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

by Angela Angelwolf

  And yet, his presence was very affectionate. Even loving. Pashera didn’t know what to make of that. In the “real” world, he hadn’t expressed any feelings like that toward her. Instead, he kept things friendly but focused on the physical.

  Their minds continued to float higher in the bright space. Suddenly they were outside the room, floating above the city.

  Tol’zen probed her mind. But Pashera wanted to look at the city laid out below her. She pushed Tol’zen’s mind away, sent it orbiting her consciousness at a safe distance, and “rolled and turned” to get a better look at the metropolis below.

  From high above, the city looked magnificent. And even here, she could see signs of decay as time softened the once-sharp edges of Guadalquivir

  From above, other bright, buzzing sparks were plainly visible in the city below. Instinctually, she knew these were other minds connected to the Sumsentia. And even beyond those bright minds, there was a boiling roiling mass of dim lights in the background, the minds of all the slaves and saurians milling about in the great city.

  Floating higher, she could see around the great mountain. She could see the scars of the 10 previous foundations that Guadalquivir had occupied as its citizens moved it at the start of every Grand Cycle. Abandoned for thousands of years, each of these spots was a jumble of scars at the base of the mountain, where old foundations mixed with green growth trying to reclaim the land.

  And then there was the mountain itself – the home of the Devouring God. Halfway up its slope, Pashera could see the Time Fortress that had carried the saurians across an unimaginable expanse of time. A buzzing beehive of bright sparks swarmed in the fortress, as scientists of the Cogitorium went about their work while connected to the Sumsentia.

  Maybe it was an effect of the pantellion, but now that she got a look at it in the daylight, the architecture of the Time Fortress was profoundly unsettling. Not only old, but wrong. Some of the towers were melted and curved in unnatural ways. Others had angles that twisted every which way, with towers abruptly ending in spheres or springing out of them in entirely new directions. Walls and streets which seemed straight at first shimmered and curved as she looked closer at them.

  There was a pulsating presence below the fortress, in the heart of the mountain. She could feel it. It was alive and malignant, and reaching out for her.

  Suddenly, Tol’zen was gone from the horizon where she’d put him in orbit. No, he was sitting across the bed from her, shaking her. “Pashera,” he said.

  Pashera came back to the real world with a jarring, almost physical “thump.”

  “What?”

  “You pushed me away,” Tol’zen said. “In your mind. Your level of control was … incredible.”

  Pashera shrugged. She felt embarrassed. It hadn’t seen like any great thing at the time.

  Tol’zen seemed to reach a decision. “Come with me,” he said, holding out a hand. “We should eat, all that sex works up my appetite. Then we have work to do.”

  “So will you tell me about the Overvibe?” she asked. “Are your scientists really foolish enough to tempt such great evil?”

  “We’ll talk about the Overvibe later,” he said. “One crisis at a time.”

  After dinner, Tol’zen took Pashera to the stables. This was divided into two distinct sections. One was for spiders and giant insects, indicated by the carvings set in stone above the wide door. A look through the door convinced Pashera that she never wanted to get closer to the spiders. The one visible through the door was massive.

  The spider looked like its creator had started to put a human face on the spider, then quit in disgust. Its grouped, multiple eyes and gash of a mouth set in a grimace somehow made it look furious. Its hairy pelt was deep black with red highlights. Incongruously, it held out a foreleg for a human groomsman to brush it. The human slave did not seem as terrified as Pashera felt. Instead, he concentrated on his work while the spider burbled in a deep, almost happy tone.

  Tol’zen led Pashera beyond this door in a hurry. The next door led to mounts that were leatherbacks. The saurians called these mounts “yasts”.[1] Commonly, a yast stood at about the height of Pashera’s head at the shoulder. The yast’s own long-faced head projected above this on a thick neck. A crown of feathers ran along the tops of their heads and down their backs and spines, and their faces were feathered as well. The color of the feathers varied from yast to yast. But most of their hide was bare, brown and tough as leather. They were built for speed, powerfully muscled, with long forelegs and hind legs of equal height. Their feet ended in stubby-toed paws. Yasts had whip-like tails, and ears that stood up high. Their long faces ended in a mouthful of teeth. Pashera later learned that the yasts were omnivores, but they enjoyed meat very much.

