The New Age

by Chris D'Lacey

  Leif shivered. “What do they want?”

  “I know not,” said the woman. “They have killed our few men, but spared the rest. They came a day ago as we were readying to leave in search of new lands. Their talk is as good as mush to my ears, but I see their eyes turning long to the mountains. They have some ugly purpose there.”

  “You think they have come to war with the skalers?”

  The woman gave a shake of her curls. “Whatever they are planning, it will be of no value to your tribe or mine.” She moved nearer to Leif to warm her a little. “Leif. That is a kindly name. It sits well on you.”

  Leif gave a small nod of thanks. “And you? What do I name you?”

  “Mell,” said the woman. “My name is Mell Whitehair.”

  Leif jerked her head up. “Whitehair? You have a boy of that name?”

  “I did once,” said Mell. “Ren is disappeared, taken by skalers.”

  “Nay,” said Leif. “I spied him in the forest, with a girl of odd teeth.”

  “Pine?” Mell’s eyes came alive. “He was with Pine? What else do you know?”

  “Only what the forest whispers: He lives and rides free on the spirit of a whinney.”

  Mell closed her eyes. She let loose a sigh and put her head back. “Bless you, child. You have answered my prayers. Now, now it will come.”

  “What will come?” said Leif.

  Mell opened her eyes. She looked through the hole in the roof of the shelter and smiled as if the stars were shining upon her. “Hope,” she said quietly. “Hope.”

  Darkness fell. And with it, some snow. With that came a stabbing cold, though it wasn’t the chill outside the shelter causing Leif’s delicate teeth to chatter.

  The Gibbus who had taken the frooms was dying. Leif could hear its death throes splitting the night. Its whimpering growls were hard on her ears, but the fate she knew must fall on her was worse.

  “Leif, why do you weep?”

  Mell shuffled up, settling herself with her back against the wall. The Gibbus had moved their prisoners to a different dwelling a short way beyond the main settlement. It had once been the keep of the farmer Waylen Treader. Its roof was sagging but mostly intact. Every now and then, when the clouds would allow, weak strikes of moonlight broke through a window space, throwing some rays across the straw-covered floor. The shadow of a Gibbus guard regularly appeared in them.

  “They will hurt me,” Leif whispered. “When it dies, they will come.” She explained about the frooms—and their deadly purpose. That plan—to poison skalers—was blown away now.

  Mell chewed her lip in thought. “Can you speak the Gibbus tongue?”

  Leif wriggled her shoulders. “Some words are easier than others. But I do not think they will listen to my plea—if that is what you were thinking.”

  Mell shook her head. “I must ask you something. Did you arrive here alone?”

  “Aye.”

  “By what means?”

  “I came along the river. By raft.”

  Mell nodded. “Did you lodge it on the riverbank?”

  “Aye. In the shallows, where the trees droop.”

  Mell nodded again. A determined smile passed across her lips. “How many small ones do you think it will carry?”

  Leif looked at the children, huddled up in the shadows. “You have a plan for them?”

  “Shhhh. Yes. How many?”

  Leif counted the heads. “Some, not all.”

  “Good. Harken well to me now. On my word, I want you to call the guard. Use whatever talk you think it will know. Say you are unwell, in need of healing. You must draw it through the door space, into the shelter.”

  Leif looked at the bulky shadow. “Why?”

  “Our captors are not as wily as they think. This place was once the home of a farmer. He kept tools here. On my word. Be ready.”

  With that, Mell nodded at a woman in the corner. That woman in turn passed a message to another. Quietly, the second woman moved aside some of the straw with her feet. Leif, whose eyes were used to seeing in shade, could make out a large iron ring in the floor. Her sap quickly rose. A trapdoor!

  On a nod from Mell, who was all the while watching for movement from the guard, one of the women, a broad-shouldered lass of about Mell’s age, knelt by the door and extended her hands to slip her fingers into the ring.

  She clenched her teeth and tugged.

  Up came the door. But not high enough. Mell nodded at two other women. Both shuffled around and pushed their legs into the gap, supporting the weight of the door between them.

