by Susan Faw
Chutzpa had stood back, confused. If this was a robbery, why did they leave behind the box of coins? If it was an attack motivated by revenge, then why leave behind the seals? You could write your own execution order and cast a replica of the emperor’s seal, he mused. His gaze lifted to the tracks that disappeared over the next hill, headed in the general direction of the Citadel. He stood still, thinking, then ran back to his wagon and turned the mule back toward his cabin. He arrived just before the sun reached its zenith in the sky. He hid the beekeeper’s purse under the floorboards of his cabin for safekeeping, but the royal seal and the wax he placed in a pocket of his coat. An hour later, he was on Fire Dancer’s back with bulging saddlebags stuffed with clothing and food, and a blanket roll tied behind his saddle. Something was wrong. Zax had been taken. He was sure of it. He had been following the trail ever since. Never once had he caught sight of the wagon. Until now.
His first challenge had been to cross from the verdant farmlands of Tunise into the Citadel proper and then sneak across the bridge into Shadra. The Citadel guards were not above bribery, but the price had been exorbitant and it had taken him a week to raise enough coin gambling in the inns to pay off the guard. By that time, his brother had been missing for over a month. Not for the first time, he cursed himself for not bringing some of the coin he had stashed at the cabin. It would have been a loan, not theft, yet at the time he had not even considered taking any of the money.
He had watched the sun rise and set, day after day, chafing at the slowness of its crawl through the sky, while he waited for the taverns to open, anxious to get back to the card tables and fleece the needed coin from the pockets of willing victims. Finally, with pockets stuffed full of coin, he’d crossed into Shadra, but the delay had cost him the chance to recover his brother from the men who had taken him. The trail had gone cold. Once in Shadra, he’d picked his way carefully through the villages, asking careful questions and sifting the responses as he went. He was a stranger in a strange land, and the Shadrian were naturally suspicious of his motives. At first, his questions had been answered with shrugs or point blank hostility, but as he moved further into the province, he heard whispers of remote villages being emptied of all their people, especially the youth. Only the elderly were left behind. With no other leads to follow up on, he travelled to the remotest villages that were accessible only during the cold winter months due to the permafrost in the ground.
His arrival was greeted with silence. No living soul remained to note his presence. The collection of buildings had been protected by a rough wooden palisade, but this had formed no barrier to the attackers. The village had been set ablaze and half of the town had burnt to the ground, pushed by a fierce wind before the fire had run out of fuel. The eerie silence reminded him of the beekeeper’s hut. He’d searched the ruins, but once again, he couldn’t find any bodies in the debris. Where the villagers had gone had been a puzzle that he had traced all the way to Pangolin, and the filthy wagons ahead of him.
A thrill of excitement ran down his spine, as he patted the sweat-slicked black neck of his mount. Finally, he was close to discovering the truth about the frequent train of wagons that passed to the sea. This time, he had a live caravan to follow and so he would. At its terminus was the answer to not just his question of where his brother had been taken, but one that involved all the people of Shadra. One way or another, he would discover the truth and when he did, he would also find his brother.
Or die trying.
Chapter 7
The End of the Trail
CHUTZPA CRAWLED THROUGH THE DENSE BRUSH to the sharp ridge that separated the tundra from the sea, tumbling down a steep incline to the valley floor. The main road snaked down the precipice, winding back and forth across its face. He could pick out the wagons that he pursued by the cloud of dust kicked up by their passing. They rumbled along about three-quarters of the way down the hillside to the base where the road leveled out for its final dash to the sea.
He could not see where they were headed, but whatever their destination the location was meant to be kept secret for the ridge was heavily guarded. Patrols roamed the summit in pairs, watching for intruders such as himself. He had been alerted to their presence when the caravan had been stopped at a checkpoint. He’d nearly stumbled into their grasp. From that point on, he’d secured his nervous stallion in a sheltered wood and proceeded on foot. His journey was much slower than the caravan’s as a result. They had gained several hours lead, but at least he could pick them out from his vantage point.
