Ghostflame (The Dragon's Scion Book 2)

by Alex Raizman

  Every muscle in Poz’s body tensed up. The idea that this coincidental meeting had something to do with his quest strained the bounds of credibility to their breaking point. “You know him?”

  “Knew him,” Cyd said. “Once. Some time ago. He was a different man then. Life and Light have not been kind to old Nicandros.” There was a sadness in her voice that seemed beyond her years. “Wasn’t kind to me either.”

  “They have been kind to few of us,” Poz said, choosing his words carefully. This could easily be a trap. She could be an Alohym agent, sent to entrap him. Although…if they knew he was here, why would they permit him any time at all? They’d come in, their unlight beams darkening the room, and leave him a corpse before he could take the warning and run.

  “Oh, aye, that they have. But to him more than most.” She put her glass down and sighed. “You should let him rest, Poz. Find someone else to aid you. I do not think you’ll like the aid he could provide.”

  “It’s the only aid I have,” Poz said earnestly. “Please, if you know something…”

  Cyd shook her head. “Time grows short. I advise against it, but we do not have time for you to beg, for me to hem and haw and debate, and eventually succumb to my better nature. I last saw him drowning his sorrows in the Gleaming Gullet in Edgeminster. If you survive the next part, you might still find him there.” She reached over and patted his head. “Try some flesh that’s better for running. And with stronger bones.”

  Poz opened his mouth to ask her what she meant by that, but at that moment his attention was drawn by the door slamming open. He whipped his head over to face them. Three Alohym soldiers were walking into the Inn.

  He looked back to his companion, but Cyd was gone.

  —

  The next few hours had been harrowing. He’d barely managed to escape with his life. But now he had a destination. Edgeminster. The Gleaming Gullet.

  So he ran, and even though the dullness of horseflesh, he felt hope.

  Chapter 32

  It was raining when Poz reached Edgeminster, the kind of perpetual drizzle that seemed to sap away all color and wash the world in a beautiful monochrome palate that reminded Poz of the ghost lights of his people. It was a good omen, as far as he was concerned. Comfortable, cool, damp – the way the world should be.

  Edgeminster was located at the fork of two rivers, right on the point where the flow of water met. It was an ideal inland port for shipping goods out to the ocean. This late in the day, the two docks were shut down, allowing only one way into and out of the town. The guards on the walls waved Poz through with barely a glance at his hooded form. They were they to stop rebels trying to raid the town, not lone travelers.

  Or, more likely, they just didn’t want to be bothered leaving their warm and covered guard station.

  Either way, it worked to Poz’s advantage. Once past the guards on the walls, people had a tendency to assume you belonged. It was the one flaw in the Alohym’s heavy emphasis on checkpoints at certain locations – once the checkpoint had been bypassed, there was an unspoken belief that you’d gone through proper channels to arrive. Even if you were the only Underfolk still walking the surface.

  Oh. That’s how they keep finding me. It was a testament to the dullness of Horseflesh that he was just now figuring that out. At least, Poz told himself that was the cause of his blind spot, deliberately ignoring that he’d spent much of the past few days in Crowflesh. But if the Alohym knew that the Underfolk had grown rare, all they’d have to do is put out word to their soldiers to detain any Underfolk they found walking the world.

  It was a depressing realization that he’d never be truly free, not as long as he had something the Alohym so badly wanted. That shadow-damned egg was heavy in his pocket, safely stowed behind a complicated knot around a thick hide pack. Its weight bumped against his leg with every step, a reminder that all of this was because of his foolish greed when deep in the throes of Grubflesh.

  No, don’t blame the flesh. Poz had spent sixteen years blaming his wretchedness on Grubflesh, and the Manflesh before that. Just as he’d just blamed his failure to realize why he was so noticeable on horseflesh. Just like he’d blamed…

  Someone bumped into Poz, and his mind skittered away from the introspection as he felt a hand tug at the weight in his pocket. Someone was stealing the egg.

  Horseflesh offered some strong instincts. He’d earlier thought that it only told him to run when he’d become startled. Apparently, there was a second reflex to Horseflesh – kicking.

  The would-be thief went tumbling down the street at Poz’s foot, the sole as hard as a horse’s hoof, caught him in the chest. Poz could hear a rib crack under the blow. A few people gave Poz sideways glances and scurried a bit out of the way. A guard was approaching, his hand on the arcwand on his hip. He was blue-haired and sandy-skinned, a clear native of this land. “What’s going on here?”

  “He tried to steal from me,” Poz said, pointing at the man that was groaning on the ground while trying to retreat further under his hood. In the dim light, if the guard didn’t peer too closely, he could mistake Poz for a human.

  Right as the guardsman started to lean forward, the would-be thief groaned, drawing his attention. “Didn’t…steal…nuffin’” he coughed out through the pain.

