Slave in the City of Dragons (Dinosaurs and Gladiators Book 1)

by Angela Angelwolf

  “You’ll have to sing from a distance,” Tol’zen said. In a blink, his hand held one of his restraints. He looped it around her wrists, lengthened it, and, despite her protests, proceeded to secure her to a low, metal loop on the wall. She slumped down on the floor, and tugged against the restraint. No use.

  “What if the night apes come back?” she asked fearfully.

  “Then we are finished,” Tol’zen said. “But you built a good fire, and they probably won’t get past the door.”

  He took his spear in hand and sat on the bench, leaning against the wall. He closed his eyes and immediately seemed to fall asleep.

  Pashera wept as she lay on the dirty floor. So much had gone wrong that day. And the monsters got worse the further she traveled from her home.

  Then she thought of home, and her mother, who must surely think Pashera was dead by now. Weeping and thinking tragic thoughts, Pashera fell asleep.

  Dawn peeked through the doorway when Tol’zen woke her. The fire still licked from the logs. Pashera was proud of that. It must have been hours since she built it.

  Tol’zen was worse for wear. He moved stiffly, but he did not seem to want her help. He pocketed his artificial lights, pushed the fire out the door, and then led her outside.

  All three ape bodies were gone.

  “Did they eat them?” Pashera wondered.

  “The small one, maybe,” Tol’zen said. “They’ll bury the others.”

  “Apes that bury the dead,” Pashera wondered if Tol’zen was having a joke at her expense.

  “They’re smarter than they look,” Tol’zen said. “Our problem will be tonight. Their new leader will come after us.”

  “Why?”

  Tol’zen shrugged. “Revenge.”

  Pashera snorted now. “Animals don’t take revenge.”

  “Night apes do,” Tol’zen said. “And there are tunnels underground where the Night Apes rule. They will track us even as we move across the surface.”

  They stopped briefly at the fountain outside the pylon. Pashera washed herself, and washed Tol’zen’s wound. She helped put a new bandage on it, made more difficult because Tol’zen refused to untie her hands.

  Looking at him, she could see his shoulder was only part of the problem. He also favored his ribs, probably damaged when the beasts pummeled him.

  But he was still as bossy as ever. He indicated to her that she should lead him, and they walked uphill, heading toward the Holy Mountain. The Home of the Devouring God.

  Soon, they came across a river. Beside the river, they found bushes ripe with fat berries; Tol’zen said they were safe to eat, and he and Pashera both gobbled berries by the handful. She with both her hands tied together. He ate with one hand holding his spear, watching the countryside warily. Insects swarmed, sharing their meal.

  After they ate their fill – or Tol’zen’s fill, anyway, they turned and walked alongside the river, again toward the mountain. Then the land rose, leaving the river behind. The insects became smaller, and their numbers thinned out as the pair of travelers wended their way further from the water.

  Tol’zen didn’t mention his wounds. But his pain was all too plain. He occasionally grunted, or breathed sharply. And he moved more slowly, more stiffly.

  ”You don’t have to keep me tied, you know,” she said. “Why would I run away now? You said yourself that the night apes will come after us.”

  “You went running straight into the jaws of Hrothrawl,” Tol’zen retorted. “Danger doesn’t seem to deter you.”

  “I got lost,” Pashera admitted.

  “Keep walking,” was all Tol’zen would say.

  His movements remained stiff and slow. Finally, Pashera saw something on their path that would help her help Tol’zen. She seized the opportunity.

  She sat down. “We need to rest,” she said. “Rest and I’ll help your pain.”

  Rather than argue, Tol’zen sat down heavily beside her. “Whatever you intend to do,” he said. “I’m not in the mood.”

  She plucked some herbs from the ground. “This is genezing weed,” she said. “The old men and women of my tribe use it to ease their stiff muscles. It makes aching muscles numb. You’ll be able to move faster.”

  He looked at her thoughtfully.

  “We passed a spring a hundred paces back,” she said. “I’ll need the cup you keep in your sash. Oh, and you need to build a small fire with that flame stick of yours.”