The sea glittered in the late-day sun, a sparkling ribbon reflecting the heavy disc as it sank toward the horizon.
Maybe an hour’s worth of daylight left, he mused. It would be easier to move under the cover of darkness, but he was not sure he could make out the path despite its width. The trail markers would be easily missed, and he could walk right off the cliff face. If he left now, he could make it to the valley floor, but he would be exposed and easily spotted by the arrow-wielding guards watching for unauthorized movement.
Chutzpa craned his neck to look to the right and then to the left. The curved semicircle of cliff was sheer but rocky. It was scalable if someone really wanted to climb it, but going down would be easier than climbing up. He would have to make a series of descents that would take at least a day. It was an option but dangerous. His eyes raked the path once again, and he spotted the hut. About halfway down the face, a wooden guard station had been built into a rocky depression on one of the few flat sections. It was a circular structure, obviously built by foreigners, as the style was not one common in Shadra. But it was very common in Tunise. Someone from his home province had built it; of that, he was certain.
He rolled onto his back. So? How does that help you? Chutzpa could not answer his own question. The only three possible ways into that valley that he could see were to be travelling as part of that mysterious weekly caravan or to scale the face of the rock in plain sight of every archer on the cliff or to tackle the path after dark. Tonight was a moonless night, and the road would be black. But tomorrow was the first quarter, and although weak, the moon might just shine enough to illuminate the path.
The plan of action settled in his mind, Chutzpa pulled out a packet of jerky and tore off a piece of the dried meat with his teeth while he watched the cliff and the movements of the guards. He intended to know their routine, patterns, and numbers before he started down that trail. Getting into the valley might be the easiest part. What he would find there and the status of his brother would bring a whole new set of challenges. The challenge will not be getting in but getting out.
While he ate, he counted men, scratching marks onto the soft inner surface of a piece of bark with a sharp stone to tally the numbers, then as the sun swelled in anticipation of its final plunge into the ocean, he stood up and eased back into the bush, settling a circular path back to Fire Dancer. He would ride back to Pangolin Town to gather ropes and the other supplies he needed for a rescue and return by nightfall.
Chutzpa swung into his saddle on Fire Dancer’s back then set his hooves on the road that would take them back to Pangolin Town. It would be halfway through the night by the time he arrived at the stables, but Zeal slept in the hayloft and would wake when he entered the barn. He could count on the lad being there. He’d have a quick nap then rise in time for the opening of the long house supply store that stocked essentials to travelers. Zeal might have some rope hanging around the place too, for that matter, he mused. He clucked to Fire Dancer, urging him to increase his pace. They had a few minutes before the descent of total dark when he would be forced to slow or risk injury to his mount. But between now and then, they could make up some distance.
He rode swiftly down the path, Fire Dancer’s quick gait carrying them further away from the coast. As they passed out of the woods and into an open field divided by the stone roadway, he felt a strange tug on his right sleeve. He shifted in his saddle craning his neck to see what had pulled on his coat
when with a thwack, an arrow slammed into his side, under his shoulder blade. The arrow passed straight through up to the fletching and protruded out through mid-center of his chest from under his arm. Chutzpa gasped with pain and slumped into his saddle. He squeezed his knees against Fire Dancer’s sides and wrapped his fingers in his mane as Fire Dancer bolted into a terrified run. A second arrow nicked Fire Dancer’s ear. His horse screamed, bounding for the safety of the trees. Chutzpa gritted his teeth and let him have his head, no longer able to guide him.
Fire Dancer raced through the shadows, veering off onto a path that led away from the road, carrying his gravely injured rider away from danger and from their attackers. It was all Chutzpa could do to hold on as Fire Dancer swerved around a boulder. He swayed violently in the saddle, and the weight of his body snapped the shaft. With a gasping, cry of pain, his vision narrowed and darkness descended. He did not feel the impact of his body as it struck the ground. He rolled off the trail and dropped several feet onto the ground below, his limp body tumbling to a stop under a sheltering overhang of tree roots.