  Their eyes were large and gorgeous, with long, lustrous lashes, completely at odds with the brutality evident in their dentition.

  Tol’zen chose a yast that was slim and ran on four long legs. It was already saddled and waiting for him. A groom held the reins while Tol’zen placed a foot strategically and mounted in an instant. He held a hand down to Pashera. “Climb,” he said.

  Pashera hesitated. The leatherback turned its great head and smiled at her. The smile was not reassuring – rows of teeth like great white knives. The leatherback growled.

  “He senses your fear,” the groom, a bald-and-bearded human man, said in a calm tone undercut with urgency. His arms were crisscrossed with white scars. “Move quickly.”

  Pashera still hesitated. The leatherback shifted around to get a better look at her, and moved its head very close. She could feel the leatherback’s moist breath, which was strangely sweet.

  “Climb!” Tol’zen said again. When Pashera did not move, he swore an oath, then reached down, grabbed her forearm and quickly yet painfully yanked her up behind him. Pashera yelped. The leatherback barked and stomped its feet.

  Tol’zen picked up the reins and kicked to send the yast moving in the right direction. Four other riders peeled off from other stalls and fell in behind him. Dar’asst was one of the riders, he nodded at Pashera and flashed a smile.

  Tol’zen applied his heels and the leatherback picked up speed. Pashera held on to Tol’zen for dear life. The bouncing motion of the leatherback jarred every bone in her body.

  Shortly, they passed the city gates. Then Tol’zen and the other riders really picked up speed. The jarring motion smoothed out – surprising to Pashera – but the speed of the mount terrified her.

  “Stop! Stop!” Pashera cried.

  “Whatever for?” Tol’zen asked over his shoulder.

  “I can’t ride like this! I must get off!”

  Tol’zen clucked negatively. “I need you with me. You’ll get used to it.”

  The riding hurt her back. It made her teeth clatter. Her knees were painful with the exertion of holding on. Most of all, the riding hurt her breasts, which bounced up and down with the movement of the mount. She leaned against Tol’zen to support her breasts and muffle the worst of the discomfort.

  Terrified, Pashera was no judge of time. But perhaps an hour later, the posse reached the foot of hills at the far side of the valley. There was an old stone pillar here, and a water trough fed by a stream. Tol’zen called a halt here, and talked to his men under a tree while the mounts drank deeply.

  Pashera huddled miserably by the side of the pillar. Strange, time-softened figures climbed on reliefs carved up the side of the pillar. Across the clearing, she could hear Tol’zen’s tone if not his words, as he spoke to the men. He was very serious, and seemed to be impressing some danger upon them. They all nodded somberly; there was none of the joking and laughing that the men of her village did before a hunt.

  Was this a hunt? She still had no idea. Dar’asst had his needle gun and an oversized knife. The other saurians were armed with slug-throwers and knives; Tol’zen had a slug-thrower as well.

  Tol’zen clapped his hands and the saurians returned to their mounts. One of them held Tol’zen�
��s yast while he took his saddle; another fairly tossed Pashera up behind Tol’zen when she refused to move from beside the pillar.

  “You’re killing me!” Pashera wailed as they galloped off again. ‘You’ll kill us both!”

  “No need, plenty of others are lining up to do that,” Tol’zen said, and he laughed.

  They rode hard and fast up a trail that was wide at first. The evening sky turned red and orange on the horizon, then faded into purple. The stars came out.

  They passed occupied buildings, all of them large. They were buttoned up tight against the night, with shutters over every window, but light leaked out around the slats.

  Then the buildings became decrepit, then ruins. They passed one abandoned building after another, some of them just piles of rubble. The trail narrowed to just wide enough for one leatherback to ride. Trees reached out long-limbed branches to scratch and grab at her. The yast rode steadily, but occasionally stumbled and had to find its footing. Pashera was so terrified she knew she would wet herself if she had it in her. She HATED riding.