  Now the first woman let go of the ring and put her hands under the door itself. With a mighty effort, she straightened her back. The door surrendered with the slightest of creaks. Another woman managed to stop it with her shoulder before it could knock back against the wall. Gently, she set it there to rest.

  Mell shuffled forward. By the time she had reached the hatch, one of the women had dipped into Waylen’s cache of tools and lifted out a knife between her feet. She quickly moved the knife into the hands of another, who turned to creep over behind Mell’s back. Moments later, Mell’s hands were free. Praise you, she said to Waylen’s spirit. The farmer had always kept his tools sharp.

  Mell cut through the ties at her ankles and swiftly cut the twine on the women who’d opened the trap. While they raided the store for any kind of weapon, Mell began releasing others from their binds, including Leif. As she freed the children, she touched her fingers to their trembling lips and bade them shut their eyes and bow their heads.

  Mell stood up. She looked at a woman who was handing out tools. The woman threw an object across the gap between them. Mell caught it and twisted her fist around the grip. Leif gulped. It was a hooked blade, a sickle, used for reaping crops.

  With all the stealth of a creature of the night, Mell slipped into the shadows close to the door. She closed both hands firmly around the handle of the blade. Now, she mouthed at Leif.

  Leif’s sap was bitter with fear. But the pity she felt in her heartwood for the children spurred her on. This might be their only chance to live.

  Putting her hands behind her back to mimic being tied, she gave out an aching moan. The guard didn’t move. On a nod from Mell, Leif moaned again. This time, the guard looked into the shelter. It barked a command, clearly wanting silence. “Help me,” Leif groaned. The guard barked again. “I have a fever,” said Leif.

  She rolled onto her side.

  The guard filled the doorway, blocking the light. It snapped out two harsh words. The words were rough and set deep in the throat, but Leif understood them as “Come. Show.”

  “Too weak,” she wailed.

  She brought froth to her mouth.

  The guard snorted and bared its teeth. It looked over its shoulder, perhaps thinking it should call for assistance.

  That would have been a wise move.

  Instead, it stepped into the shelter alone and bent its head to stare at Leif.

  The instant she saw Mell move, Leif turned her face aside. She heard the swish of a blade falling fast through the air. Something warm and moist sprayed across her face. She heard a sickening thump as the Gibbus collapsed. When Mell touched her on the shoulder a moment later, it was all Leif could do not to wail in terror. She was shaking like a sapling in the wind.

  “Be swift,” Mell whispered closely. She ran her hand down the treegirl’s face. “Do not look at the beast, for I tell you plain it cannot look at you. What’s done is done. Blood for blood. We must go. To the river. Take my hand, girl. Come!”

  And they fled, ushering the children first, carrying any who could not run. A light wash of snow had stuck to the ground, making their passage soft and quiet. Leif was worried about the trail they had left and told Mell this when they reached the river.

  “There is nought we can do,” Mell said. “If they come, they come. It was a risk worth taking.”

  Leif looked down the bank. The raft was already filled with children. Two women w
ere in the water, guiding the raft out into the river. “What are you planning?” said Leif, a little panic in her voice. “The raft will only hold so many and the mothers will freeze in the water. If the Gibbus come, they will slaughter the innocents left on the shore and—”

  “Shhhh,” Mell said kindly, “be calm. We will ferry the young to the far side of the river. The Gibbus do not like water. And have no fears for the Kaal. We are mountain people. We wear the cold well.”

  Despite these words, Leif could see it was going to take at least three crossings to move every child to safety. And so she spoke to the nearest willow and broke off a branch, one with many twigs and leaves. She said to Mell, “I am going back—to sweep the trail.”

  “No!” Mell took her arm.

  “I must,” said Leif. “If I sweep the tracks, they may look another way before the river.”

  “The danger is too great,” said Mell.

  Leif eased Mell’s hand away. “I can run faster than any of them. And though I traveled here by water, I cannot swim.”

  “We have the raft.”

  Leif shook her head. “I will not put myself ahead of your young. But nor will I wait when I know I can help them. When I’m done, I will make my escape to the forest. I must warn my people, Mell.”

