The Summer Dragon

by Todd Lockwood

  Copyright © 2016 by Todd Lockwood.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Jacket art by Todd Lockwood.

  Jacket design by Todd Lockwood and G-Force Design.

  Endpaper and interior art by Todd Lockwood.

  Maps by Todd Lockwood.

  Book designed by Alissa Theodor.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1723.

  Published by DAW Books, Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  eBook ISBN 9781101611449

  DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED

  U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES

  —MARCA REGISTRADA

  HECHO EN U.S.A.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Maps

  Part I

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Part II

  PROLOGUE

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My deep appreciation to all the following, for their time and advice and enthusiasm.

  Betsy Wollheim, my editor and friend. Thanks for your interest in my world.

  Eric Mona, my first mentor and teacher, and Anthony Waters, brilliant artist and creator; you were there at the very beginning. Gregory Frost, who opened my eyes to the craft of writing; Nancy Kress and Mary Rosenblum who helped me find my voice, and Marylou Capes-Platt who polished it. Scott Taylor and Shawn Speakman, who read early drafts and published me first. Lou Anders for invaluable input and friendship. Tony Green, willing to discuss plot until late into the night; Doug Wray, who’s read my stuff since high school; and the entire rest of the gang in Colorado for uncountable weekends of inspired story-telling: Marty & Kate, Bill, Janet, Kathy, Lemuel, Kirk, Marv. All my willing beta-readers: Rich Howard, who gave me the first, most thorough critique, Henry Mayo, Caitlin Lockwood, Kipp Lockwood, April Moore, Jodi Lane, Karey Brown and Tyler Brown, Stacie Pitt, Elaura Lockwood Webb, Pierce Watters, Marie Brennan, R.A. Salvatore, Alan Dean Foster, and Terry Brooks. Your enthusiasm was my oxygen.

  My biggest thanks goes to Leslie Howle, whose tireless support and passion kept me inspired. I would not be here without you. You’re a writer’s best friend.

  Thank you all.

  PROLOGUE

  THEY WERE FEEDING the babies when the slaughter began.

  Graeden spotted the invaders first. Ragged shadows, dark and misshapen, descended from the twilight sky. He thrust his shovel into the cart of dried fish and left it there. Dragon qits in the nests complained when the delivery of food stopped. The adult dragons cooed to their broodlings to calm them, but they too looked out the big rolling doors to the sky. The long, narrow broodhouse, one of several stacked on the mountainside, opened on one side into the paddock; on the other it overlooked a high precipice. The roofs of Cuuloda clustered far below were bound by steep cliffs and dense forest stretching toward the distant plains.

  The enemy had been testing the defenses of this high mountain aerie without success. The natural terrain provided substantial security, but these creatures had found a gap in the perimeter of Cuuloda’s sawtooth peaks and mounted patrols.

  Graeden squinted. They looked like dragons, but something was wrong. Emanations of green punctuated the tattered silhouettes. He felt a sudden chill and pulled his jacket more tightly closed. “Father—what are they?”

  His father, Ardran, dropped his shovel, too. The breeze blowing in from the cliffside opening and through to the paddock smelled of ash and decay. “By the gods, Grae.” His face lost all color. “The rumors are true. The Harodhi have found a way to corrupt dragons. They’re Horrors. Flying Horrors.”

  Ardran called to his eldest, pumping water in the paddock. “Bahnam—raise the alarm. Alert your brothers. Then get the doors on the upper nests closed. Go!” Bahnam looked up to the sky over the broodhouse and his jaw fell. He dropped his bucket, dashed across the yard to the storehouse, shouting, “Lem! Harien!” Soon a bell rang from the yard. Shouts answered.

  “Grae, help me close the aerie. Move!” Together Ardran and Grae heaved to the multiple big doors on the paddock side, rolling them on their tracks to close off the nests.

  The qits began to squeal uncertainly, sensing the unfamiliar urgency. Their parents turned to the precipice-side with wings spread in threat display, shielding their babies from the approaching nightmares.

  The bell stopped pealing, and Grae hazarded a final look out to the paddock. He saw Bahnam and two more of his brothers dashing up the long stair to the next broodhouse up the hill. Shadows chased them.

  Something shook the roof. Plaster rained down. With a cry of frustration, Grae closed the last door and threw the latch, looked across the platform to the darkening sky. The twisted shapes descended in numbers impossible to count. They’d be here before he and his father could get the precipice doors closed.

  Screams erupted from outside. A second boom on the ceiling above roused another chorus of fearful bleats.

  “Grae,” said his father. “Someone has to get word to the Dragonry in Haalden.”

  “What?” he said.

  “Take Kiven and go.”

  “We’ve closed the paddock doors—I can’t access the tack house—”

  Bowshots snapped somewhere outside. A scream. Grae recognized the voice of his brother Harien, cut short by a chorus of rasping growls. His blood turned to ice.

