The Dragon Star (Realms of Shadow and Grace: Volume 1)

by G. L. Breedon

  Hashel repeated this process of dashing along the street and through doorways so many times he lost count of the number he’d been through. He paused inside one of the larger homes, a house constructed with a tiled roof and separated into rooms within. He staggered through the doorways of the two rooms, the first leading to a sleeping chamber with a bed and the second to a small storeroom with wooden crates of dried goods stacked against a wall. Frustrated, he headed back outside to try the neighboring house. He didn’t know how many homes remained, and didn’t know what to do if he checked them all and failed to find himself back in the palace. Maybe he would need to check them all again.

  As he stepped out of the house, two hard, metal-clad hands grabbed him roughly and lifted him into the air. The two green-sashed soldiers had caught up with him. The one who held him shook him as he shouted.

  “Where is they, boy?” The man squeezed Hashel’s shoulders harder.

  Hashel groaned from the pain as the second soldier stepped near.

  “Who are ya, boy? Is ya one of theirs? Is ya left behind? A banner boy? Speak up.”

  Hashel looked between the two men, his face pleading for mercy even as his thoughts remained silent.

  “He ain’t one of ours.” The first soldier threw Hashel to the ground.

  Hashel gasped as he struck the hard, dry earth of the street, the air unwilling to reenter his lungs.

  “Kill ’im, then. We gots to catch up with the others.” The second soldier turned to walk away as the first grabbed the hilt of his sword.

  Hashel scrambled backward, still trying to breathe properly as the soldier drew his sword from the long sheath at his belt. He did not wonder what such a sharp blade would do to him. He had seen what it did to men with armor about their bodies. His own slender frame would be sectioned like the carcass of the pigs his father used to slaughter.

  As the soldier raised the sword to swing, he suddenly staggered backward. Hashel blinked, taking a moment to realize that the fletching of an arrow shaft protruded from the soldier’s face. The man screamed and fell to the ground. His companion rushed to his side.

  Hashel swallowed back the stinging heat rising in his throat and forced himself to his feet, willing them to move, to run, to pound the earth along the street and around a corner. He did not look back. He ignored the shouts of the soldier and the cries of his fallen comrade. Hashel ran to the first door he saw and raced through, closing his eyes, hoping he would open them to find himself once more in the stone corridors of the palace or the tree-lined lanes of its gardens.

  He stopped and open his eyes in the once again nearly lightless interior of a narrow hut. Unlike the other huts, this one held something different. An old woman sat on a chair near a dead fire hearth, her hands stretched out as though to warm them from the black-cold coals. The woman looked to him, her curly gray hair trimmed close to her scalp, the lines of her plum-black skin looking canyon-deep in the shadows of the hut. She stared at him with large, placid eyes.

  “You shouldn’t be out runnin’ about in a battle, boy.” The woman beckoned him closer as she pointed to the door. “Close that door and get inside. Won’t do no good to have ’em walk in on us.”

  Hashel pushed the rickety door to the hut closed but did not step closer to the woman. Something about her seemed familiar — the scent of a flower remembered but unidentified, plucked from someplace in the past and left to be found long after forgetting.

  “Nothin’ to fear, boy. I ain’t got no sword and wouldn’t know how to use it if I did.” The old woman smiled, her teeth yellowed with age.

  Hashel stepped closer to the old woman, still wary, but judging her words to be true. Whatever threat she might represent withered and shrank when compared with the danger outside the door. He needed to wait for the soldiers to pass away so he could resume checking doorways for a path back to the palace.

  “Yer a quiet one, ain’t ya, boy?” The old woman squinted as she examined him. “Beaver taken yer tongue fer a tail, has it?”

  Hashel thought about this for a moment and then nodded.

  “Figgered as much.” The old woman laughed quietly. “We ought not make much noise just now anyways. Ya hear that?”

  Hashel listened. He had been so concentrated on the woman that he had not noticed the sounds of battle getting louder once more.

  “The Tanshen has routed the Daeshen, who is fleein’ right for our little hiding spot.” The old woman looked to the back of the hut out the tiny open window.

  Hashel followed her eyes as he listened with his ears. The old woman spoke truly. It sounded as though an entire army raced straight for them.

  To continue reading the Witness story arena follow this link.

  To continue reading Hashel’s storyline follow this link.

  THE PHILOSOPHER

  SKETKEE

  A BEE flitted at the edge of a field of flowers petals, smooth pale blue contrasting with deep-furred yellow and black. Sketkee watched the insect with curiosity, wondering how such small wings could support such a bulky mass in flight for so long. The problem teased at her mind as she envisioned possible means of freeing herself from the bonds of gravity. It seemed strange that hundreds of years of study by rakthorian mechanical philosophers had produced only flimsy gliders that crashed with regularity. Surely if a creature like the bee could manage to stay aloft, a machine-driven conveyance for flying could be devised if the proper materials and a light enough steam engine were invented.

  “How long do you think they’ll take?”

