Shatterwing: Dragon Wine 1

by Donna Maree Hanson

  Professional whores painted themselves that way. Drunken, stupid patrons could aim their darts better when the target was red, so the saying went. When her parents had been negotiating to sell her to the baron all those years ago, they’d taken her to a brothel. That was the alternative they gave her—slavery to the baron or slavery to a pimp. She’d chosen the baron because the sight of the whores sickened her. Breasts leaning out of low bodices with large, dark red nipples on dusky skin; legs propped up on bars revealing equally red, moist slits. Ugly red lips smiling false, acerbic smiles.

  Bitterly she cried into the dirt. She was more lost than she’d ever thought possible. She’d stepped blindly into a trap and done something more useful to the Inspector than tending the vines. She’d shown him there was a way out.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Friends

  Salinda had no sense of time passing. The Inspector had not come to gloat. Her scalp hurt. That bastard Ange had torn out patches of her hair as he pumped his foul seed into her. For the first time, she wanted to end someone’s life. A wave of anger possessed her, seeping into the core of her. Alone in that dark, damp place it was easy to picture revenge, it was empowering to do so. Yet, if she did the things she imagined, what would she be, what would she become? She knew the answer: the very essence of what was worst about humans. Mez had taught her better than that. With superhuman effort, she gently let the feelings of revenge and the taste of bloodlust slide away so that they were no more than a bitter aftertaste. She didn’t want to become like them. She was better than that.

  Peering into the gloom around her, she noticed the embers no longer glowed in the fire. The brand stood at an angle, leaning against the rim of the kiln door. She tried to block out the memory of it, yet the smell of smoke grew stronger, tainted with the reek of her burning flesh.

  The trapdoor flew open. Leaning forward to see what was happening, she was in time to see Ange near tumble from the ladder, burning his hands as he slid down the rope. The Inspector followed after him, his boots punching into each rope hold with deliberate accuracy. Ange didn’t spare her a second look. His face was grimed with soot, his clothes singed in spots and his eyes looked wild.

  The Inspector lit more lanterns and the room filled with orange-red light. He was calm, unconcerned and dressed in his usual shirt, neck cloth and clean breeches. Turning to her he snapped, “In that chest you’ll find clothes. Put them on. Naked slaves attract too much attention.”

  When she looked at her shaking and weak hands, she realized that she had been unbound all that time. Her body was slick with sweat. The emptiness she felt was not only despair, but hunger. Hesitantly, Salinda glanced over at the chest. Could she even move? At first she crawled, whimpering with the pain that movement caused. Then when she had that under control, she stood, wavered slightly, limped over to the steel-bound chest and opened it. Looking down, she saw that her body was caked with filth.

  “May I wash first?” she asked the Inspector, who was casually examining a collection of spears in one corner.

  “There’s water in the bucket over there. Be quick about it.” In the light she couldn’t tell if the water was clean or not. Shuffling numbly over, she began to sluice the filth from her legs. The water was cold. She rubbed herself down with her bare hands, wincing when she splashed water on her burn. Her arm was a horrible sight. The skin was puffed and mottled, the brand mark blackened with her blood. It hurt, too, more than all her other aches and pains.

  Ange’s breathing became agitated. She tried to put him from her mind while she snuck a drink. “We must flee, Inspector,” the guard said. “The rebels will be here soon.”

  “Shut up, you fool! You, Salinda, get dressed quickly. We must leave now.”

  In the chest was a pair of breeches and a man’s white shirt. Salinda carefully pulled the shirt over her head; even so the cloth brushed agonizingly against her brand mark. While she tied the breeches, she noticed that her red painted nipples showed through the fabric. There were no shoes to be found.

  The Inspector called her over and handed her some bread and cheese. Without a word, Salinda took the food and hastily ate it. The food was gone before Salinda’s hunger was sated. Looking up, she noticed the Inspector hefting a spear, testing its balance as he tossed it up lightly in one hand. In his other hand he held a bottle. “Take a sip of this. It is a special concentrated brew of dragon wine. You need to be fit and it will give you strength. We’re leaving.”

