Reawakening

by Amy Rae Durreson

  Someone had built a watchtower, around the mountain from Killan’s cairn, and he found clothes in a witch-sealed chest there. They were strange to him, dyed with bolder colors than he remembered from human craft. The cloth was soft, though, and he let his hands linger in its folds, enjoying the sensation. The long-sleeved tunic was warm, and he gathered it in with a studded belt, his fingertips stroking the places where a previous owner had worn the leather down. No memory of the man remained, but the dragon was content that it had been prized once. That would do, for the moment.

  The knitted hose were welcome in this weather, though the bright-blue hue baffled him, but the boots almost stymied him with their complex laces and buckles.

  It felt odd to walk through the watchtower in this garb, as if he was costumed for a mummer’s play, but he had seen human fashion change before. No doubt it would again.

  On the top floor of the tower, he found a study, locked and warded. The watch spell was easy to snap, and inside he discovered the citadel’s archives.

  The earliest volumes were clearly copies of older documents still, but he could read the alphabet and follow the language. With his belly full and no wish to sleep further, he settled to read his way through history. The first volumes were easy, full of familiar names and conflicts, though it saddened him to see some of the great alliances collapse without his kind to enforce the treaties between their allies.

  The language changed slowly for the most part, and he had all his kind’s instinct for words and riddles to help him. Twice, the change was so great and sudden that he was forced to seek out reference books from the shelves, but it merely slowed his reading a little.

  It took over a sennight to absorb it all, broken by quick naps and more deer to snack on, and he eventually sat back with centuries of human loss and learning swilling in his head. There had been so many setbacks, plagues, wars, and civilizations collapsing under the weight of their own greatness. Humankind had made so many great leaps forward as well, in the way they had spread across the world, the ideas they had wrestled with, the alliances they had formed, and the inventions that had changed them beyond all imagining. The books spoke of the age of dragons as a Golden Age, but if just half of what he had read were true, the world he had helped rule had been austere and simple in comparison to what had come in later centuries.

  This place had been abandoned long enough that no roads led to its doors, and no ghosts lingered to flavor the air with human memories. It had been a natural decline, from what the chronicles said, as civilization reformed around bustling trade cities in warmer climes, and more and more children left the citadel to seek out a bolder, brighter life.

  He would do the same, the dragon resolved, and not just for the sake of claiming the desert. There was nothing left for him here, and everything he had read made him crave a new hoard more than ever before. It was time to leave the mountains and begin again in another, livelier place.

  The armory was full of swords. He knew all their names and how the gifting of them had once been a mark of great honor. Now, thinking only that there was always work for a human spellsword, he chose one whose weight he had always liked and whose blade he had once tempered in his own flames.

  Its scabbard, he was pleased to see, had survived the centuries. He appreciated good spellwork and sought out mail by the same makers before he slung the sword over his back and hooked a light shield over it. He set out at a steady pace, forcing his way through the forest where there had once been a road.

  He did not look back until the sun began to fade. When he glanced back at the citadel, all that showed was the lonely tower and Killan’s cairn, gilded by the sunset.

  For a moment he stood, listening to the wind ripple across the forest and watching the birds curl overhead, following the wind south for the winter.

  Then he turned his back on his ancient home and began his walk toward the desert.

  Chapter 3: Helping

  TWO MONTHS later, he arrived in the trade city of Hirah, where the spring-bright fields began to fade into the hot, dry hills of the south. It had been a long journey, and a strange one, lurking around the edge of human settlements until he had observed enough of modern habits to join the odd travelers’ campfire and dice for change in half-timbered inns.

  He could follow the quick pattering speech of this new age now, though he still wondered what the rush was. His own slow accent, he had discovered, marked him as a backcountry bumpkin, right until he met a mendicant priest who goggled at the purity with which he accented ancient words.