  “There’s no time,” said his father. “Mount up without saddle. Trust me, boy—you have to go. Now.”

  Grae dashed to his favorite mount, his broodfather Kiven, and leapt up onto his neck. Just as quickly, the first of the Horrors landed on the lip of the platform t
wo bays down. A monstrous winged shadow with a dark man-shape on its back surveyed the nests with eyes like green coals. Another alit next to it. Then another.

  The broodparents charged the blackened monsters, hissing. Teeth met teeth. Claws slashed. Babies spilled out of the nests to dam up against the paddock-side doors. The monsters ripped their parents from the shelf, trailing blood off into the void. More of the things swept in to replace them.

  Grae hesitated in shock as one of the dark riders dismounted and approached the bleating qits, a large bag in its hands.

  “They mean to take the brood!” he called.

  His father grabbed a machete off the wall. Stood uncertainly before his squalling qits. He met his son’s eyes with fear. “Go! Save yourself!”

  Graeden turned Kiven to the precipice. “Hai!” he shouted, clinging to the large scales on the back of his dragon’s neck. They launched out into space. One of the Horror beasts snatched at him in passing. Missed. Continued on to the broodhouse floor, the scent of decay trailing after.

  Grae looked back, even as he urged Kiven to greater speed. Their dragon sires and dams disappeared beneath a multitude of torn shapes. Roars became cries of pain as frenzied slashing began. More monsters massed on the roof and in the paddock beyond, the upper tiers of nests as well. Grae screamed in anguish. His home. His brothers. His parents. Everything he’d ever known.

  The last he saw of Ardran, his father was backed into a corner, his brood behind him. Blackened things shaped like men approached, some with weapons, some with large canvas bags. Ardran turned to his babies. Raised his machete to deprive the enemy of as many as he could. The blade fell only twice.

  The last thing Grae heard from his father was a howl of anger and despair as the hell things swarmed him.

  ONE

  A DRAGON HANDLER WITH her head in the clouds is cursed. Those were my mother’s last words to me. Spoken in anger, they have haunted me ever since.

  I paused on the stone bridge that connected the clifftop manor to the aeries. Was my head in the clouds if I dared to hope? I looked at the dragon silhouettes against the gray light ahead and shivered in the chill pre-dawn air.

  Tomorrow was Brood Day. The Ministry buyers would come for our dragon babies. The season would end with feasting and spectacle. But this year might be better than ever. We had an extra-large clutch of dragonlings—our biggest ever—and Father had wanted a new breeding pair since forever ago. Surely the Ministry wouldn’t need every qit. Father meant to petition them to let us keep two.

  One for Darian. And one for me.

  My ancestors, as far back as anyone could recount, had bred dragons, first for warlords, then for Kings. And after the Empire of Gurvaan subjugated our western province of Gadia, we bred dragons for the Dragonry of the Emperor. Our aeries weren’t the biggest—that would be Cuuloda to the north, run by Ardran and his sons. They visited us from time to time to trade eggs or share news. But our qits were sought after. Father liked to boast that generals flew on our dragons. It was true.

  Surely another breeding pair would be a good thing, wouldn’t it?

  “Maia!” Darian trotted back across the bridge with his lantern and plucked at my sleeve. “This is not the time to stand here daydreaming, girl. What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing.” I turned and looked up at him. When did he get so tall? Together we continued on toward the paddock. “We’ve worked hard, Dare. We’ve earned it.”

  Darian didn’t say anything. He had that look, the one that made me think of Father when his anger was brewing—hair black as a storm cloud, straight nose slightly wrinkled, dark eyes glinting. He wouldn’t look at me. My stomach twisted. “It’s the perfect year for it. We’re both of age and we’ve got more qits than we ever had.”

  “I know, but—”

  “But what? What aren’t you telling me?”

  His chin bunched up. “Not now, Maia.”

  “I know exactly which qit you’ve got your heart set on, Dare.”

  “Korruzon’s mighty farts, Maia! We have work to do. Come on.” He broke into a trot, leaving me alone in the dark.

  I almost laughed—Darian had an irreverent curse for every occasion. He’d defamed Korruzon Himself, the mount of the Emperor Ahriman. Centuries old, Korruzon was one of the Avar—the High Dragons, mystical creatures of spirit and magic. Not like the mountain dragons we bred, mere animals by comparison. The High Dragons existed in a realm outside of the familiar natural world. Some claimed that High Dragons could even breathe fire. Korruzon had served every emperor since Gurvaan’s beginning, as advisor, head of the Dragon Temple—de facto ruler, really. The Dragon Temple said He was older even than that—He was some sort of manifestation of the original creator of the universe. That was hard to understand, but the answers to my questions only made Him seem like something out of a story. Above reality. A God.