  Salinda hesitated. The food and water had made her feel marginally improved. Dragon wine would ease her aches and pains and bring real and deep healing. She didn’t understand the nature of the brew he was offering, but as it was sourced from dragons, she saw no harm in it. To her eyes it glowed faintly pink in the bottle. Brill had mentioned a blue tinge to the liquid the Inspector had fed him. Was there more than one type of liquor? After taking a swig she gagged. It was almost pure spirit. When it hit her stomach she doubled over, seized by an incredibly painful cramp. Gasping breath after breath, there was a rush in her blood and in its wake a surge of euphoria overlaid her brain.

  Nothing seemed to matter much after that. Thoughts dimmed, emotion waned. Pain was a distant, physical sensation. She even smiled when the Inspector grabbed her roughly to him. “Listen, Salinda. From now on you’re my slave. You will do as you are bid—one deviation and you’re dead. From now on you call me Master, Master Gercomo. Say it.”

  “Master Gercomo,” she said, and smiled again stupidly. She knew she was saying it, but on some level she simply didn’t care anymore. A tiny, powerless part of her mind knew that the brew had disconnected her from her will and the cadre.

  “Good.” He hefted the spear again and called to Ange, who sweated profusely and could barely keep still. As the disgusting pig of a guard turned at the Inspector’s call, he absently wiped at the dripping perspiration on his forehead and cheeks, accidentally smearing more soot across his face and mingling it with snot. His eyes widened when he saw the Inspector and he barely squeaked before jerking backward as the spear took him in the chest, killing him instantly. Salinda flinched at the impact, but found that she was unmoved by the guard’s death. Without sparing the corpse another look, the Inspector draped a heavy cloak over her shoulders before donning a vest himself and placing a couple of flasks in the pockets. Then he hooked a coil of thin rope over his belt, along with a small sack of food.

  “Come with me. We must use the other exit. No point in being tracked from here.”

  Salinda glanced back at Ange’s body. “Why did you kill Ange? I thought he was your friend.”

  The Inspector laughed at her. “I have no friends—what are they anyway? Scum who’ll use you for nothing, betray you the first chance they get. Ange was a tool. One with a mouth. I can leave no one behind who knows of this place or where we are going. I can’t stay here and give my friends, my rebel friends, an opportunity to remove me. I have counter plans to ensure all goes well. Call me Master again. I like the sound of it.”

  “Yes, Master.” Gercomo—his real name, she suspected—grabbed her and steered her toward the rear of the underground storeroom. There was a pathway between the barrels. The further they trod the lower the stacks became until only one barrel would fit below the ceiling. Here they had to crawl until they reached what appeared to be a dead end, a wall covered with a rough cloth. Gercomo pulled it aside, revealing a wooden barrel end behind it. It looked like a buried wine barrel but it wasn’t. Bits of earth hissed to the floor when the Inspector pried it loose. Behind it was the gaping maw of a tunnel.

  “You first,” he said.

  Salinda stared at the tunnel, which was too low even to crawl through, and balked. A flicker of annoyance passed over Gercomo’s face and he shoved her head-first into the tunnel mouth. “Go now.”

  The dragon liquor had shrouded her mind in fog, and she found it difficult to focus. Inside the tunnel the darkness was stifling. Dirt laced the air and clung in her lungs. Her master held her ankle
. Every time she crawled forward, she had to pull him with her. Soil hit her shoulder and head in clumps. She had to blow it off her face so that it wouldn’t smother her. The tunnel inclined sharply. With all her strength, she clawed her way through the loose dirt, shovelling it behind her.

  Her master clenched her ankle and shook it. She guessed he didn’t like dirt being heaped in his face. She tried to be more careful. Slowly she moved, even though her head felt light. She was panting lungfuls of stale air through her mouth. Then the tunnel leveled out again. She imagined that they traveled parallel to the surface.