  That had been fun, and he had considered cajoling the priest into turning toward the desert with him, not least because the man had river-green eyes, a sarcastic tongue, and a heart that blazed with generosity.

  The priest had also had a family, of whom he spoke with quiet, honest longing, so the dragon hadn’t claimed him. He didn’t want that kind of melancholy to tinge his new hoard. With the careless generosity with facts and ideas that was the mark of a true scholar, the priest had shared his knowledge. He had even sketched out a quick map and jabbed at the little dot that represented Hirah, right where the road south crossed the broad River Rasha. “There, a true den of iniquity and blithe sinners.” He had darted a glance at the dragon from under his heavy brows, his lips quirking up. “Which is to say, a trade city. If you’re seeking work, there are rich men needing shields, wicked men who want fists, and lawmen who want honest swords.”

  “I go farther south,” the dragon told him, shrugging.

  “The caravans start in the trade ring in Hirah. If you’re a traveling man, the caravan masters will be looking to hire guards. There’s a hiring fair each third of the month.”

  The dragon hadn’t seen the point then. He’d always lived off the land and gathered followers to provide for any greater need.

  As he traveled farther into populated lands, however, he began to change his mind. All this land, which had been quiet and shadowy forests in his day, was shorn of trees and fenced apart now. He had been roused out of his sleep by dogs and angry landowners twice, and seen the crowds gather to watch a thief swing from a town square gallows for rustling sheep.

  Wealth clearly mattered more than skill or loyalty, and it was a lowering thought. He had passed through enough towns to see the hungry-eyed beggars skulking in the shade. Who was there for them to petition for mercy and succor? Where were the lords who should rule and protect their people?

  His world had failed many of the weak and lonely. Life had been too short, and there had been none of the miracles of healing that were freely offered on the street corners now. But there had been a code of honor and an expectation that a clan protected its own. There seemed to be no more clans in these cobbled towns, though there were rich men aplenty.

  When he crested the hill above Hirah, he stopped, appalled. The city filled the valley below in a brown and seething mass. Ancient halls were surrounded by tile-roofed terraces of narrow houses, which gave way to rough brown shanties, spilling up the hillsides in flaking layers. The river ran through it, slow and brown and slurried—the very river that came singing out of his mountains in blue and silver tumbles.

  He could feel from here the great heaving aura of countless human souls, despair layered over joy over yearning over rage over curiosity, until they smeared into one great cloud of hunger and misery. How could they live like this, with so little order and elegance?

  Taking a deep breath, he reminded himself that he had to pass this way to reach the desert he desired, and plunged downhill to join the growing crowd of travelers heading for the gates of the city. As he moved farther downhill, the crowd thickened, and he began to lose sight of the hills beyond the bulk of the city. The walls were high and dust browned, with tattered banners flapping off the overhanging walkways. He thought they were battle trophies at first glance but had time, as he picked his way through the crowd, to decipher the symbols on them as lettering: Bellona’s Tavern, Good Food and Clean Girls; Sage and Samphire Sorcerer
’s Emporium; Slash and Slice Authentic Armory.

  It wasn’t until he was almost at the gate that he realized the reason for the slow speed of the crowd. A wagon had overturned, its shafts wrenched off and its load spilled. One horse had clearly gone down with it but was standing again, tensed as its handler murmured into its mane. The other was skittish, loose on the road but never going too far from its fellow.

  Everyone was trying to detour around the accident, veering away from the skittish horse without straying into the low reedbeds beside the road, and movement had slowed to a crawl.

  The dragon paused, puzzled. The wagoner and his boy were standing guard over the spilled cargo, long bales of cloth that had rolled across the center of the road, arguing in low fierce voices. The horses were under the watchful eye of their handler, a stocky woman with cropped hair who clearly could not leave them in such a state of panic.

  There was no way they could right the wagon and move on without leaving the cargo vulnerable to passing thieves. Yet, although many of the passing travelers shouted or cursed, not one of them stopped to help.