  Sketkee turned from studying the insect in its search for pollen to study Kadmallin as he in turn observed three of their four rakthorian guards attempting to mend the broken axle of the wagon. The fourth guard stood near where they sat in the grass and flowered field beside the road. He held his hand on the hilt of his sword, his eyes never leaving them. She had hoped the breaking of the axle against a rut in the road might prove an opportunity for escape with the artifact. Her hopes had not survived long in the harsh light beyond the confines of the covered wagon. Their captor, Ambassador Viktik, stood not far away in the field, watching the scene from a distance.

  “They do not possess the tools, much less the skill, necessary to the task.” While excellent fighters, rakthor defenders did not often enjoy great mechanical inclination. Sketkee doubted the axle could be repaired. It needed to be replaced, an impossible probability so far between towns. She did not see a way to avoid abandoning it. Were she in command of the situation, she would have left it long ago.

  “Do you think I should offer to help?” Kadmallin tilted his head sideways as he looked at the rakthors bending to work.

  “I do not think that offer will be received in the manner intended.” Sketkee raised her rope-bound wrists to scratch her cheek where a fly made to aggravate it.

  “I’d intend to break the other axle on one of their heads.” Kadmallin leaned back with a sigh.

  “That would be unwise.” Sketkee wondered if Kadmallin seriously contemplated violent escape, or if he merely spoke in such a manner to entertain himself. She suspected the latter. Kadmallin had a seemingly inexhaustible appetite for self-amusement.

  “How much time will this continue to require?”

  Sketkee looked up to see Viktik walking toward the wagon as he spoke in Rakthorian to the guards trying to repair it.

  “Another hour, Ambassador,” the nearest guard said. “Possibly two. We may need to fell an appropriately sized tree and cut it to fit.”

  “You should abandon it and purchase another wagon in the next town.” Sketkee raised her bound hands to shield her eyes from the sun.

  “Your advice is neither requested nor required.” Viktik stepped closer. “At least in matters of carpentry.” He waved away the rakthor guarding them and looked down at her. “Tell me, what do you suspect is the cause for the change in the device?”

  “That is difficult to say.” Sketkee returned her gaze to the bee as it gathered its cargo from a new flower. �
�It has altered slightly four times since I reached the shores of the Iron Realm, most recently while in your possession. I do not suspect it to be an artifact of the geography of the realm itself but rather, a response to an event taking place within the realm.”

  “Do these alterations occur at regular intervals?” Viktik asked.

  “Not with any pattern I can discern.” Sketkee had spent several days attempting a mathematical assessment of the time between the strange changes in the device’s inner crystal patternings. She had done the same the previous day while riding in the wagon. The alterations appeared completely random.

  “What event might account for the changes?” Viktik asked the question as though he had several answers he suspected himself.

  “I considered a natural phenomenon, such as intense weather or earth tremors, but no such events took place in any proximity to the device when it changed.” Sketkee looked back to Viktik. She experienced an odd pleasure in using her skills and learning to tutor her captor, a disparity of knowledge that she hoped to fashion into an imbalance of power that she might use to her advantage. “As I have stated, I suspect that the changes relate somehow to the humans, their dreams of a god, and their pilgrimage.”

  “A suspicion founded in the absence of facts.” Viktik looked annoyed.

  “I suspect The Sight is in some manner responsible for the events the humans experience, and that it is also the cause of the changes to the device,” Sketkee said.

  “Wild conjecture without supporting information,” Viktik said.

  “A wild conjecture that can only be proved or disproved through careful observation under the proper conditions,” Sketkee replied.

  “Conditions that are themselves a conjecture.” Viktik turned away and looked along the road, back eastward the way they came.

  “All philosophical research involves a degree of unknown risk.” Sketkee realized this understated the case in her current circumstances. As Viktik’s captive, she could only prove her suspicions by staying alive long enough to do so. If he decided her notions were too fanciful, he might simply kill her and Kadmallin. “You must adopt an attitude of patience in the investigation of a phenomenon. Results can come quickly or slowly, but eventually, the truth of the matter will be revealed.”

  “Time is not in endless supply.” Viktik frowned.

  Sketkee followed his gaze to see a plume of dust rising in the air above the road. She recognized the meaning of the dust cloud. Kadmallin clearly did as well, for his next words in Rakthorian addressed that meaning directly.

  “You’ll need to release us.” Kadmallin leaned forward as he looked down the road.

  “Your human is confused. Possibly he has been in the sun too long. Humans do not take well to long exposure.” Viktik ignored his captives as he turned to the guards and grabbed the hood of his cloak. “Hoods up. Humans approach.”

  “Those aren’t just humans; those are pilgrims.” Kadmallin reached over and pulled Sketkee’s hood over her head. “Pilgrims are good. You can travel with them if you have someone to represent you.”

  “I do not need to travel with humans.” Viktik looked repulsed by the idea.

  “It’s the only rational option available to you.” Kadmallin looked up at Viktik. “This wagon is dead. You’ll have to abandon it. You are six rakthors traveling across Shen territory. If the militias find you, they may kill you simply because they can. They are wound up from killing heretic pilgrims and won’t care much about your diplomatic credentials. You might be able to fight off a band of bandits, but you won’t fare so easily against a well-trained militia. Even if you travel alone at night to avoid people, you’ll still need to interact with humans along the way. This is not the road to the coast you are used to. You cannot stay in inns where the keepers know you and set aside private rooms for you. You can only conceal what you are for so long. Better to hide in the open. Travel with the pilgrims. I can convince them to let you follow them. I’ve done it before.”