  Vibrations, possibly of dragon’s feet landing, reverberated around her, causing more soil to pour down like sand through a sieve. She could barely move. Again her master tugged on her leg. She sped up, frantically crawling against a rising tide of dirt. The sides and roof of the tunnel began to collapse. She could no longer move forward. Would she die now? Funny how unmoved she was by the thought. Dirt filled her nostrils and her mouth. She stopped crawling, the weight of the earth making it impossible to move. She lay there and let darkness take her.

  *

  A slap across her face drew her to painful wakefulness. Her head thudded, making it difficult for her to gain her bearings. Her master straddled her as he thumped her chest. She coughed out dirt. “Stupid bitch. Nearly got us both killed. Why didn’t you just stand up?”

  Salinda kept coughing, sucking in the air. They’d come out in the paddock behind the shell of the distillery. Smoke hung heavy in the air. When her vision cleared, she caught a glimpse of red, glowing vines and the lick of yellow flames. No one stirred. The sound of dragons on the wing neared. Gercomo covered them both with her cloak and held his hand over her mouth to mask her persistent coughing. The wind from the wing beats rippled the cloak and then receded.

  Salinda watched the dark shape of the dragon fly away. The last of the dragons had left, leaving the vineyard a wasteland. “Why?” Salinda dared to ask. “Master, why did the dragons destroy the vineyard?”

  The Inspector grinned, a sight full of menace. “Because the rebels attacked the hatchery and the dragons attacked us in retaliation. Just as I planned they should. They are clever beasts, I’ll grant them that.” He pulled her to her feet. “You will summon your dragon now.”

  “Master, I cannot,” she said flatly.

  His hand grasped her throat, pulled her to him and squeezed. “You will summon it, now.”

  “I want to, Master,” she answered thinly, holding his hand to stay the pressure, “but I can’t …” She realized she’d nearly blurted out something about the cadre and had to find another excuse. Meeting his gaze, she said, “I am unable to summon Plu here in the vineyard. This is not his territory.”

  The pressure on her throat eased, though the clenched anger in his face did not. He glared into her eyes, seeking a lie. If he asked her again, she was sure she would tell him about the cadre, because the elixir was like a drug, filling up her mind. But he looked away. “Damn. We’ll have to risk the plain for a bit. Can’t stay here. My friends, the Infra-pact rebels, are likely to move in shortly.”

  From his pocket he extracted a flask and drank down a mouthful. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and re-stoppered it. His gaze met hers again. “This is my little secret … What I gave you was an experiment gone wrong. Yours is tainted, warping your will and making you my slave in every way.” He tapped the flask in his pocket. “This is pure and the effects are quite exhilarating.”

  Outwardly, the effects of Gercomo’s brew were different. He didn’t double up in pain, just shuddered once, and his flesh took on a pale sheen.

  Gercomo unhooked the thin cord from his belt and made a noose. “A slave must have a lead.” He looped it round her waist and tugged it tight. “We’ll make for the rock circle where you summoned Plu previously. It’s too exposed to call him there, with the vineyard laid waste, but it’s a good place to set off from. At least the terrain will cover our tracks and, hopefully, the beasts are sufficiently sated from eating so many humans, they’ll think nothing of us. In the meantime, you work on a way to summon that dragon or I’ll personally feed you to the next one we stumble across.”

  “Yes, Master.” She followed along about four paces behind, which was as far as the lead would allow.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Dragon Essence

  The air was close and damp, providing no relief to Salinda’s already overheated skin. Gercomo yanked on the rope relentlessly and never looked back, dragging her as they skirted the outer rim of the vineyard. He could have been dragging a corpse. Each time she missed her footing and stumbled, the rope around her waist tightened. Yet she found it hard to care about any of it. Her feelings were numb, dulled by the brew he had given her.

  With each step she took, however, the grip of the tainted liquor lessened. Drawing the back of her hand across her top lip to wipe away the accumulated sweat and dirt, something kindled within her battered body—anger, fear, and the full brunt of the pain snaking through her. A shake of her head, and she was more in control of herself. Next, a wave of emotion washed over her—rage at what Gercomo had done to her and the gullible way she had taken that sip of tainted liquor.