  Mell saw the need in this. She put down the sickle and drew Leif to her, holding the girl in close. “I give you my pledge I will see you again. May the spirits of your people bless and protect you.”

  “And yours,” said Leif, her heartwood swelling.

  And she turned for the shelters and hurried away.

  It was as the raft was taking its final load that Mell heard a sound that chilled her bones. It was high-pitched, a little way off, unmistakably a cry of pain. She was in the water up to her middle, helping to push the raft off the shore. She turned her head to look back. “What was that?”

  “Redfurs, scavenging,” the nearest woman said. She leaned against the raft. “Hurry, Mell. We are almost away.”

  “That was no redfur,” Mell said quietly. “That was Leif. I must go to her.” She lifted her robe and turned back for the shore.

  “Mell, stop! If they have caught her, her sap will already be spilled!”

  “Then mark me as foolish in your memories,” said Mell. She jumped ashore and picked up the sickle and a knife. “The girl has given our tribe a chance. Now I must show the same favor to her.”

  The woman shivered but gave a slight nod. She made the sign of the Fathers and said no more. By the time she’d slipped fully into the water, Mell was racing back toward the shelters.

  They had dragged Leif into the central clearing. The girl was on her knees, held by her hair. As Mell approached, the Gibbus holding Leif pulled back her head to expose her throat. Mell saw the beast’s evil claws slip out and knew the girl was moments from death. By then, Mell was closing so fast she had no time to think of the peril. With a savage cry, she burst through the crowd and slammed the heavy sickle into the back of the Gibbus holding Leif. The blade stuck there like a crippled moon. Fluids gurgled in the throat of the beast. It coughed and spat its own blood as it fell.

  Mell stood over Leif, switching the knife between both hands and shouting her battle cries at the creatures: “WHICH OF YOU WILL GO TO THE NEXT WORLD WITH ME?!”

  For that was the fate she was now resigned to: one more Gibbus on her blade before she died. But one crept forward from behind and wrested the blade from her. Then she was on her knees beside Leif, both their throats exposed.

  A heavy-looking Gibbus with flecks of gray hair in its face came forward. The rest of the creatures were beating the ground, screaming for blood and sap and vengeance. Mell gritted her teeth. The sound was deafening. She glanced at Leif. The girl had almost passed out.

  The gray Gibbus raised an arm. The noise fell to a dribble of irritated chatter. The gray one spoke at some length. The Gibbus holding Mell shook her hard, clearly not liking what the gray one had ordered. Another one picked up a half-squashed froom and made gestures suggesting they should fill the prisoners’ mouths with the poison. But the voice of the gray was law, it seemed. The next Mell knew, she and Leif were being dragged into a shelter again, where they were bound and put under guard once more.

  “What did it say?” asked Mell when she could get close enough to Leif to whisper. Outside, the Gibbus were dancing, taking it in turns to wear or hurl abuse at the skaler skull. “Leif, why did they spare us?”

  “You should not have returned,” Leif croaked.

  Mell threw back her hair. “I heard your cry. I could not forsake you. Tell me. What did the gray one say?”

  Leif shuddered and put her head on Mell’s shoulder. “They are going to lay your men on the hillside.”

  “Why?”

  “To draw a skaler down from the mountains.”

  Mell took a slow breath. “And then?”

  “They plan to take a young one.”

  “How?”

  “I know not.”

  Mell shook her head, trying to make sense of this. “How does a skaler pupp aid their cause?”

  “They do not say,” said Leif. “But to keep it, they will have to feed it. Those were the last words of the gray. That is to be our punishment, Mell. We are spared—to be fed, in pieces, to a baby skaler.”

  Prime Grynt’s eyrie on the mountain known as Skytouch

  Two days after the burning of Gallen

  “Find him,” Grynt hissed, almost grinding the words into dust, so harsh was the snarl going through his throat. “Find the boy and bring him to me in as many pieces as you care to tear him.”

