by Jeff Grubb
His fist was clenched tightly; slowly Mishra opened his fingers. There was no green gem at the center of his hand. There was nothing at all.
Mishra took a deep breath. It was a dream, more savage and lifelike than before, but still a dream. He exhaled slowly.
Then the ground beneath him began to shake.
* * *
—
Hajar was on guard duty that night, but at the far perimeter of the camp. One of the survivors later said he heard the young qadir’s rakiq cry out a curse before the abyss yawned open and released its hell-creature, but that could have been something added after the fact. So much of what happened that night was later embellished.
At first Hajar thought it was nothing more than a night tremor, a shifting of the sands cooling after the hot summer heat. Sometimes a ripple like that traveled thousands of miles from the Sardian Mountains all the way to Zegon. Some said such tremors were omens, but then, in the desert, anything the least bit unusual was assumed to be an omen.
But a night tremor lasted for a moment, perhaps two, then subsided. This one persisted for a full ten seconds. Then it grew stronger.
Already the camp was reacting to the assault. The goats rushed from one end of their pen to the other, looking for some means of escape. Several of the horses, tethered for the evening, pulled at the reins, trying to escape. There were shouts among the camp as guards called to each other and sleeping Fallaji awoke to find the earth rippling about them.
Hajar shouted but did not know if he made any noise. Already the roar of the earth was more than his ears could take.
Tents came loose from their moorings and collapsed. The low fence around the goat pen was shaken free, and the goats, a flurry of white and gray, bounded to freedom. The horses pulled their pegs loose from the ground and fled into the night.
Then the mak fawa escaped from its earthen prison and bored up through the center of the camp.
It was a dragon of the old legends, its head a wedge-shaped spike that effortlessly plowed from the ground, followed by a chainlike neck, and finally a great body made of metal ribs. It took a moment for that to sink in on Hajar. The mak fawa was made entirely of metal, its brass hide shining in the moonlight.
Several of the guards were already fleeing, but more were rushing toward the monstrosity. The creature had appeared from below, near the center of the camp, near the qadir’s tent. In some Fallaji, that inspired loyalty, in others, fear. Hajar felt nothing more than lifesaving caution. Gripping his spear, he spiraled around the perimeter of the camp, hoping to pick up some reinforcements before charging the beast.
Some of his brethren would not wait to gain allies and were already attacking the creature. In response, it snaked its head down in a leisurely gesture and snagged one of the attacking men. Its jaws closed on the head and shoulders of the attacker, and the warrior screamed. The scream continued as the dragon snapped its head up like a whip, opening its jaws as its head reached its highest point of the arc and releasing its attacker. The scream sailed over Hajar’s head and was suddenly cut short when the warrior landed in the darkness beyond the camp.
Other warriors were attacking now, but their curved swords and barbed Suwwardi spears had no more effect than if they were trying to hack through a stone wall. The dragon’s head darted forward again and came up with the struggling form of another warrior. This one it shook back and forth, like one of the qadir’s dogs tormenting a hare. It flung that man away as well and slowly climbed the rest of the way out of its pit.
Hajar wanted to charge as well, as many of the warriors were doing, to protect their qadir and their camp, to gain revenge against the creature. But the part of him that had worked for Ahmahl in the Argivian woman’s camp knew what the thing had to be and who would best know how to handle it.
He found Mishra huddled beneath his tarp, curled into a small ball.
“The dream,” he muttered, his eyes welded shut. “The dream.” It seemed to Hajar as if the youth were trying to wish the creature away.
“It’s real,” snapped Hajar, adding in Argivian, “It is a device. An artifact. You know about such devices. How do we defeat it?”
The outlander’s words seemed to pull the scholar from his panic. “Of course,” he said slowly. “It has to be a device. Perhaps not Thran, but still a device. I must have the stone!”
“Stone?” said Hajar, a sick feeling growing in the pit of his stomach.
