triple-teamed wagons hauled raw salt ore in great iron-banded barrels to a crushing mill at the edge of town. A steady stream of wagons travelled the road during the daylight hours. Once the sun set, the wagons were abandoned in large lots to await their driver’s return at the break of dawn. Consequently, there were just as many stables as long houses, and it was difficult to tell the two apart, even by the smell.

  The salt mill was located on the only watercourse to pass through the area, named the River Brine. The river’s head was located at the Lake Moa watershed, from which it departed on a long, meandering journey through Shadra to where it drained into the sea. As it approached the Forbidden Sea, its course took it through the middle of a series of salty marshes. The mixing of these two water sources created a prime habitat for the pangolins. Pangolins were pony-sized creatures armoured with thick overlapping scales as hard as stone that protected them from the elements and hunters alike. Beady, black eyes hid within sunken holes in a skull that ended in a long pointed snout. A pink whiskered nose decorated the end above a mouth from which a forked tongue flickered, constantly testing the air. Some believed the pangolins had sprung from the elements themselves and were simply animated rocks that breathed. The age span of a pangolin was unknown, but it was much longer than the average resident of Pangolin Town, and so it was named for them.

  There was no budging a pangolin. Its tough curved claws scraped away stone and sliced through frozen tundra with the ease of a heated butter knife. All who lived in the area gave way to the pangolin.

  That is, except for the tumbril.

  The tumbril was the lead wagon of the slaver’s caravan that came through Pangolin Town once a week. The tumbril did not stop for anyone or anything. The carriage was more iron than wood, a great metal cage on heavy wooden wheels as thick as the trees from which they were fashioned. Fastened to the metal rims of the six wheels were long metal spikes, like the teeth of a werecat, sharp enough to shave with. Spinning with deadly force, the blades cut down anything in their path. People had learned to clear the road long before the caravan arrived, and the rare pangolin that did not move out of the way bore scars to its shell. Even a pangolin was not eager to challenge the wagons. The caravan had but one purpose. To be on time, and it ran like clockwork. No one knew what cargo they carried or even their intended destination.

  The road cleared before the lead tumbril, which always passed through Pangolin Town precisely three hours before dark every day. Today was no exception. The caravan topped the final hill of the Salt Road and roared down its seaward face, gathering speed as it went. The caravan of two wagons rumbled into town, shaking the ground with their weight and setting the lanterns in the long houses swinging as though an earthquake rocked the land. This set off the pangolin, who snorted with annoyance and lumbered into a slow rampage. Their heavy feet added to the pounding, filling the air with a choking dust. The few shops with open windows knocked out the supports and the wooden shutters banged closed against the oncoming storm.

  Everyone stayed out of the streets until the caravan had passed through. There was no sense in watching them, and no sense in trying to speak to them. They never stopped. They never ate in a tavern nor gambled in a gaming den. No one had ever seen the faces of the drivers. They hunched over the reins, always shrouded, always hidden away from prying eyes.

  So when an agonized, piercing scream rose above the clatter of the wheels and the jangle of bridles, heads turned, drawn to the carriages as never before. As the lead wagon passed by the center of town, a hand emerged between the wood slats of the floor. Small and frail, the hand dangled below the carriage, its palm open in a soft plea for help. Just as suddenly as it appeared, it was wrenched back inside the wagon and the wail cut off abruptly. All eyes on the street followed the caravan as it rumbled past and left Pangolin Town behind in a swirling cloud of snow tinted brown with dirt.

  A man’s grim eyes studied the mysterious caravan through a haze of smoke that drifted up from the pipe in his right hand. He puffed a couple more times on the dwindling tobacco in the bowl, then tipped the contents onto the snow in front of him and ground the burning dregs under the toe of his boot. He pocketed the empty pipe, glanced at the height of the sun in the sky, and then pulled his hood forward, hiding his face from the curious as effectively as the passing drivers.

  He crossed the street to a stable and entered the barn, flipping a coin to the waiting stable boy who held the reins of his horse. Saddled and bridled, Fire Dancer lived up to his name. The stallion pranced, eager to leave the barn after several days rest in the last stall.

