by Devin Hanson
He sighed. The sleet dribbled around his hood and down the front of his shirt, making him shiver. He might as well face the facts. Collecting dragon dung was a dead end. He could scrape together a meager living, if you could call it that, but sooner or later his luck would run out. An injury on the mountainside, too many days without any dung to find, or just bad luck with a dragon, all would end in the same way: death. If he wanted to get out of the rut he was in, he would have to take a chance. It was dangerous, but he would have to actively work to get close to where the dragon's prey was. The closer he was to a dragon, the better chance he'd have of finding a scale.
As Andrew climbed, he took care to keep his cloak tucked close about him and the loose ends from flapping in the gusting sleet. It only took a second of the cloak flapping like a flag to attract the attention of a dragon, and though it hadn't happened often, Andrew had ridden back to Andronath in a wagon with only five people in the back more times than he cared to remember.
An hour into the climb the weather started to break. The sleet dried up and the sun came out sporadically through the scudding clouds. Andrew found an old pile of dragon dung caught in a crevice, but the telltale scent of cinnamon had long since faded away. Whatever essence an alchemist recovered from the dung drained away fairly quickly and within a week there wasn't anything left worth carrying back to the city.
With the clouds moving off, Andrew spent more and more of his time scanning the skies and the mountain sides about him for signs of goats. The sun was out, so the possibility of a dragon flying by was rather low. Nevertheless, the possibility was there. Without the cloud cover, the dragons would hover high above the mountains, riding thermals, watching for the movement of possible prey. If there was a dragon overhead, there wasn't anything to do but lie still, pretend to be a rock with your cloak tucked tight around you, and wait for it to move on.
Some time during the climb Andrew had lost sight of the other collectors. They would scatter about the mountainside, jealous of their finds and possibly violent if they felt someone was poaching on their strip. Andrew had made no friends among the collectors, and none had made any effort to befriend him. It was cutthroat work, with no room for kindness or consideration.
Andrew found a scattering of goat droppings in a cleft in the rock. He prodded one with a finger and was rewarded with a pungent smell. Still fresh. He hesitated. There were goats nearby. Normally, he would turn around and go a different way, but today he was going to do the opposite.
One of the very first things he had learned as a collector was that you never ever climbed next to possible prey. If there was a herd of goats on a mountain, you might watch from a safe distance in case a dragon came and ate a few, but you stayed far away from them until the dragon had left, and even then, you collected the dung while keeping a weather eye out in case the goats came back and attracted a second dragon.
The goat spoor led upward. Andrew swallowed and forced his feet to move. Once he was moving, it got easier. He lost himself in the mechanical action of climbing the steep slope and even started to enjoy it. The sun warmed his back as he climbed and he scrambled upward, following the trail of the goats, pausing occasionally to check nearby scrub for the telltale nibbling on new growth.
Distant on the wind, Andrew heard a whistle of warning, almost at the same time as he heard the scrabbling of a goat on the rocks above him.
Andrew froze in place. He was in an awkward position, halfway extended climbing up a small rock outcropping. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead. With the thrill of fear in his stomach, he took a chance and pulled himself the rest of the way up onto the ledge then tucked his cloak tight about him, kneeling on the edges so it wouldn't flap in a sudden gust.
The clatter of hooves on stone sounded nearby, and out of the corner of his eye, Andrew saw a trio of goats leap down onto the ledge with him with their characteristically graceful movements. Completely oblivious of him not a dozen paces away, they browsed at a patch of brambles showing an early budding.
Andrew felt sick with fear. It was one thing to decide to go looking for goats. It was another entirely to find them. The cloak as a disguise worked quite well, so long as the dragon stayed far in the distance. He had never heard of someone staying hidden with a dragon only a few feet away.
A second whistle sounded, this time further up the hill, the same piercing note as before, not the two-toned ‘all clear' signal. The dragon was still somewhere nearby. Slowly, Andrew turned his head until he could see the goats more clearly. They were typical specimens, their coats winter-heavy, with long curling horns on their heads. They tore at the brambles and chewed noisily, completely unafraid.