Chapter 8
Fallen
MARSAI LED HER GREY-FACED MARE, SOURIS, across the fog-shrouded surface, matching her mare’s swaying gait stride for stride. They made no sound as they passed over the softened moss of the bog, their feet cushioned by the fuzzy emerald surface. Even in the harshest winters, this section of bog retained some life, heated by vents of steam that rose from an active vein of lava deep below the surface. The Birchless Bog was a beautiful sight to Marsai. Life teemed all around her.
Marsai had lived in the bog all her life. It had been a quiet life, until recently. She preferred the isolation of the swamp and actively guarded its borders by placing spells and enchantments around the exterior, warning her of intruders. The excursion today had been to gather giant fiddle heads and the reddish button mushrooms that grew on the ancient birch stumps of the long-perished forest floor. She’d been fortunate today. Several bulging bags were tied to the horn of her saddle as proof that the gathering had gone well.
She left the main path to take a shortcut back to her home. This route passed quite close to the main road and was one she didn’t like to use as she shunned contact with other Shadrians, but her moccasin-shod feet struck out on the path despite her well-reasoned wishes. She had learned to listen to the unspoken urges of her feet. They had not led her astray so far. Her feet carried her up a short hill, leaving the harvest grounds behind her, shrouding her in fog from head to toes.
The path climbed toward the road, the fog sliding away with the added height to expose their feet once again. She heard the rustle of a night creature as it moved out of the way, but that was not what caught her attention. Souris’s ears pricked forward, and she snorted a warning, her nostrils flared as she tested the air. The fog stirred, carrying the tinny, cloying scent of fresh blood to Marsai’s nose.
“Something is injured ahead? Is that it?” She patted the mare’s nose then slowed her steps, listening for the telltale noise that strangers who were unfamiliar with the swamp made as they crashed and splashed through the underbrush of the bog. But she didn’t hear any noise.
Whatever is ahead is not moving, so it must unconscious or dead, she thought as she allowed her nose to guide her.
She crested a second small hill and saw a silent meadow. The road curved through it, an intersecting ribbon of dark grey through the tall grasses. She kept to the bush line, not exposing herself to the empty space that she knew was watched by the sharp eyes of spies and guards who controlled the road. Marsai melted into the shadow of a thick tree trunk as movement caught her eye. Two figures walked out of the woods on the opposite side of the field on a parallel course to Marsai, their voices carrying on the still evening air.
“He must have fallen nearby. That was a killing shot if I ever saw one. Speared him like a fish, I did.” The tenor tone of the man’s voice bounced over the softly swirling fog, his excitement reflected in the rising pitch. “You saw it. Best shot ever,” he boasted.
“If it was the best shot ever, there would be a corpse lying at our feet. Where is he, Wills?” The woman’s cutting voice dampened the youth’s enthusiasm.
“But…!” Wills began, but the woman silenced him, her voice as sharp as a guillotine.
“Enough! Find the man!” she snapped.
Their voices dropped below audible range. Marsai did not move until they moved out of sight. So the wounded creature is a man. Marsai’s eyes focused on her moccasins, and she willed them to find the one they hunted. A tingling spread into her toes. When she took her next step, her moccasins turned her back into the woods she had just left, guiding her feet toward the one outcropping of rock to be found at the edge of the marsh.
She called it Toe Rock. Shaped like a big toe, the boulder stuck out of the hillside. A tall sycamore tree perched on its surface, digging deep into the hillside and trailing exposed roots that spilled over the surface of the rock like strands of tangled hair. As she rounded the nail of the toe, Marsai stumbled over a real foot lying at its base. She dropped the reins of her mare and knelt down beside the body. She could barely see the outline of his form, which was likely why he had not been found by his attackers. The roots of the ancient tree hung like a curtain over the exposed base of the rock.
The man’s dark clothing merged into the shadows. He was lying on his stomach, still as a corpse. She reached around with her right hand and placed it against the jugular vein at the side of his throat. A steady thrum of blood pulsed under her fingertips. Not dead, but unconscious. She ran her hand down his back, encountering the sticky patch of blood that soaked his clothing. The rough end of the shaft of the arrow protruded from a hole in his tunic, where it had snapped off during his fall.