“A green gem, cut in half,” said Mishra quickly. “They took it from me when I first came here. With it I can weaken the dragon engine.”
“I’ve seen it,” said Hajar, turning toward the battle. Quietly he added, “The qadir has it.”
Hajar looked across the devastation that the dragon engine had already created. Women, children, and elderly were already fleeing the camp, while the warriors had regrouped for another assault. The Fallaji youth saw the broad figure of the qadir among them. There was a flash of green against the qadir’s broad chest.
“There!” Hajar pointed to the large figure of the Suwwardi chieftain. “He has it!” He did not wait to see if Mishra was following but leapt forward into the fray.
Hajar was about two hundred paces behind the main mass of men led by the qadir. His position saved his life.
The dragon engine leaned forward and opened its mouth in front of the charging concentration of men. There was the sound of a whirlwind within the great beast’s body, and it breathed a gout of red-tinged steam.
Hajar heard screams ahead of him as the billowing cloud enfolded the warriors. He felt the heat and staggered back a few paces, then charged forward again into the quickly dissipating cloud.
The men had been cooked where they stood, their flesh peeled back and charred by the heat. Hajar felt bile rising in his throat, but he looked around for a large form; a form that had to be the qadir.
Hajar found him facedown in the dirt, a growing pool of blood beneath his body from where the steam had disintegrated the qadir’s skin down to the bone. Cursing the task, Hajar knelt next to the old man’s corpse and began rifling his pockets. Hajar looked up only once, to see an assault led by the qadir’s son make a minimal impact on the creature’s armored hide.
The qadir had been true to his word and had kept the stone close to him. It glowed now, reflecting the embers of the charred flesh around it.
Hajar grabbed the stone and made the mistake of looking up again. He stared directly into the eyes and maw of the mak fawa.
There was thought behind those eyes, Hajar realized. This was not like the su-chi or the plodding onulets of the Argivian camp. There was an intelligence within those eyes and a malignancy behind that intelligence. The mak fawa looked at Hajar and knew in an instant who he was, what he was holding in his hands, and why he could not use it.
The dragon opened its mouth, and there was the sound of desert wind again. Hajar knew what to expect next and bolted for the perimeter of the camp.
His back blazed as the passing cloud of steam dissipated around him. Then he was free of it and saw Mishra approaching from the other direction.
Hajar looked back. The mak fawa was already breaking loose of its bank of steam. It lumbered forward toward them.
Hajar turned and tossed the half-stone at Mishra. Then he jumped aside, covering his face with his arms on the chance that Mishra did not truly know what to do to defeat the dragon engine. Maybe, he thought desperately, the dragon would think him dead and pass him by.
For a long moment Hajar held his position. At any moment he expected to feel the dragon’s wrath. When it did not come he slowly moved his hands away from his face.
The mak fawa was supine, looking for all the world like one of the qadir’s (no, Hajar reminded himself, the late qadir’s) dogs. Its steel-taloned paws were drawn up under its forward haunches, and Hajar noted that instead of rear feet it had a curious set of wheels and plates. The dragon engine’s neck was bolt-straight and lying flat on the ground, an arrow with the beast’s metallic sn
out as its head. Streamlets of reddish steam hissed from the corners of its closed mouth.
At the point of the arrow stood Mishra, holding the green halfgem aloft. In his hands the power stone was shining brightly, a beacon in the night.
Hajar stood and staggered over to the scholar. “Did you kill it?” he asked.
Mishra shook his head, and his voice sounded distant. “No. This is different. It is not weakened by me. I think it obeys me.”
There were shouts, and Hajar saw the young qadir approaching. He was bleeding from a nasty cut along one arm, and his reddened face looked as if he had caught part of the steam cloud. “Is it dead?” he shouted at Mishra.
“Subdued,” replied the scholar. “I think I think I can control it now.”
The young qadir nodded and said, “My father will be pleased.”
Hajar started, then spoke. “I am sorry, young one, but your father is…” He let his voice trail off. “You are qadir now.”