  “Prime, with respect—”

  “Don’t tell me it cannot be done!” The stone walls of the giant eyrie shuddered to the thunder of Grynt’s response. The two dragons attending him stepped back a little, obediently bowing their heads. They were De:allus Garodor, the chief advisor to the Prime, and the brave young roamer Gabrial. Gabrial settled his striking blue wings and glanced nervously at Garodor, urging him to speak again.

  Garodor was bold and to the point. “Two days ago, Ren stood in the forest in the arc of your flame and not a hair on his head was harmed. How this came about, we don’t truly know. But if his boasts about Graven are true, it’s little wonder we can’t find him. He is now much more than a mere Hom boy. He has the auma of Godith’s son burning in his chest.”

  “Godith,” Grynt snarled.

  Gabrial shuffled his feet and looked out at the silent, snowcapped mountains, shocked by Grynt’s surprising lack of reverence. Godith, the Creator of all dragonkind, had brutally punished Her first son, Graven, for accidentally taking the life of his younger brother, G’restyn. She had removed Graven’s third heart and secreted it here, on this strange planet the Hom called Erth. Ren—the boy the dragons were seeking—had not only found the heart but apparently laid claim to its power as well. This had given credence to the age-old myth that Graven would one day rise again as an evil black dragon, though no one had expected a Hom to be involved. That somehow made the prospect much more terrifying.

  “I would like to ask a question.”

  A fourth dragon emerged from the back of the cave, speaking in a voice that sent a chill creeping under Gabrial’s scales. Her name was Gossana. Like Grynt, she was an Elder, and the highest-ranking female in the colony. Gabrial disliked her intensely. If ever there was a dragon with cruel eyes, it was she. They were like two gashes on her pointed snout, one a common shade of amber, the other continually swimming with red. Both were capable of changing color, a trait Gossana typically employed to instill fear in any dragon she considered beneath her.

  Raising the sawfin scales that fanned out across the back of her head, she stared imperiously at Garodor and said, “If the boy is not to be dragged before us like a skewered rabbit, what does De:allus Garodor propose?”

  Garodor released a plug of gray smoke. “In my opinion, we should release the two Hom we’re holding prisoner and the Wearle should stand down from their
battle positions.”

  “What?” said Gabrial. He hadn’t been expecting a strategy like that. He looked nervously at Grynt, aware of the heat building in the Prime dragon’s nostrils. Grynt had been a fearsome warrior in his youth. His silver breast scales were still fully armored and made an impressive shield to this day. He rarely engaged in battle now, but the idea of retreat would be alien to him. His answer, not surprisingly, was suitably ominous.

  “I would rather cut off my tail and feed it to a crow than let that boy or any of his kind undermine my command. Too many good dragons have perished because we were slow to stamp out the Hom threat.”

  “A questionable threat at best,” argued Garodor, a response that made Grynt visibly seethe. “We should not forget Ren sided with us against our enemies and has only ever shown what you would call treachery when he has been unkindly treated. To go to war with him now would be dangerous. The roamers might not have the stomach for it. This business in the forest has caused great anxiety throughout the Wearle. The young dragons circling the sky that day witnessed your failure to kill the boy and heard his warning to you not to oppress his people, the Kaal. All that has done is fuel the rumors that Ren now commands the power of Graven. The roamers are frightened, Grynt. They would be doubly disturbed if they could hear what I’m about to tell you next. There’s a sinister undercurrent to this mission. The Wearle who came to Erth before us were ordered to seek out and mine fhosforent in these mountains. Note those words. They were not expected to map and explore. They were ordered to dig.”

  “Your point?” drawled Gossana, picking at a shred of meat between her fangs.

  Garodor fixed his gaze on Grynt. “I believe fhosforent to be the blood of Graven.”

  “What?!” Gossana coughed out loudly, spraying Gabrial with spots of fiery saliva.

  “Someone on Ki:mera knew about Graven and where to look for him,” Garodor pressed on. “But I can’t prove anything by staying here. I therefore request I be allowed to return to Ki:mera without delay, so I might access the Kashic Archive and research the findings I’ve made. I further suggest that because of the unresolved tension on Erth the more vulnerable members of the Wearle go with me.”