ABOUT SHATTERWING: DRAGON WINE BOOK 1
Dragon wine could save them. Or bring about their destruction.
Since the moon shattered, the once peaceful and plentiful world has become a desolate wasteland. Factions fight for ownership of the remaining resources as pieces of the broken moon rain down, bringing chaos, destruction and death.
The most precious of these resources is dragon wine – a life-giving drink made from the essence of dragons. But the making of the wine is perilous and so is undertaken by prisoners. Perhaps even more dangerous than the wine production is the Inspector, the sadistic ruler of the prison vineyard who plans to use the precious drink to rule the world.
There are only two people that stand in his way. Brill, a young royal rebel who seeks to bring about revolution, and Salinda, the prison’s best vintner and possessor of a powerful and ancient gift that she is only beginning to understand. To stop the Inspector, Salinda must learn to harness her power so that she and Brill can escape, and stop the dragon wine from falling into the wrong hands.
CONTENTS
About Shatterwing: Dragon Wine Book 1
Maps
Prologue
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
PART TWO
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Coming Soon
Acknowledgments
About Donna Maree Hanson
Copyright
For Cynthia Eileen Cora McCrudden—my mum.
PROLOGUE
In the velvet dark of space hovers Shatterwing, the fragments of a broken moon. Vestiges of decaying power crackle and twist in among the debris orbiting Margra, sending rock and dust to rebound against the atmosphere, sometimes piercing its envelope to plummet down to the planet’s surface. Yet something approaches, something disturbs the precarious balance. Another piece of dead moon breaks away, larger and more deadly as it plunges to the world below…
PART ONE
Dragon wine is to man as salt is to the sea
CHAPTER ONE
The Prison Vineyard
Salinda trod the mud tracks of the vineyard, inhaling air that was fresh and damp from the previous night’s rain, dispelling the ever-present smell of sulphur for a time. As the sun notched a little higher over the mountains, the humidity levels rose, making sweat bead on her upper lip and her dress cling uncomfortably to her legs. In the distance, dragons rode the thermals, hunting for prey above the barren plains. A reminder that the Fire Ranges, the geothermal wastes and the dragons served well to imprison them all in the vineyard.
Coming up on the winery building that bordered the staging area, she hid in the shadows and watched as a new prisoner arrived. A gray burden beast whined soulfully as it clawed forward, dragging the wooden cart free of the muddy track. A sudden jerk threw the new prisoner off balance and onto the side railing. Two guards stepped forward, lifted the latch on the cart’s rear gate and stepped back as the man tipped himself into the mud.
Ange, the one-eyed guard, stood with hands on hips. “Come on, yer ’ighness. Git up ’n’ view yer new princedom.”
Salinda clamped down on her revulsion. Next to the Inspector, Ange was the worst of the vile creatures that passed for guards in this place.
The cut of the prisoner’s chamois breeches and embroidered shirt confirmed he was a royal rebel, one from the many dynastic houses overthrown when rebellion erupted, who then in turn became a rebel. On climbing to his feet, the fair-skinned man spat into Ange’s weathered brown face. The guard wiped his cheek with a grime-covered hand, looked at his palm in apparent surprise and lashed out with a savage backhander, sending the young man sprawling unconscious into the muck.
Ange’s pot belly jostled as he laughed, only pausing when the guard prodded the inert prisoner in the ribs with the toe of his boot. “That’ll teach ya, scum.”
Curiosity drew Salinda out into the open. Hearing heavy steps behind her, she realized she’d been noticed by the guards and offered little resistance when they dragged her forward. They shoved her down into the pungent mud near the rebel, where she saw the newcomer’s bewildered face as he came to. He was young, barely an adult. It had been a while since she’d seen such innocence.
A cloud of smoke hit her in the face and her gaze slid to a smelting fire. Chains lay in a disordered pile, along with some tools propped up against the fence. She shuddered once, remembering her first day when the chains had been fitted. “Stupid whore,” Ange growled at her. The rest of the guards laughed and flung curse words at her while she pulled herself up into a squat, indifferent to the mud that clung to her faded and patched pink dress. Tossing her loose braid over her shoulder, she smiled when she caught the young man’s eye.