As he spoke, he saw a veil come down over the young qadir’s face. It was as if the news had turned the youth to stone, had petrified his features. His face suddenly seemed harder than it had moments before when he was just the son of the qadir.
The new qadir nodded and turned to Mishra. “You can control this thing?” It was a blunt question.
“I believe I can,” said Mishra.
“Can anyone else?” asked the young chieftain.
Mishra thought for a moment, than shook his head. “I believe that if your father could have, he would.” Then another pause. “We can check later.”
“Agreed,” said the young qadir. “Take this thing away from the camp for the moment and remain with it until morning.” To Hajar he said, “Take me to my father’s body. We must inspect the wounded and see how much damage has been done. We have lost much this night.” He looked at the dragon engine thoughtfully and said as much to himself as to Hajar, “But perhaps we have gained much as well.”
Hajar and Mishra hesitated for only a moment, but it was enough to earn the reproach from the new Qadir of the Suwwardi, chiefmost of the Fallaji tribes. “Get moving!”
Mishra said softly, “As you wish, Most Revered One. I remain your rakiq.”
“No,” said the young man, holding up a hand in the same manner as his father had months before. His face softened for a moment. “You are no longer rakiq, a slave. I make you now raki, my wizard. I will need you at my side, with this amazing device. With it we can maintain our hold over the other tribes and gain new ones as well. Will you serve me willingly?”
Mishra dropped to one knee and said, “Of course.”
Hajar was impressed as well. The boy acted as if he had been preparing for this moment and knew exactly what had to be done.
“Thank you,” said the youth to Mishra. “Truly your mother and my mother must have shared a common mother. But right now, let’s hurry! We have much yet to do this night!”
The newcomer arrived unannounced at the Palace of Artifice in Kroog, capital of Yotia. It had been a long journey from the southern coast, and he was bone weary from his travels. Had he been sensible he would have bedded down for a day or ten, paid for a suitably tailored gown, and then called for an official appointment through established channels. However the newcomer was unschooled in the ways and practices of High Yotian society and presented himself directly to the palace, his letter of introduction in the vest pocket of his traveling cloak and his gift in a satchel slung over his arm.
The Palace of Artifice was a separate wing of the royal palace itself, flung off from the main buildings in an eruption of new construction. There was no one to receive the traveler at the main doors, which surprised him slightly, but there was no one to block his entry either. Indeed there seemed to be a steady flow of clerks, librarians, and petty officials milling about, but nothing that looked like an armed guard or even a helpful guide.
He stopped one of the clerks, a round, friendly-looking fellow with an armload of scrolls and vials. This individual explained that the Chief Artificer could be found in the central domed workshop at the back of the palace, and that the visitor could reach it by going up the stairs toward the rear, right at the first intersection, left at the second, rightish-but-not-too-right at the star-shaped one, down one more flight, and there he would be. The clerk never asked why the tall, blond-haired man was looking for the Chief Artificer in the first place.
The friendly clerk’s instructions also left something to be desired; it took another fifteen minutes (and two more helpful clerks) for the traveler to finally locate the orniary, which was, as promised, a large dome-shaped structure mounted on the back of the main building. The newcomer noticed that the circular roof of the building was built on a sliding pivot so that it might be unbolted and moved to one side.
Within the orniary was a form of controlled madness. Along the far wall was the frame of one of the fabled ornithopters, frozen in midexplosion. Each of the pieces was mounted separately, with inscribed lines showing what piece fit where. A group of young students stood along one side with trundle-operated lathes, gently shaping candlewood spars. Along the other side an ornithopter was in the midst of construction, as another group of young people stretched canvas over the wings.
In the center, standing over a huge table littered with plans, was the Chief Artificer. His hair was pale blond, almost white. While shorter than the newcomer, he commanded a presence that made him seem much taller.