  He looked at her. “If you run …” he trailed off.

  “I won’t run,” she said. “Between you and the night apes, I choose you.”

  He half-smiled. “And they say I have no charm.”

  She took his cup and trotted back to the spring. She drank deeply from it, filled the cup, then walked back to him carefully.

  Tol’zen had built a small fire of grass and sticks. Pashera rigged a grate of sticks over the fire, then put the cup over it to get the water boiling. She looked around and found a right-sized stone. Tol’zen’s eyes flashed as she picked up the stone, but he said nothing as she put it aside and waited for the water to boil.

  “I’ll boil the weeds for a few minutes, then mash them up,” she said. “We’ll put it on your ribs and shoulder. You’ll see.”

  “How do I know your ‘medicine’ isn’t something to poison me?” he asked.

  She laughed. “I could brew you a cup of that dromen over there,” she pointed to another plant. “You’d be snoring in minutes.” Then realization hit her like a bolt of lightning.

  “We’re in somebody’s old herb garden,” she said. “The women of my tribe keep one like it.”

  Tol’zen nodded. “That makes sense. There’s an old wall 40 paces that way,” he pointed. And now that he had done so, she could see it plainly. “Probably an old farmhouse,” he said. “My people once had many farms in this area.” His voice sounded wistful again.

  “Keep an eye on the water, I need to look around,” Pashera said.

  In a few minutes she returned. She held out her hand. “Kalmeren,” she said, showing him bark she’d scraped off a bush at the edge of the old garden.

  “What’s it do?” he asked.

  “It takes away pain,” she said. “Just like those tablets you took. But don’t worry, it won’t make you sleepy.”

  The water was boiling lightly now. She put the kalmeren bark in the water and let it steep. After 10 minutes, she told him to drink the brew.

  Tol’zen sipped it carefully. “It’s bitter. Very bitter. Tastes terrible.”

  “Just wait and see,” Pashera said.

  When he finished, she took the cup and dashed back to the spring. She returned and put it over the fire again.

  “I feel better,” Tol’zen said suddenly.

  Pashera beamed.

  “Huh. Who’d have thought some musty old tree would ease pain,” Tol’zen said, stretching his arm gingerly.

  “There’s such a thing as too much kalmeren,” Pashera said. “So we’ll brew the genezing weed anyway. It will really help your shoulder.”

  In another half an hour, Tol’zen stood up. “It barely hurts,” he said, marveling.

  “Be careful,” Pashera said. “You can hurt yourself because you aren’t feeling pain. Now, I’ll need my knife.”

  He looked at her suspiciously.

  “If you want more kalmeren,” she said.

  He gave her the flint knife. She went and scraped bark off the bush. When she returned with more kalmeren and genezing weed, he put it in pockets of his sash. She added some dromen too.

  He let her keep her knife.

  “We must make up time,” he said. “We have a long way to go yet.” Then he thought to himself, his head cocked to one side, and undid the restraint around her wrists. She stretched them – what a feeling of relief.

  Tol’zen led the way now. And he was nearly back at his old speed. They went higher into the hills. Tall grasses gradually gave way to short grasses, and copses of beech appeared more frequently among the
forest oaks.

  Ahead Pashera heard the rush of water. “The river again?” she asked Tol’zen.

  He nodded. “And the most difficult part of our journey.”

  The trees climbed hills on either side, leading them into a mountain valley. Ahead there were many large, blocky lumps in the greenery. As they approached, Pashera could see they were buildings. Like the old tower, but a different style. There were a few towers among them, but those buildings still standing tended to be blocky. Empty windows gaped, and doorways stood ajar.

  Most of the buildings had fallen into ruin. Pits where buildings had collapsed into the earth yawned dangerously close to the borders of a street or broad avenue that was plainly visible, a clear path through dense trees on either side. Tol’zen and Pashera walked along the edge of the old street, keeping in the tree line. Tol’zen kept looking skywards. Pashera could tell he was on watch for something.

  There was something strange about this city. Pashera knew that it was more than just the city itself. There was a sense of wrongness in the very air, a wrongness that she couldn’t put her finger on.