  “Four-fingers?” The guard said, walking over to the thief. “Alohym burn my eyes, it’s four-fingers! You, sir, deserve a reward – you stopped one of the most wanted – hey, where are you going?”

  The last four words were shouted in Poz’s direction, but Poz was already turning down an alley, moving as fast as his feet would carry him. The guard was alone, without anyone to watch what was apparently a notorious criminal. He’d leave Poz be for now, send a song to the local outpost. They’d look for the tall man in the black cloak – the black cloak that was already fluttering to the ground.

  Stupid, stupid, Poz growled at himself. He’d been so eager to see Nicandros he’d entered the town in Horseflesh. The knot around the egg pouch was too firm to be easily undone, even for someone so well-known he had a colorful moniker. Poz could have just jerked away and the pick-pocket would have gone on his way. Instead, Poz had made a scene.

  He needed smarter flesh, and he needed to take the night to change. It would be smarter, and safer. Nicandros would not leave in the middle of the night. If he was here, he would be here come morning. But where would he find it? Humans rarely kept Crowflesh, even at the height of the Underfolk’s dealings with them. Now, who would bother?

  Besides, Crowflesh would be dangerous. It was too intelligent. Too curious. Too distractible.

  No, he’d need a better sample for this. Something he could use to navigate the currents within Edgeminster. Something smart enough to not startle at a light brush, but with instincts for running and hiding – and something he could easily obtain.

  The answer was obvious, and even in Horseflesh Poz knew where to find it. At least, in general. In specifics, sticking to back alleys without signs to guide him, it was difficult to find. It didn’t help that in Horseflesh, he hated these claustrophobic environments. Horseflesh was for running across the open plains, the wind tugging at his mane. It was not for skulking between buildings, his heart pounding at every stray footstep that the wind carried to his ears.

  Finally, his nose gave him a clue where to turn. The smell of mutton roasting in a clay oven. It wasn’t what he wanted to eat – Goatflesh would be a poor choice right now – but what they’d have to protect the mutton.

  In a city this dense, inns couldn’t rely on cats alone to protect their food stores. They would help, but for this particular beast, the city would have to be swarming with cats to keep the food perfectly safe. As such, the back alleys of inns were lined with spring-loaded traps.

  One had been sprung earlier today. The poor creature was dead, and not dead long enough to have attracted grubs that would infest and ruin its flesh. Poz grabbed the trap and pried his prize free, shoving it into his face greedi
ly.

  Now he just needed to find a sewer where he could safely wait for the transformation. He’d be able to leave come morning and find Nicandros. If he was still here, Nicandros certainly wouldn’t leave the city in the night – no one would be that foolish to set out on the road at this hour. Come morning, Poz would be far cleverer and infinitely better prepared than Horseflesh for dealing with the complexities of the city.

  Ratflesh would give him exactly what he needed.

  ***

  Dawn found Poz emerging from the sewer in the slender, more flexible form offered by Ratflesh. He had a tail, which he wrapped around his waist so it might appear like a belt. His sense of smell was greater, his hands nimbler, and his mind was clearer. Not the crisp rationality of Crowflesh, but a cunning that was still infinitely better than the dull mind Horseflesh offered. It was a mistake to rest, Poz thought. Horseflesh was dull, but it would have been far smarter to have found Nicandros first and then changed flesh.

  Too late for recriminations. All that was left to do was to get to the Gleaming Gullet and hope he was not too late.

  Moving about in daylight would present its own problems. In the harsh rays of the sun, without the cloak, no man would mistake him for one of their kind.

  Fortunately, Ratflesh offered other options. Glancing back and forth to make sure he truly was alone in the back alley, Poz scampered up the wall of the two-story Inn towards the roof with an inhuman ease.

  From up here, Poz could see Edgeminster laid out beneath him. The city had few buildings over two stories, and the wall surrounding it wasn’t even that tall. It was…what Poz had come to expect from human cities under Alohym rule. The buildings were still stone with sloped roofs of wooden tiles, but Alohym towers – often five or six stories tall – jutted out of the skyline like jagged towers of broken glass, full of alien geometries. They would have watchers in them, but experience had taught Poz those watchers were focused on the outside, looking for insurgent armies approaching over the horizon. They wouldn’t be watching for Underfolk skulking about the rooftops in the dawn haze.

  Still, it was best not to linger too long. Moving on all fours, Poz started scampering across the rooftops, leaping over the alleyways.

  Humans never looked up. It baffled Poz to no end – but growing up in the caverns of the Underfolk, he’d had to learn to constantly watch in all directions. Failure to look up could mean overlooking a slinking ekkoh, ready to extend its prehensile tongue down to grab the unwary wanderer. On the surface, they had aerial threats – dragons and aeromanes and sharocs and now the Alohym’s vessels – but humans never seem to adapt the need to watch the sky for those threats.