If the goats weren't afraid, the dragon wasn't near. Intellectually, Andrew knew that was wishful thinking. Goats weren't exactly the brightest animal and dragons could be surprisingly stealthy, approaching using the sun as cover, or swooping in from around a fold in the mountain.
He heard the dragon before the goats did, a distant hiss of wind on a leathery wing. He tensed, holding tight to the rock. Abruptly, the goats sensed the dragon, and sprang apart, bleating. Sudden shadows eclipsed the sun and a wash of air blew past Andrew, suffocatingly strong with cinnamon. Andrew saw one of the goats get plucked out the air by the dragon, great jaws snapping closed on the animal, cutting its bleat off with a crunch of bone breaking.
The ground shook as the dragon landed. From the corner of his hood, Andrew saw a great clawed foot dig into the ground, close enough that he could have reached out and touched it. This dragon wasn't as large as the one that had fought the airships, maybe only a third the size. The scales seemed to glow a deep red and the dragon put off heat like a forge fire.
With a series of wet rending tears, the dragon ripped the goat apart and bolted the pieces, the hot scent of blood combining with the cinnamon in a sickening mixture. For some reason, the terror Andrew had felt before the dragon had landed was gone. All he felt was excitement.
A sudden wash of air and the dragon was gone, chasing down the other two goats. Andrew stared at the stone where the dragon had landed. The granite was crazed where the claws had punched in to gain purchase and a heavy spatter of blood and gore marked where the goat had met its end.
Among the cracked stone, a gleam of copper caught Andrew's eye. A sudden hope crushed his chest, more painful than the terror of a moment before. Throwing caution to the winds, Andrew scurried forward, taking only unconscious care to keep his cloak tucked about him. He hunched back down and shifted through some of the shattered stone. A single scale came into view, scraped off by a sharp rock edge or the initial impact with the ledge. It was roughly half the size of his hand, oval with a point at one end. The whole surface was a tangle of striations and whorls, some more prominent than others, but not a single inch of the surface was devoid of the markings.
With a shaking hand, Andrew picked up the scale, cursing softly as he realized it was hot to the touch, almost too hot to pick up with his fingers. He dropped it to suck on his fingers. How was he going to carry the scale? He fumbled through his belt pouch and came up with his leather purse. The leather was worn thin but it might hold up to the heat of the scale. Carefully he wrapped the scale in the purse, lashing it tight with the thong and put it back into his pouch.
In the distance, the all-clear whistle sounded, and Andrew looked around him. The scent of cinnamon came from just over the edge of the outcrop and he scrambled that way to find a steaming pile of dung the size of a prize-winning pumpkin. He quickly unwrapped the gunny sack from around his torso and set about shoveling the dung into the sack. He managed to fit most of the pile into the sack before it was full and he was tying it down when the nearest collector slid down the slope onto the outcrop.
"You mad bastard!" the woman said, eyes wide with some tangled combination of fear, envy, outrage and admiration. "Climbing next to goats like that. Mine old heart did almost stop when I heard that whistle. You gonna be able to fit the rest of that?"
Andrew smiled, the rapid surge of emotions from the last few minutes had left him feeling giddy. "Go ahead," he said. "My gunny's full." He stood back while the woman made quick work of the remains of the pile.
"Oy, he over here!" Another collector called from nearby.
Rough laughter. "He's a fool climbing by a goat." A confident baritone declared. "I saws the goat up there and I says to meself, I did, no body in they right mind be hoofing it by the goats."
"Hah. Sure nuff, you did. Me thinks you just be winded and the boy beat you out. Poxy lad's got a full gunny, he does. Lucky sod."
"Come on then, there still be goods to be had up further. Dragon be hunting, which means there be lots to collect."
The collectors left him, heading higher up on the mountain where one of them claimed he saw the dragon finish off another goat.