  The boy, his face full of awed reverence, backed out of the way of horse and rider, convinced that his hero was riding out on another grand adventure.

  “Are you going after the caravan, Chutzpa? Why do you not take other warriors with you? I could come with you. I am a good fighter. Watch this!” The boy picked up the pitchfork leaning against the wall of the stall and whirled it around his head. He ducked then jabbed the handle at Chutzpa as though the fork was a fighting staff and he an enemy to defeat.

  Chutzpa grabbed the handle in mid-air, the wood slapping against his calloused hand. Chutzpa was impressed that the tines of the fork did not impede him. “Very good. You have good dexterity.”

  “Can I come with you?” The boy grounded the pitchfork, excitement entering his voice. “It won’t take me but a minute to gather my things.” He ran over to a worn deerskin bag hanging from a peg. As he reached for it, Chutzpa’s voice halted him.

  “Not this time, Zeal.” The boy’s shoulders slumped in disappointment and his head sagged. “What I do today is too dangerous,” Chutzpa said as he placed his foot in the stirrup and swung a leg over Fire Dancer. “But, I can see a day, very soon, where I will need an apprentice.” Zeal’s head shot up, hope rekindling in the depths of his eyes. Chutzpa urged the stallion toward the open doorway, reining him tight beside the boy. “You will be my first choice when I return.” He dropped his hand onto the boy’s head, patting his sandy brown hair. “Soon.”

  Zeal nodded. Chutzpa touched his heels to the sides of his stallion and trotted out of the barn.

  He clattered down the frozen street, allowing his mount to pick his footing through the rutted streets, following the caravan out of town. Once clear of the buildings, he let the stallion have his head. His tail and mane streaming, the stallion ran after the caravan. The dust from the lumbering wagons soon filled the horizon, pinpointing their location long before he heard the noise of their passage. He reined in Fire Dancer at the edge of the tree line as he crested the hill, keeping to the shade. He did not want to be spotted by the caravan drivers. Each wagon carried an archer, who scanned the back trail and killed any who dared to chase the wagon train.

  Chutzpa had been following them for days now, ever since he had discovered their true route through Shadra. He was not born Sh
adrian, but of Tunise. And his interest in the caravan was personal.

  Three months ago, his older brother Zax had simply disappeared. Chutzpa had shared a four-room cabin with him that was set on the ridge overlooking the valley known as Bounty Glen. Orchards stretched as far as the eye could see. Chutzpa was a grower of apples, owning a quarter of the trees in the valley, but not Zax. He was no farmer.

  Skinny and nearsighted, Zax’s special skills lay in the creation of candles. Apprenticed to the old beekeeper who lived across the valley, Zax left at the break of dawn every morning and returned as the sun set in the west every evening. One night he did not return. Thinking that he had been delayed by an urgent order, Chutzpa went to bed, but when Zax’s bed was found to be empty in the morning, Chutzpa became alarmed.

  He hitched his wagon and drove their mule to the beekeeper’s hut, located in a flat, cleared area on the southern edge of the valley. As he crested the small hill, he saw a scene that shocked him to the core. The beekeeper’s hut had been destroyed by fire. The carefully tended hives had been tipped and trampled, broken beyond repair. All around the hut, the ground was churned with the hooves of many horses, and heavy wagon tracks led away from the destruction, their broad wheels flattening the grasses and leaving a clear trail.

  Bewildered, he had searched the grounds for a clue to the fate of his brother. He could find no sign of a body in any of the rubble. Shovelling through the charred pile of debris that was once the main cabin, Chutzpa’s spade struck a heavy metal object. Recognizing it as the beekeeper’s purse, he pulled the metal box out of the remains of the hut and opened it. The box was full of gold and silver coins. He flipped over more boards, finding other precious objects in the debris, such as fire starters and the emperor’s own seal mold, and boxes of the special wax and forms used to create seals for important documents. They were worth a year’s wages by themselves.