  Perhaps it was why they favored dwellings with coverings over the top. Or maybe that was just to keep precipitation off their heads.

  Regardless of the cause, both rooftops and humanities fixation on the two-dimensional plane worked in Poz’s advantage right now. He was able to continue his path unobstructed as humanity milled about beneath him, rousing to start their days and go about their routines to start the day. He only paused to check signs, trying to spot his destination. With the Inn he’d just left behind him, it had to be some distance to the Gullet – Edgeminster was a decently sized port town, but not large enough to support two Inns in close proximity.

  At least, not in the center of town.

  Poz diverted his path, heading towards the docks.

  He was certain he’d find what he was looking for there.

  Although the Alohym could move objects vast distances through in the air in their flying vessels, they did not yet have the number needed to make it possible to keep up with the sheer volume of goods needed to sustain a kingdom. As such, goods were carried across land by Skitters – and in some places still, horse-drawn carriages – and when water was available, they were still carried in large barges that could carry tons and tons of goods.

  Even this early in the day, the port was bustling when Poz arrived, swarming with sailors that were disembarking from their vessels and carrying crates of goods. Some carried the crates with sheer raw strength, sweating and straining under their burdens. Those that worked for a ship captain that could afford it took advantage of arcloaders, suits of imperiplate that lacked the protective armor and had gauntlets twice the size of a human’s hands, perfect for carrying the immense weight.

  Poz crouched on a rooftop, watching them come and go. There seemed to be some resentment brewing between those that had arcloaders and those that relied on brute strength – at least, resentment on the part of those that lacked the inherent advantage. The men and women in arcloaders were laughing and joking as they worked, the ones carrying with their actual muscle and sinew were swearing and glaring at the first group.

  That could come in handy, Poz noted. Rats were more social than humans often gave them credit for, and the Ratflesh had Poz’s mind spinning with possibilities. A thrown spherical object under the foot of an arcloader could easily make it trip and stumble. The muscle-reliant group would laugh. Someone would say something sharp, something callous, and tensions would flare. A fight could break out. In the ensuing chaos, Poz could…

  …gain absolutely no advantage that stealth didn’t offer. Poz brought up his foot and took the long claws to scratch behind one of his ears. It was a fun thought, but it wasn’t a useful thought. It wasn’t what he was here for.

  Arcloaders or muscle-reliant, there were two things sailors universally loved, and that was food and drink. Well, three things, but Edgeminster’s port was too heavily regulated to allow for the third source entertainment. The sailors would have to go further into town to find that kind of company or happen upon someone working at one of the inns that served the first two loves.

  Poz slunk across the rooftops, keeping his profile as low as he could. Humans did not look up often, but as the barges were coming in from the river, their captains would have men on the masts, calling out what they could see through spy glasses. They wouldn’t need to look up to see Poz, and if any of them had a way to Sing to the guards he’d be caught in an instant.

  It took another twenty minutes of creeping from rooftop to rooftop before he saw it ahead. A large wooden sign with a caricature of a jolly, rotund male holding up a glass of amber liquid, emblazoned with the black letters The Gleaming Gullet.

  Poz made his way onto the gutter of the roof, holding his breath as it creaked under his weight. Craning his neck as much as it would allow, he peered into the window below.

  This one housed a young woman, her skin and hair golden, asleep and snoring loudly. A sword lay on a table, and the clothing she’d left strewn across the table marked her as a sailor. Poz carefully pulled his neck back behind the gutter and crept along to the next spot where he could peer down.

  Four windows later, he found his quarry. Nicandros was awake and sitting at the table, cradling his head in his hands.

  Hand shaking with sudden trepidation, Poz tapped on the glass pane.

  Chapter 33

  “I think my vision is starting to clear,” Ossman said, breaking the long silence that had been weighing on Armin.

  “Oh, thank the Light.” Armin rose and stretched, cracking his neck with the gesture. He’d spent the entire night craning his head back and forth, trying to watch both the path deeper into the lair and the entrance at the same time. Every sound, every brush of cloth from his companions had sent his heart leaping into his throat. He had been expecting that, at any instant, more undead horrors would come climbing out of the tomb, or an entire Alohym army would show up behind them.

  Ossman was experimentally waving his hand in front of his face, blinking. “Yeah,” he said, his voice betraying finally how worried he had been. “I have movement.”

  “Told you it would be fine,” Clarcia said primly, wiping the tears that were forming at the edge of her eyes. “I knew exactly what I was doing the entire time.”

  Aildreda laughed softly, blinking as well. “Of course. That’s why you were having night
mares the entire time you slept.”

  “I was not,” Clarcia said, her voice going up half an octave with the objection. “I was just uncomfortable.”