The heavy gunny felt hot on his back as he settled the straps over his shoulders. The contents of the sack was worth over a month's normal hauls, enough to buy him new boots, real gloves, a new cloak and hot meals for a week. The heat of the dung was eclipsed by the scale in his pouch. It pressed against his thigh as he walked, and where the dung was blood-warm, the scale was searing hot.
With the scale, he could finally gain entry to the Academy if he wanted to. Or he could sell it. What had that old professor said? A flux was worth more than the dragongas it contained. A hundred gold royals for bare entry to the Academy. What would a flux like the scale get him? Two hundred? A thousand?
The thought made his head spin. What could he do with a thousand royals? What was worth more to him? The money, or entrance to the Academy? It had been so long since he had even thought about it, that he didn't know what to think.
As he climbed down the mountain, careful with the weight of the full gunny on his back, he dusted off old memories that he hadn't thought about for years. He thought of his parents, their faces almost gone from his memory now, but the pride in his mother's voice as she hugged him after his graduation was still there, sharp as ever. She believed in King Delran's vision of claiming the skies from the dragons. Andrew did too, though the last several years had tempered that idealism with a firm dose of reality.
With the prospect of a good bed and a hot meal, Andrew found himself regaining some of that forgotten idealism. Lofty goals, it seemed, were a lot easier to strive for on a full stomach.
By the time he reached the wagon, he had decided to keep the scale. Even a thousand royals, which seemed like an endless supply of money from his current position, would be gone eventually and then he'd be back where he was now. No, his hope for a better life for himself and a chance to do something about the dragon threat could only be achieved through entrance to the Academy.
The wagon driver was dozing in the bed of the wagon, head propped up on an empty gunny sack. Andrew heaved his full sack off his shoulder and dropped it onto the bed of the wagon, startling Ivan awake.
"Eh? Oh, it's you. You be back early, Gunny," he said as way of greeting. "Whatchu got for me, then?"
Andrew slapped the side of the gunny sack. "Full load. Not a minute old."
The wagoneer wrinkled his nose at the heavy scent of cinnamon. "Lucky haul. You ain't normally so good."
"Luck nothing," Andrew grunted. "Burning dragon practically landed on top of me, dropped this load off not ten paces from where I hid."
"Haw. Thought you knew better than to climb by the goats, boy. Set yourself somewhere. There still be two hours yet before we start heading back. I'll be using that time sleeping. You disturb me and I'll take it out of your hide."
Ivan resumed his position in the wagon and in a few minutes was rumbling comfortable snores. Andrew watched him for a few minutes then, satisfied the man was really asleep, withdrew deeper under the overhang where the horses were pressed together, nose to tail for warmth. He scratched one of the horses around the ears and it whickered at him good naturedly.
Confident that he had some privacy, Andrew knelt down and drew the scale from its pouch. The leather purse he had wrapped it in a few hours ago was scorched from the heat, blackened and cracked. In the shadows of the overhang, he saw that the scale had a slight glow to it, mostly in the deeper striations and whorls.
He held the scale delicately by a double-folded flap of leather and examined it with more leisure than he had originally. The scale was a deep red and gave off a stifling burnt-cinnamon smell. The edges were serrated slightly. Andrew examined it closely as long as he could before the heat made him set it down on a rock.
Something in the striations caught his eye, a pattern familiar yet still unknown. He puzzled over it for a while then gave it up as just another mystery of the dragons. With a sigh, he wrapped the scale back in its leather covering and slid it back into his pouch. Unlocking the mystery of the scale would have to wait until he was actually in the Academy Alchemic.
Too excited to follow Ivan's example, he put his back to the trunk of one of the pine trees and thought about the life he had left behind, and where his wondrous find would take him in the future.
Chapter 7
Rune Scale
As the wagon bounced through the ruts in the road on the way back to Andronath, Andrew sat with his side pressed against the hard wooden rail and tried not to get his ribs dislocated. He had claimed his seat first so the pouch with the scale in it was pressed against wood rather than someone else's thigh, and the scale was uncomfortably hot.