  The dragon pushed through the crowd. It parted before him, with many eyeing the sword on his back or his set jaw before they moved hurriedly.

  “No, we can’t bloody move them,” the woman snapped, lifting her chin, as he drew close. “We’re waiting for the wainwright to make it out here with a hoist. So you can take that antique cleaver and punt yourself down the stinking ditch with it. I’m shai-dhakni, and in a fucking awful mood, so don’t waste your time.”

  The dragon smiled at her, showing his teeth, which seemed to startle her into silence. She reminded him of the women who had fought below the walls of Eyr—tough-minded and vicious as they followed their queen into glory. He’d always enjoyed his humans with a bit of an attitude. To make his point, he crossed to the wagon’s side.

  Its planks were broad and rough under his hand, but there was enough to get a grip on. A man could not have moved it. His form, however, was but a disguise, and he still had the strength of his kind. He flexed his shoulders and lifted.

  The wagon creaked and groaned dangerously, but it shifted enough that he could get his hand below it. From there it took just one long slow push to lift it, and it swung over hard, thumping down onto its wheels.

  The shafts were still crooked, but he could see how a bit of rope would pull them back in long enough to last one more mile. Shrugging, he turned round to address the woman.

  The crowd had gone still around him, and quiet. He could hear the wind, for the first time all day. Uncertain of how to respond to the attention, he shrugged and said, “Now you need not wait for the wainwright to attend his business.”

  “Unless you’ve cracked the axle with that stunt,” she said tartly. “Where in the world did you come from?”

  “High Amel,” he said.

  “Straight from the halls of the dragon king, I suppose,” she shot back. “Spit on the other foot, boyo, it’s waterproof. You not got a better story than that old one?”

  “Let him be, Ia,” the carter said. “Can you truss the horses back in place?”

  She shrugged sourly. “I can try. You and the boy going to shift your asses and get the cloth loaded?”

  The crowd was starting to move around them again, the low hum of conversation rising as they lost interest. The carter scowled at the woman, his eyes darting back to the spilled cloth anxiously. “Gam spit on it, Ia, remember who pays your wages, and keep a more civil tongue in your head.”

  “Civil is as civil does,” she returned and swung to face the dragon. “I’m desperate for a piss and a drink, and this waste of space won’t sully his hands by lifting a finger, even to shove it up his fat ass. So you, brute, want to earn a shilling of his cash by loading this crap up?”

  “You can’t promise my money, Ianthe!”

  “Man just saved you the wainwright’s fee,” she pointed out. “You can spare a shilling.”

  “Fine,” the carter said, and stalked back to stand over his cargo.

  Ia turned back to the dragon. “So, what are you waiting for?”

  “No brute, I,” he told her, with a shrug. “A spellsword, rather.”

  “Bright Lady save us, what bard’s tale are you living in? It’s easy money, man. Take it or leave it.”

  It wouldn’t hurt, he decided. He needed cash, and these three obviously knew the road. Perhaps one of them could point him toward work on the desert route. Without another word, he set to tossing the bales onto the back of the cart. It was easy enough, and the cloth was pleasantly warm and soft below his hands, even where it was marked with road dust.

  He watched the woman as he worked, saw how her sharp words belied her gentleness with the horses. She fixed the shafts with quick efficiency and coaxed the geldings in calmly.

  When they were both done, she turned to him with a quick nod of approval. “Nicely done. You want a ride into town?”

  “Gladly,” the dragon said and swung up onto the seat beside her as the carter and his boy climbed on the back. She clicked the horses forward, and they began to move, jolting over the rough cobbles.

  “Can’t wait to get done with this,” she muttered at him. “I can’t believe I thought it was a good idea to work my way down the road. Serves me right for being a tight purse. I should have just hired a post horse and come straight through from Reth Stela.”

  “You do not work this route?”