  “His assessment is correct.” Sketkee marveled momentarily at the subtlety of Kadmallin’s reasoning. Clearly, she had been a positive influence on his mental clarity.

  “If I release you to act as my emissary, what is to prevent you from trying to escape?” Viktik glanced at Kadmallin, unwilling to give the human extended consideration.

  “You will need to release both of us.” Kadmallin’s voice became firm as he looked to Sketkee. “The humans will see you as a threat if you have captives. They will worry that you, or we, are dangerous. You must pretend to be a rakthor delegation sent to investigate the pilgrims and their cause. A philosophical mission. They will ask to share in your provisions, but they will offer their wagons to carry them. However, you cannot carry the device in that chest. A chest of that nature implies something valuable that you do not wish stolen. It will encourage thieves.”

  “A wealth of opinion that does not answer the question I asked of you.” Viktik curled a lip at Kadmallin.

  “We will not escape because we have no need to.” Sketkee looked from Kadmallin to Viktik. “I have access to the device, and we are headed where I believe I will best be able to learn its secrets. As long as those two things remain true, we will have no cause to attempt reacquiring the device or escaping your companionship.”

  While Sketkee accepted the reasoning of her own words, she did not have any intention of holding herself to that logic. Viktik comprised an unpredictable variable in her endeavor to unravel the mystery of the device. He might as easily decide to return to their home realm of Ranikttak and dismantle the crystal artifact as continue to investigate her suppositions and try to reach the Forbidden Realm. While she might accept his presence if she felt he sincerely believed in the potential success of her plan, it would be best to be the one in possession and control of the device. Currently, she suspected that he pursued her hunch because he held one of his own. Whether that un-rakthor-like supposition revolved around her, the device, or both, she could not tell.

  “You will both be released during the day but always accompanied by one of my defenders.” Viktik looked from her face to Kadmallin’s and back. “At night, you will be bound and confined to a tent. If these terms are not acceptable, we will kill you now and proceed without you.”

  “Sounds acceptable to me.” Kadmallin gave the rakthor ambassador a wide smile before turning to Sketkee. “What do you think?”

  “It is the best choice of limited options for all of us.” She raised her bound hands to Viktik. He had stated his offer as a treaty negotiated between warring factions. She presented her reply in kind. “I accept your terms of release.”

  Viktik nodded to her, then drew his dagger and cut the ropes restricting her wrists. He did the same for Kadmallin, then turned and called to the rakthors still working on the wagon.

  “Abandon it. And bring me the chest.” Viktik turned to Kadmallin. “You should prepare to speak with the approaching humans.”

  “I’ll walk out and meet them.” Kadmallin stood to his feet. “Best to reassure them before they come across you and think you’re hostile. Keep your hoods up and either wear gloves or keep your hands out of sight. And please, for the sake of us all, keep your tails around your waists.”

  Sketkee followed Kadmallin’s frowning gaze as he looked at the appendage protruding from beneath Viktik’s cloak. He nodded to her and started along the road toward the approaching pilgrims. Sketkee stood up and watched him go.

  “How do you know he will not simply run off and leave you behind?” Viktik looked at her from the back of the wagon where he opened the chest with the device.

  “It would be a rational act of self-preservation.” Sketkee noted from the corner of her eye how Viktik tied the leather pouch with the device to his belt beneath his cloak as she faced Kadmallin’s retreating back with a confused mixture of admiration and appreciation. “The thought would never occur to him.”

  THE THRONE

  DJU-TESHA

  “WHY DID you not tell me?”<
br />
  “I wanted to know that you would wed me for the desire of me, not from obligation.”

  “And if I had failed to act in time?”

  “I would have thrown myself from the tower walls.”

  Dju-Tesha gave a soft yelp as Rhog-Kan squeezed her hands in his. He stared into her eyes, the light from the library window striking his back, the fine hairs along his neck glowing faintly.

  “Do not say such a thing. It is too painful to contemplate.”

  “It is unlikely in any event.” Dju-Tesha laughed. “I fear heights.”

  “That is good to hear.” Rhog-Kan released her hands to place one of his own upon her cheek. “Is this why you have denied me of late?”

  “Yes.” She sighed slightly at his touch, the warmth of his palm, the smell of his skin. “I did not want to tell you until we had announced an engagement. And I could not hide it from you were I to lie with you.”

  “I hope you will trust me now.” Rhog-Kan kissed her lips gently. “With all your secrets.”

  Dju-Tesha lingered in the kiss, letting herself get lost in it — a forest of dark beauty — unconcerned if she ever found a way out. When he finally leaned back and broke contact, she resumed the conversation where it had abruptly paused.

  “A woman must hold some secrets. Or had you not heard?”

  “Well, I shall not hold secrets from you.” Rhog-Kan looked away briefly.

  “As is proper,” Dju-Tesha said. She wanted to believe him, but something in his look suggested that a prime tigan might need to keep certain things from even his wife.