  Taking in her surroundings, she realized they were not too far past the circle of rocks where she had summoned Plu. Time was distorted. It felt like she had been walking for days, but it could not have been that long. Climbing over the rocks to the spot where she had called Plu, she took one look at Gercomo’s expression and knew what she had to do. The cadre was unreachable, separated from her drug-warped mind. She called to Plu, and even though the words had a power of their own, they were flat and dry like the plains before her. Without the cadre, it was difficult to propel her summons; unless Plu was close by he wouldn’t hear her. She waited for a response, and after a few minutes, she realized he wasn’t going to come to her aid. “He is not responding to me. Perhaps the dragon essence changed my voice.”

  “Try again or I will kill you.”

  Salinda tried again, hot tears flowing down her cheeks. She was a failure, and because of her the cadre would end. Gercomo was going to kill her and there was nothing she could do. Despair welled up inside her. Still Plu did not respond. She tensed, waiting for the killing blow. Unexpectedly, Gercomo laughed. “Little slut-slave. Look at you quivering. You sicken me. I’ll give you one more chance. Come on.”

  With a hard tug on her lead he led her on, further skirting the ridge beneath the dragon hatcheries. Even though she followed him, she felt less inclined to call him Master with each breath she took, as if each exhalation removed his hold on her, freeing her piece by piece. Her pace quickened. Breathing hard, rational thoughts assailed her. She would attack him from behind. Her gaze flitted about as she sought a good weapon, a fist-sized rock. Anything. Suddenly the rope went slack. Before she could register what was happening, Gercomo grabbed her from behind and pressed his forearm tight against her throat. The way he pinioned her meant she could not struggle without cutting off her air.

  Then came the onslaught of pain as the vestiges of the tainted liquor left her body. Free of the essence, she hurt, by the source how she hurt! Breathing through it, she tried to think of how she could get free of him, if only the pain would lessen.

  “Time to administer the elixir, I think.” He unstoppered the bottle. She tried to hold her mouth shut and threw her head from side to side to keep the liquor from her mouth.

  He tightened his grip on her throat. “None of that. Drink it or die. I care not.”

  Her vision grew dark. She was losing her grip on consciousness, so she held herself still and parted her lips. One small mouthful and once again she bent over in agony, falling to her knees and sucking air into her lungs. Then the blood rush came and almost obliterated her senses. She abandoned herself to the sensation. For a fleeting moment she felt all-powerful, and then she didn’t feel anything anymore.

  Gercomo was content to wait while the liquor took effect. From where she lay
on the ground, Salinda noted that he scanned the vineyard, searching for something. Wisps of smoke gyrated in the breeze. As she crawled to her feet, she saw the humidity thicken before it misted and gelled into rain. There was a gnawing emptiness where the cadre’s presence had once been.

  As night approached and brought with it a heavy storm, Gercomo sought cover in an alcove of rocks, enough to conceal them from the dragons and provide some shelter from the rain. It was unbearably hot in the space he found. He sat with his back against the rear boulder for support. Tugging the rope, he drew Salinda in after him. “Don’t move an inch,” he hissed at her.

  Huddled by his booted feet, the rope so tight around her waist she could barely move, she served as a barrier against the rain. Any dragon that chanced upon them might claw her out of the alcove without ever noticing that Gercomo was there. Although she was bone weary, the liquor in her veins and her crouched position prevented sleep.

  Her wakefulness allowed her to observe Gercomo, who was also watchful and alert. Her legs began to cramp, and as she tried to ease her muscles, she unbalanced and accidentally touched him. His skin was cold and its texture was different, unnatural. Instinctively, she pulled her hand away. Could that be—?

  “Afraid to touch me … afraid to wake me?” he said and then laughed, and she heard bitterness in it. “You know I’ve survived five revolutions in my time. I’ve used and been used by powerful men in turn. Look at me now, surviving yet again, with a pitiful whore to help me on my way.”

  Near dawn, when the rays of the sun imbued the landscape with pale mauve, he pushed her out of his way so he could climb free of the alcove. When she didn’t move fast enough he lashed her with the end of the rope. Fending him off with a raised arm, she shuffled away from him on her behind.