  She spat into the road. “No. I’ve got a job waiting in Hirah—an old friend needs someone to head up his guards, and he tempted me back out of retirement. Had a plushy job playing bodyguard to a banker’s daughter in Stela, but an old shai-dhakni soldier can only put up with twittering ninnies for so long. I fancied a last shot at the road through the Alagard, and the job with Sethan’s crew has always been mine for the asking.”

  “Aye,” he said, studying the thick walls as they passed through the city gate. Beyond the walls, the stink of the city hit him hard, human waste, rotting food, and the stench of too many beasts and men in too small a place. It smelled like an army after the first battle, but there was no war that he could see here.

  “Chatty one, aren’t you?”

  He shrugged. He could understand the quick patter of the modern trade tongue well enough now, but he could only speak it slowly, with the words sometimes out of place.

  “You got a name, strongman?”

  His true name was a rush of winter storms and wildfire, impossible to shape with human tongues. His human armies, however, had called him by the name of his dominion, and Killan had shortened it with affection. He would use that, and remember. “Tarn.”

  “Tarn, out of Amel? Going to claim you’re descended from the lost Drake clan next, are you?”

  “I am descended from nobody,” the dragon said, honestly enough.

  “Nor I,” she said. “Mutt of all colors, me. My mam was a temple sword dancer before she got me off some wandering merc. Lucky I got her skill with a blade, because all he left me were his looks, and they weren’t worth much.”

  The dragon shrugged. “Strength in your sword arm. What more matters?”

  “Not a ladies’ man, are you, Tarn?”

  “No,” he said, making himself embrace the name again. It felt strange to hear it on the open air, with none of the soft affection with which Killan had spoken it. He caught her amused glance and, remembering how fragile human egos could be, added, “I respect the mothers of men and the battlemaids. I have no taste for women’s beauty, now.” Because she was still smirking maliciously, he tried to amend that. “Women’s beauty, I do not dislike. I am not—”

  “Not what?” she inquired, widening her eyes in mock curiosity.

  “Women…,” he started and faltered, “they are not—I do not—” How much had the world changed? He had always encouraged his hoard to love as they wished, but he had heard that the lords of men were crueler to those who did not follow their small and petty laws.

  She patted his arm.
“Spit it out, man. Unless you’re one of the ones who swallows, that is. You appreciate my sword arm, and I’ll enjoy the beautiful women for you. Now, since we’ve covered the more important things, you can call me Ia.”

  “Ia,” he repeated, tasting the name.

  “Ianthe Battlewitch, of the Tassaki sept. Only fools and employers use all that, though.”

  “I am neither,” Tarn agreed. “Battlewitch means spellsword, aye?”

  “If you’re a cheap bard, maybe. Spellsword!” She snorted and spat a little. “At least you know your history, Spellsword Tarn of Amel. You’ll claim next that pretty bit of steel on your shoulder is dragon forged.”

  It was, but Tarn wasn’t going to tell her that. Instead he said, “The hiring fair is…?”

  “Not far from our delivery. Help with the unloading, and I’ll see you there.” Her gaze went shrewd. “What are you looking for?”

  “To take the road to Alagard,” he said, thinking wistfully of the warm sand and the deep, cheerful sense of joy that sang through the desert. “I can swing my sword, and fire answers my call.”

  “You guild certified?”

  He blinked at her. “I know not what you mean.”

  “If not, it means you don’t get paid guild rates, and bonded caravans will hire your sword but not your sorcery.” She sucked through her teeth. “Mind you, if I’m hiring, you’re on the contract for your sword, but if trouble comes at us, call a flame and we’ll just mark it down as a bonus for going beyond the call of duty.”

  “Are you hiring?”

  “Not until I see you swing that thing, strongman. Brute strength doesn’t win you much with me. Can you take orders?”

  “I can give them,” Tarn said, narrowing his eyes. He wasn’t going to shout his identity to the skies, not when the whole conversation was so bewildering, but he had his pride.