  Ahead, she could see that the overgrown shambles of a street ended at a pile of old buildings. One building reared up behind the others, round and monstrous in size.

  Beyond those buildings, to the right, was a broad body of water that ended in spectacular waterfalls. To the left, a deep ravine stretched away to the low country, back the way they’d come.

  New words filled Pashera’s head in a rush. “What is this place?” she asked Tol’zen. Is it your city? Is it Guadalquivir?”

  Tol’zen made a dismissive sound. “No, this is just a ruin. It was a great city, once. Tartessos. And that river beyond it is the Oda.

  “Come,” he said. “We might be able to cross before sundown. If not, we need to find a place we can defend.”

  He led her down the edge of the street, closer to the old buildings. Then they got to a spot where there wasn’t any more cover. The ground nearer the pile of buildings was flat stone, with only stray weeds growing on it. There were empty, curiously regular circles in the weeds, and the rocks in those places sometimes appeared to have bubbled and melted.

  “We must move quickly here,” he said.

  “What are you afraid of?” she asked. “Another monster like Hrothrawl?”

  Tol’zen shook his head. “Hrothrawl is only a nuisance. Most of the time, anyway. No, this is death from above. Pray we don’t see it.”

  He took her hand – she secretly thrilled at his touch – and led her toward the heart of the old city.

  Chapter 5. Death From Above

  Tol’zen led Pashera quickly – at first. But she could see that the kalmeren and genezing weed were wearing off. Tol’zen’s movements were stiff, his face tight with effort.

  “We should stop – I’ll brew you some more tea,” she said.

  “Foolish female!” he hissed through his pain. “Keep moving.”

  They reached a large bunch of blocks that might have been a building once. They were halfway across the large, flat stone area, halfway to the buildings along the water, the heart of old Tartessos. The waterfall was a steady roar in the background now. Tol’zen paused here. He indicated to Pashera that they should press themselves flat against the rock. It was hot against the sun-warmed stone. Pashera smelled granite dust in her nostrils.

  Then she peeled her face from the rock and looked around. That thing … that thing she couldn’t put her finger on earlier …

  “There are no birds,” Pashera said, suddenly realizing what was wrong. “Where are all the birds?”

  “Quiet.” Tol’zen’s breath was jagged and labored.

  He looked up – and froze. He turned to her. “Run! Run! Don’t wait for me! Run!”

  He grabbed her hand, pulled her away from the rock, and pushed her toward the buildings. She ran. He followed. She could have left him in her dust, but didn’t want to.

  “Get inside,” he shouted. “Get under cover and they won’t get you.”

  Pashera was about to ask what would get her, when a shadow eclipsed the afternoon sun, and grew more solid around her. She dared a look behind her – she saw wings and a huge, gaping, triangular mouth coming straight at her.

  Pashera shrieked and turned her eyes forward again, bolting into speed.

  “Harr-YA!” Tol’zen yelled behind her. Something bellowed – a high-pitched croaking noise that sounded like nothing on this earth. And then there was a thud and the sound of something sliding.

  Pashera stopped and whirled around. There, sliding to a stop at her feet, was a large, leathery-winged horror. It crumpled its huge wings – which stretched across a distance longer than a dozen men laid end to end -- and left a trail of blood. Its large eyes were big and sharp, the eyes of a predatory bird. In that trail of blood was Tol’zen’s spear, dislodged from the monster’s gut by the journey across the rock. A long piece of intestine still attached the spear to the beast.

  And then it got strange.

  A small man, his skin as black as coal, detached himself and jumped up from the beast’s back. Dressed in a loincloth and feathers, he wielded a pair of lances as long as he was tall. He was small – he only came up to Pashera’s chest – but he was muscular and wiry, with the facial hair of an adult warrior.

  “Aiiii!” The small warrior raged. “You killed Tarascet! I’ll feast on your living guts!”