“Three point four inches to the first flange,” shouted the Chief Artificer to the lathe workers, who dutifully pulled out their calipers and began measuring. “No, no!” He stalked over to the crew assembling the ornithopter. “Place the skin over the lead grommets along the wing first! That will allow the wing to unfurl naturally.”
As the newcomer watched, another clerk elbowed his way past and handed a scroll to the Chief Artificer. Urza scanned the paper for a moment, shook his head, and made the clerk wait as he returned to his paper-covered work desk. He pulled out a stylus and quickly edited the message. “And tell him I need the supplies by noon tomorrow,” he snapped impatiently. “No later!” The clerk pushed his way past the newcomer and back into the main building.
Suddenly the visitor noticed the woman standing alongside one wall. She stood so still among the pandemonium that the traveler at first thought her a statue. She was dressed in a simple blue gown, and her lustrous dark brown hair spilled over her shoulders. Her arms were folded in front of her, and she wore an expression on her face that hinted she disapproved of the entire scene around her.
“Excuse me, miss,” said the newcomer. “I was wondering if—”
The woman turned, and the newcomer choked on his words as he recognized the full lips, the dark, fiery eyes, and the fine lines of her face. At once he realized whom he was addressing and managed a gargle. “Your Majesty, forgive me.” He was well on his way to the floor.
His knee had just touched the hardwood when a soft hand touched his shoulder.
“Arise, young man,” said Kayla bin-Kroog, Princess of Yotia and wife of the Chief Artificer. When he looked up she was smiling slightly, as if his manner amused her. He felt the blood rush to his face.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I had no idea who you were.”
“We don’t stand on much ceremony here in the lair of the Chief Artificer,” returned the princess.
Out on the main floor of the dome, Urza was bellowing at the lathe workers. “I said three point four, not three point two! I need a tolerance no more than oh point two for these struts!”
“Is your husb—” The newcomer stopped and began again. “Is the Chief Artificer free at the moment?”
“I can’t tell,” said the princess, with a catch in her voice. “I’ve been standing here for ten minutes waiting for him to notice me. If I have to wait fifteen, I usually assume that he’s too busy.”
The newcomer looked at her face more closely and nodded. “Perhaps it would be better to come back tomorrow,” he ventured.
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The princess laughed a tired laugh. “This is about as un-busy as he ever gets. Is it important?”
The visitor reached in his coat pocket and pulled the envelope from its hiding place. “I’m his new apprentice.”
Kayla opened the letter and scanned it quickly. The newcomer held his breath as she did so, fearful she might find some impropriety within the letter of introduction that would prevent him from even talking to the mighty Urza. “A toy maker?” she said at last.
“From Jorilin, on the coast,” said the young man quickly.
She nodded. “We summered there when I was girl, and it got too hot even for Kroog.”
“Well,” said the traveler, “I’ve been making toys there for the past few years, full journeyman and everything. People thought my work was fairly impressive, and they suggested that I apply to be one of his apprentices…” He let the statement trail off with a embarrassed shrug. It had sounded so logical back in Jorilin, much more logical than it did now explaining to the most powerful (and beautiful) woman in Kroog.
“I see,” the princess said, and that amused look returned to her face. “His apprentice.”
“One of them, anyway,” said the traveler.
“Please,” said the princess. “All these are not apprentices. They’re drones, toiling around the king bee that is Urza. Assistants, students, extra sets of hands, that’s all. Apprentices have higher demands put on them than this lot. They usually don’t last more than a month at the outside. He’s a hard man to keep pace with and a very demanding man to work for.”
As if to prove her point, Urza let out another shout. “I said I needed oh point two tolerance here, lathe number one! Are you using some number system I’m not familiar with?” There was laughter among the younger lathe workers as one blushing youth returned to his machine.
“Perhaps I should come back later,” repeated the newcomer.
“No time like the present,” Kayla responded. “He’ll be just as bad tomorrow, and I won’t be here to help. Urza! Husband! A moment, please!”