  But something closer to home was wrong. What did Darian know that I didn’t? I watched him disappear into the gloom. The war wasn’t going well—we’d heard rumor enough to suspect it. I turned my back on the compound to see the first red light of dawn touch the waterfall to the north called the Roaring. Lights fluttered on in the village of Riat far below. Smoke in the chimneys spoke of renewal, the turning of the clock. Tomorrow, the Ministry’s gold would flow into Riat through our aeries. Brood Day was a celebration for the villagers too. For all of us.

  The clop of hooves and rattle of wheels turned my head. A wagon crossed the yard onto the bridge, pulled by a bay mare. A lantern swinging from a hook illuminated the driver.

  “Fren!” I jogged to the wagon and climbed up. I’d known Fren all my life. He’d let me ride his horse when I could barely walk. We seldom saw him more than twice a year—in the winter when he brought us ice from the high lakes to replenish the vaults, and on Brood Day, when he brought us wood chips for the nests. Between times he might wander in with lumber or a deer for our dragons, or news from the forest.

  The load of cedar chips in the wagon filled my nose with its spicy perfume. It would make a clean, pleasant presentation of the nests.

  “How’s your shadow, m’lady?” He looked down at me with a wide smile that deepened the laugh lines around his mouth and crinkled the corners of his eyes.

  “My shadow is well. How’s yours?”

  “Well.” He laughed. This was our usual greeting. Fren told me once that it meant something particular. A person has two shadows: the one made by the sun, and the one that follows each person after death, the aftereffects of every deed. “Allow light to balance the darkness,” he’d explained, “for everything you do leaves a shadow—a ripple on the Evertide.”

  You were supposed to keep an eye on your shadow—the second kind. I didn’t know what it meant, really. Something only Fren ever said.

  “This is a new horse.” He pointed. “I’ll need to keep some distance today, cuz she’s not used to dragons.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be fine. We’ll keep an eye out for you.” I bounced down from his wagon and started toward the paddock.

  “Happy Brood Day, Miss Maia!” he called after me. “I know your expectations are high this year. But don’t forget you were born the day of a Morningtide. You’re lucky!”

  I laughed, but I didn’t feel lucky. Not with my brother acting strange, and Mother’s words echoing in my memory. I turned and hurried after Darian.

  The sound of the Roaring swallowed the scuff of my boots on the bridge paving.

  Beyond the tall stone walls of the storehouse, the paddock was a blur of action. Local farmers unloaded crates of melons and squawking chickens for the dragons’ dinners, or shoveled out cartloads of straw or woodchips into holding bins. Extra hands hired from the farms swept and raked every inch of the compound. The tack house doors were open wide and the saddles already rolled out for the broodparents’ outing. The oiled leather and studs sparkled in the lamplight.r />
  I turned the corner toward the still-closed broodhouse full of dragon qits and almost ran into Darian. He’d stopped to watch the show.

  “Don’t put that there!” Father waved off a sweating farmer’s son backing a rickety cart up to one of the bins. “You! What are you doing? I told you to wait with that straw. It doesn’t go there.” The scrawny youth wrestled with the reins of his nervous horse, one eye on Father as he struggled to turn his cart out of the way. The poor boy looked ready to whip up his horse and bolt. I felt for him. On the day before Brood Day, Father’s temper could be quick. He was a big man—his name, Magha, meant “mighty.” Tattoos from his time in the Dragonry covered his arms. He had the bond mark, of course, and his insignias of rank, but also the strange filigree of the healing craft around his scars. He was imposing in any circumstance, but even more so with Shuja next to him.

  Huge and jet-black, Shuja stepped eagerly into place under the saddle jib, his massive wings tucked in close, his long neck arched, the frill stretched taut and upright. “Han-t!” Shuja said happily. He was a good speaker, but that was the best a dragon-mouth could do with the word “hunt.” Shuja loved the hunt. His eyes gleamed golden and happy. Father steered the crane’s arm over Shuja’s saddle, then climbed up to hook the saddle’s rings to the jib, fore and aft, shouting orders over his shoulder. He turned our way and his eyes narrowed.

  “Dare, where is your sister?”

  “Right here.” I stepped up beside Darian, noting the relief of the farmer’s son now that Father’s attention turned away from him.

  “Good. The two of you draw water and bathe the broodlings. Clear the soiled straw out of the nests, wash them out, and refill them with wood chips. Sweep the platform and pick up any stray tools. Inspect the harnesses as you clean and oil them. I want everything sharp and spotless. Presentation affects sales!”

  The Brood Day Lecture. I glanced at Darian. Hiding behind the glare of his lantern, he mouthed Father’s words almost verbatim, his upper lip protruding comically. I punched him in the arm. “Stop it,” I whispered.