What the other climbers would do to him if they found out he was hiding discovery of the scale didn't bear thinking on. The very best outcome would be a knife in the ribs. He could already hear the protests of innocence. "The dragon done et him. Twant our fault he was soft in the head. He spooked en the dragon … (pause for dramatic effect) I might just find a piece o hisself in my collections…?" Nobody would even think to look for his body. Then again, he doubted the other climbers would have to justify their actions. Nobody would miss him.
The wagon rolled through the gates with the setting sun, along with ten or twelve other collector wagons. With his newfound wealth literally burning a hole in his pocket, Andrew wasn't interested in sticking around and helping with the unloading. They'd dock his cut for it, and he'd have to delay picking up the money until tomorrow morning, but it was worth it.
"Ivan!" he called, "I'm getting out here."
Ivan grumbled something and waved a hand vaguely over his head. Andrew took that to mean, ‘do what you want, I'm not slowing down.'
Andrew pushed his way to his feet, enduring the curses of the other collectors as he jostled them and leaped from the wagon. The horses were pulling it at a steady clip and Andrew stumbled as he landed, barely managing to keep his feet. The caravan of collector wagons rumbled past, and Andrew hesitated, wondering if he'd feel a sense of loss to be leaving the profession after so long.
Nope. Not a burned thing. The only thing Andrew felt as he turned and started walking uphill was a profound sense of relief.
The last time he had ventured up to the higher levels of the Merchant Quarter, his clothes had been plain, but new. He had been clean shaven, his skin unmarked by grime, his hair recently trimmed and orderly. This time, he hadn't gone more than two or three streets up the hill before he started attracting dirty looks. The people here were dressed nicely, their clothes free of patches or holes. The women wore jewelry and smelled of flowers and citrus.
Andrew caught a glimpse of himself in a shop window and cringed. His lean face was dirty, his hair too long and mussed, sticking out from under his hood at strange angles. His nails had grime under them, the makeshift gloves on his hands filthy with dragon dung and his boots were falling apart on his feet. The rest of his ragged clothing was no better, little better than the rags used to patch the worst of the holes.
He ducked into an alley and scrubbed the worst of the dirt off his face in a rain barrel and slicked his hair back into something approaching decency. Without a nail brush and a knife, his nails would have to remain the way they were, but he could s
hake the worst of the dust and dirt out of his cloak. His shirt was sweat-stained and smelled rancid, but there wasn't anything he could do about that short of jumping in the rain barrel. He briefly considered it then discarded it as a bad idea. The sun was starting to set and the shops would be closing soon.
Andrew continued up the hill, doing his best to hold his head high and walk like he had a reason to be there. The shops around him started promoting strange things in their windows, in a language he knew yet had no meaning to put to the words used. Getting desperate with the sinking sun, he picked a shop at random that seemed to have a lot of customers and stepped in the door.
It was a goods store, that much he could tell, though it was a rare item that he recognized and fewer still that he could put a name to. At any rate, it wasn't a raw goods trader, so he made a hasty exit before the clerk could throw him out.
He checked two more stores before he found what he was looking for. It was a wealthy store, with etched glass in the windows and rune-carved jars of pureglass holding dragon dung stacked in neat tiers. Behind the counter, scales stood on display, carefully tagged with numbers that escaped Andrew's understanding, though the price tags were clear enough. Other alchemical materials were on display as well, raw ingots of various metals, etching tools, grind stones and white vellum so pure it almost glowed in the light of swampgas lanterns. The people moving about the shelves and discussing prices quietly with the owner were clearly students from the University come to gather materials for their classes.
He sidled closer to the display case showing the scales and eyed the price tags, trying to get an idea of what he should try and bargain for. The prices staggered him. Why would anyone pay four hundred royals for a scale no bigger than an egg?
"Here now!" the clerk shouted at him. "Get away from there. We don't want your kind in here, this store is for students only."