Marsai straightened then froze as she heard a shuffling sound. Her mare’s ears flicked forward once again and she whinnied. An answering whinny sounded from the brush, and a horse stepped out into the open. The saddled gelding nosed the man on the ground, sniffing him then snorted. The horse whickered as though telling the man to get up.
Marsai approached the gelding and placed a hand on his bridle. “Good boy,” she whispered, then turned him so that he was slightly downhill from where his owner lay on the hillside. She tied his reins to a bush then bent to haul the man into a sitting position. He moaned, but that was the extent of his awareness, even as she dragged him over to the waiting horse. She leaned him over the horse’s neck then dragged his one leg over to straddle the saddle. A quick search of his saddle bags provided a length of rope that she tied to his feet and looped around the belly of the animal. She bound his hands around the horse’s neck in a similar fashion. By the time she had him in place, she was breathing heavily.
She crept back up the hillside to be sure the searchers were not within hearing distance. All was silent as her eyes roved across the clearing. Satisfied that she was not being observed, she tied the reins of the injured man’s horse to her saddle and led all of them deeper into the swamp.
She would care for the man’s wounds until he healed. And then she would question him about his presence when everyone else stayed away. There was something odd about his clothing, and she figured he was not a native Shadrian. What would bring a stranger to Shadra?
It would take a couple hours to reach her home. She whistled and a cloud of fireflies rose from the wet moss like a mini tornado and floated just in front of her, lighting the way.
Chapter 9
Dragon Attack
SHIKOBA, SARCEE, AND OBSIDIAN reached the location of the Shamankas’s hut as dawn broke the sky, but there was no hut to be found. All that remained of the home and barn that Shikoba remembered visiting as a child was a deep, black pit. Long scorch marks plowed the ground undimmed by the passage of time. As they wandered through the remains of the hovel, other battle markings became apparent. The broken bones of a chicken coop littered the ground, somehow having escaped the inferno that had reduced the house to ash. Shikoba ran to
the edge of the pit where the house had sat facing the barn, where the heat had been the most intense. Shikoba fell to her knees to peer down into the open crater.
“Oh no, this cannot be!” Shikoba wailed. “Marsai cannot be dead!”
“The Shamankas would not be caught this way,” said Sarcee, his voice firm and assured. “She is too crafty and smart for that. Do you really think an enemy could catch her flat-footed like this?”
Obsidian raked her claws through a pile of blackened debris to disturb the char and then took a deep sniff. This damage was done by one of my kin. It is a dragon attack. It is also old. Maybe fifteen or more years ago. It is revenge for being outsmarted.
Shikoba sat back from the edge of the crater, surprise flashing across her face. She drew her focus back to the dragon. “Fifteen years ago? That long? Are you sure? How can you tell?”
Obsidian licked the ashes by her feet. It has a stale taste. There is no more fire in the ash. Dragon fire lasts for a very long time. It doesn’t burn out even when it looks to have died. It can live on below the surface waiting to rekindle. Your world is too fragile to withstand dragon fire. It burns too easily. It is not sturdy like Jintessa. Dragon fire in Gaia would turn your world into a living hell. All life would perish.
Shikoba got to her feet, and shivered. “Who would risk dragon fire here? Fifteen years ago would make it just after I left Gaia by Gaia time reckoning.” She paused, mulling over the timing. She felt the weight of accusing eyes, glaring at her out of a distant past. She shook off the feeling. “Who would want the Shamankas dead that badly?” A third thought followed on the heels of the second. “Are you saying there are dragons on Gaia now?”
Sarcee crumbled a handful of ash between his fingers, watching it fall back to the ground. “I think Obsidian is right. This devastation was caused by dragon fire. We long suspected that the dragon eggs were stolen by a Djinn. What if that Djinn is hiding here on Gaia? I think we have our evidence before us. The dragons have hatched.” Sarcee dragged his toe through a scorch mark. All life had been burnt from the soil.