  The small warrior lunged at Pashera. She drew her knife and moved to one side. He jabbed at her with a lance, which she blocked with her knife. He jabbed again, this time, slicing her shoulder. The pain was sharp and Pashera whistled through her teeth. And then a knife suddenly sprouted in the side of the small warrior’s throat as Tol’zen appeared behind him.

  The small warrior thrashed and gurgled. Tol’zen withdrew his knife, then picked up the man bodily and threw him at the dying winged horror. The bird, if that’s what it was, which had been trying to snap at Tol’zen, cawed in apparent grief and nuzzled the dying man.

  Tol’zen circled around, limping, giving the bird’s head a wide berth. He retrieved his spear from the dying bird’s guts, and headed back toward Pashera. Every step was obviously painful for him. He gasped more than breathed.

  “Are you all right?” Pashera asked.

  He looked up as if seeing her for the first time. “What are you still doing standing here? Run, I said.”

  “But you killed the monster,” she pointed out.

  “There are more of them. Run!”

  “I won’t leave you!”

  “Stupid! Fool!” he spat the words at her. “I can’t fight if I have to protect you.”

  The light of the afternoon winked. Pashera looked up. Three more monster birds flew overhead, diving out of the sun.

  “Run!”

  Pashera turned and ran like the wind. Ahead of her, a doorway gaped into the pile of buildings. She set her sights on it and ran purposefully.

  A shadow grew over the sun again. Then she heard Tol’zen cry out behind her. “Dodge! Dodge, Pashera!”

  She knew her life depended on acting instantly. She picked out what looked like a softer patch of grass to one side and rolled off onto it.

  The bird-like creature flew overhead. But as it did so, the small warrior on it cut a rope on two egg-like objects suspended on either side. They flew down, splashing right where Pashera would have been if she’d kept on running. The objects landed wetly. Steam or smoke rose up from where they’d hit.

  Pashera was back on her feet in a flash. She ran again, and this time she reached the doorway. She got inside and turned to look at Tol’zen.

  He wasn’t as nearly far back as she’d feared. In fact, he was within a stone’s throw from the doorway. But two of the bird creatures were circling around him, their riders urging the mounts on as Tol’zen stabbed furiously but ineffectively at them.

  The bird creatures had terrible, huge talons that grasped at Tol’zen. Pashera knew that, any minute, one of them would gr
asp his spear, and the battle would be over.

  Wait a minute – the battle was a stone’s throw away. A stone’s throw! Pashera looked around. There were plenty of stones and other small objects within reach. She picked them up and started pelting furiously. Pashera ignored the riders and targeted the birds, which were bigger and more likely to respond to her attacks.

  Her first two shots were both hit. She kept throwing. Sure enough, the flying monsters shrieked and croaked under her continue assault, then flew up higher to get away from the barrage.

  Tol’zen seized his moment. He loped toward the doorway and got inside.

  “Thank you,” he gasped. “Now, onward. Onward.”

  The doorway led to a hall which led to a large, cavernous room which many doors opened off of. On the other side, the river side, there was a row of broken windows and one great door. This door once could have closed, but it hung off its hinges.

  “Through there,” Tol’zen indicated.

  As they approached the door, Pashera could see out the windows, finally see the structure they were entering. This wasn’t a building. It was a bridge, a bridge that reached across the deep expanse of the ravine. Pashera had never seen anything bigger than a foot-bridge before, and the sheer size of this gorge-spanning construction was nearly overwhelming. Along with the main thoroughfare, there were towers, even small buildings spaced along the bridge. Much of the sides were enclosed in some kind of mesh or cage, which was rusted and broken with age.

  Through the window, she could see that the bridge supported by great struts that curled out from each side of the ravine. And huge arches stretched overhead for more support.

  “We’re going on that?” she said in horror.

  “Yes,” Tol’zen said. “You don’t have a fear of heights, do you?”

  Looking down the ravine to the river running rapidly below, Pashera began feeling hot, dizzy, and disoriented. She closed her eyes and looked away.

  “I’ve been on high things before,” Pashera said. “The cliff overlooking my village. And trees.”

  But this was different. This time, Tol’zen was asking her to walk out away from solid land, OVER the water … on this bridge over the ravine.