  She leaned against Tol’zen’s back, put her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.

  Finally, he pulled on the reins and the mount slowed to a halt.

  She looked around. They were deep in the country, on a hillside, apparently. Literally nowhere. There were no lights to blot out the stars, which cascaded across the sky in a frozen tableau. It was cold – way too cold.

  Wait, there was something. A stone altar or table and benches stood to one side. Other, shrubbery-shrouded shapes could have been more benches. Unlit torches framed either side of the altar.

  If this was once a place, it seemed abandoned now.

  “Where are we?” she asked grumpily.

  “Shh!” Tol’zen hissed. “Wait for them.”

  The riders were quiet. Even the yasts seemed subdued. Tol’zen suddenly sat up. He shouted: “I am Tol’zen, son of Tol’karion. I would treat with you.” He thrust his spear head-first into the ground and held out his arms. “I am unarmed.”

  There was a sound now. Pashera pricked up her ears. She could not make it out. Flapping?

  Suddenly, whips appeared, cracking loudly and coiling around Tol’zen’s arms. He was lifted aloft with a jerk. He grunted, either from surprise or pain. He ascended quickly into the night sky.

  “TOL’ZEN!” Pashera shouted in fear.

  Behind her, the mounted saurians yelled in surprise.

  Swwa-a-p! Two more pieces of leather whip appeared, this time tightening around her own arms. They yanked on her arms urgently, painfully, and she lifted out of the saddle.

  Through no volition of her own, Pashera flew.

  In the space of a few heartbeats, the ground was suddenly far below her. And finally, finally, Pashera found voice to scream.

  “Aaiiiiiiii!” she wailed long and loud. “Aiiiiii!” She twisted and kicked furiously. But she could not reach the leather coils, and they carried her, helpless, further into the night sky.

  The sound of flapping came louder now. Pashera looked around – on either side of her, attached to her by only a thin piece of leather, a stretched out shape blotted out a section of stars. The flapping sound was leathery wings.

  Pashera spent the next few minutes praying loudly to the Devouring God – though, in retrospect, fat lot of good he’d been. Her brief life flashed before her eyes. She had regrets. She missed her mother terribly. She wished she’d had more sex Tol’zen. And with Magwalra, too, while she was at it. She wished she’d eaten more of those delicious food cubes which Sai’tan later identified as cheese. That was about it, really. In a life as short as hers, there wasn’t nearly enough to regret.

  Onward she flew into the cold night air. Her arms ached. Try as she might, twist and turn, she could not free herself.

  But what if she did? It was a long way down. She’d end up as a smear on the hillside.

  The land came closer. She was flying toward a hole in a mountain. No, a cave! Just ahead of her was Tol’zen. He’d alighted on a rock outcropping in front of the cave. He was waiting for her, looking about as unruffled as one could look after an impromptu flight through the air.

  The leather coils lowered her to the rock. Suddenly, her feet touched down. She supported her own weight. The coils loosened, and released. Finally, she could lower her aching arms.

  Pashera fell over and found herself looking up at Tol’zen.

  “Welcome to the Hall of the Night King,” he said. “They call it Ishardayth.”

  “Why didn’t you warn me?” she demanded accusingly. “You didn’t say anything about flying through the air at the end of a rope!”

  “I didn’t know,” he said with a shrug. “They should have come to meet us. They always do, or so I’m told. This is something new. Come,” he held out a hand to pull her up. “Let’s go inside.”

  “You’ve told me nothing!” she said accusingly.

  Tol’zen sighed. “If I told you ahead of time, you would have run away again. This is much less frightening in person than it sounds to a primitive and fevered imagination. You’ll see.”

  Pashera thought Tol’zen was full of leatherback dung on that one. But there was nothing for it – the dark night sky yawned behind them. The only way to go was into the cave. So, she leaned against him for strength, and huddled against him for warmth, and they walked into the cave mouth.

  They hadn’t walked two steps when, just inside the cave and sheltered from the outside winds, a smell grabbed her by the nose and wouldn’t let go. There was a campfire smell, but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was another, overpowering smell or smells -- was acrid, acidic and awful, yet familiar. She’d smelled this before. And it wasn’t saurian, either.

  Inside the cave mouth was darkness. By the dim starlight, and a sliver of the moon, she could see shapes clustered around them. Large shapes. The roof and walls of the cave receded into blackness. Far back in the blackness, dim fires kindled.

  “I am Tol’zen, son of Tol’karion,” her companion said loudly. “I have come to treat with you.”

  “There’sh no reashon to shout,” a voice lisped in the dark. This voice was as dry as autumn leaves. “Give our gueshs some light.”

  A half-dozen light sources appeared … dim, but enough to light the area around Tol’zen and Pashera. Their hosts leaned in.

  They were surrounded by monsters. Frog-faced – no, bat-faced monsters! Huge, though in the dim light, and the way they crouched over, it was hard to tell the exact size. Certainly taller than a man if they stretched out tall. Pashera shrunk even closer to Tol’zen.

  The bat-creatures’ eyes were huge, with black pupils. The giant pupils shrank from even the miserly light now illuminating the cave. They were bald and hairless. Great wings of skin folded between the joints of their long, long arms.

  One of the creatures spoke. For Pashera, this was the worst part yet. To see a bat-faced creature suddenly speak like a man was the stuff of nightmares.

  “Tol’shen, shon of Tol’karion,” the creature said. “Welcome. And who ish your companion?”

  “Pashera,” Tol’zen said. “She is of my house.”

  The creature nodded. “I am Radaldyth,” he said. “The Night King.”

  Tol’zen bowed formally. Pashera tried to follow suit.

  “It is my great honor to meet you.”

  “Likewize, it ish my honor to meet the shon of Tol’karion,” the Night King said. “He hash … vishion.”[2]

  “Vision” was a funny word coming from a bat, and Pashera had to suppress a wild urge to giggle. The adrenalin rush of her flight was catching up to her. She felt exhausted. She wobbled, and Tol’zen pulled her close to support her.

  “Cushions for our guests,” the Night King rasped in his dry voice. “And food. We are not without our grashes.

  “They come a long way. And give them more light. We can stand it for a little while.”

  Soon, Pashera was ensconced on a cushion, holding a bowl of fruit, su
rrounded by squinting, giant bats. They had huge, hairy ears, large pug noses, large black eyes, and huge mouths.

  But they weren’t quite bats. They had human aspects as well.

  They were barrel-chested, but painfully thin. In lieu of clothes, the males wore a pocketed belt over one broad shoulder and a thin belt in which they stuck their whips. The coiled-up whips attached at one end to the belt, allowing the male wielding it to lash onto something and then keep flying. The females wore simple pocketed aprons, along with tattoos of raised and patterned flesh. The little ones wore nothing at all.

  Importantly, these “bats” had four-fingered hands at one fold of their great wings. Their legs were short, but not as short as she remembered on the bats she and other children had killed for fun and food in the caves near her tribal home.

  Pashera hoped the God of Bats, whoever that was, did not hold a grudge. For surely, she was in its stronghold now.

  “You forgive how we bring you here,” Radaldyth, the Night King, said to Tol’zen when they were settled. “But I can no longer fly.”

  Looking in the dim light, Pashera could see that one of the Night King’s arms/wings was bent and held tight against his body.

  “Ah,” Tol’zen said. “Well, flying was quite a surprise.”

  “You do not follow the shtandard ritualz,” the Night King said. “Your trip sheems … urgent.”

  “It is … it is a trip of cooperation, of mutual defense,” Tol’zen said. “We are going to war. We ask you to honor the old pacts.”

  The Night King chuffed, and his bat-faced court twittered. But Radaldyth sat back and listened to Tol’zen’s story without interruption. Tol’zen laid out how the Sky Pirates had set up camp at the old fortress. And now the Sky Pirates were terrorizing the land from one horizon to another, as far as their winged leatherbacks could fly.

  “Soon they will move against us,” Tol’zen said. “And perhaps they will move against you.”