“Welcome, friend,” she said huskily, lifting her shoulder invitingly for the benefit of the guards. It served her well that they thought her a whore, and a defective one at that.
At the sound of familiar, rhythmic footsteps, she knelt hastily in the dirt and cast her head and eyes down, surreptitiously keeping the Inspector and the guards in view.
“Inspector,” Ange said, dragging his hat off his head to worry it with nervous fingers. The other guards followed suit, grabbing their various dented and rusty helmets from their bowed heads.
The lithe Inspector shot a piercing glance in her direction. “Why is she here?”
Salinda flinched. Ange started. “Her helpmate be dead so we be giv’n Poxy Sal to show the new prisoner the … er … ropes. Tau’t it’d please ya, Inspector,” Ange said, bobbing his head vigorously. “Ya ’pproved it jus’ t’other day.”
“Ah, yes. I remember. She was all alone out there on the rim. Good.” The Inspector focused his gaze on the new prisoner and slowly and deliberately peeled off his clean, beige gloves. “Prisoner Brill of Duval?”
“Yes,” Brill answered as he climbed to his feet and stood unsteadily. His face was swollen around the eyes and jaw. Old bruises lingered, with streaks of purple and yellow staining his pale skin, traces of his interrogation.
“Kin, I think,” the Inspector said, slapping a glove against his immaculate breeches before sliding it to join the other at his belt. “But I am not as stupid as you.”
Brill blinked and then with slightly hooded eyes examined the Inspector’s face, perhaps looking for signs of his noble heritage.
The Inspector smiled thinly. “I am a Karonen of Bristling Flat. My mother was your cousin.”
Brill looked ready to smile. But Salinda, still kneeling, warned him with a wide-eyed look of alarm. His gaze shifted toward her, catching her signal, and he kept his mouth shut.
“Good,” the Inspector said with a slow nod. “Don’t think family connections will help you here. Your father’s foolish altruism died with him. Thankfully, all trace of his Highland Confederacy was obliterated.”
Salinda saw Brill’s fist clench and worried that he might protest. But the young man remained silent, his anger betrayed only by his heightened color.
“I understand you are here becaus
e you trusted unwisely.” Throwing his head back, the Inspector barked out a laugh. “You’ve learned too late never to trust another, especially with your life.” The Inspector paced by the fire, five steps up and five steps back, his gray eyes intent. All was silent except for his even footfalls. He stopped suddenly and gestured with both arms to the surrounding vineyard, like a shrug. “We make dragon wine here.” He turned again and began to walk away, only to return and halt abruptly in front of the rebel, almost nose to nose. Then he rasped out, “You will learn that dragon wine is all there is.”
Salinda watched the Inspector, the clenching and unclenching of his hands, the pink flush turning livid on his neck. She had no idea why this particular rebel angered him more than any other, but she sensed trouble and climbed to her feet.
“Yes, Inspector—dragon wine is all there is,” Salinda blurted out, bringing the Inspector’s attention to her. Breathing hard, she realized she was being reckless, but something about the lad, some gut feeling made her do it, made her draw the Inspector’s malice to her and save him from some small part of it.
The Inspector lunged, backhanding her. She fell backward and lay on the ground, dazed. Looming over her, he said hoarsely, “I’m not talking to you, whore!”
Behind her, the guards guffawed and called her a slut and a stupid moll. Brill stood still, dumbfounded, and then when he had collected himself, she saw his gaze shift left and right, measuring up his chances of escape. Salinda worried that he might intervene, making matters worse. Luckily, he didn’t.
Blood leaked from her mouth, and she wiped at it as she sat up—a small cut, nothing more. After climbing to her feet, she faced the Inspector, keeping her expression impassive. The mud would dry and brush out of her hair. No harm done. There, she thought as she jutted her chin out slightly, no need to fear him.
Turning to Brill, who stood immobile, the Inspector’s face creased with a grin. “Good, good. No heroics from you, as I expected. You’re the lazy, self-centered, minuscule prince you always were, living off the suffering of others.”
The punch to the gut took Brill by surprise and doubled him up. The kick to the ribs that followed when he was down winded him painfully. He was barely aware when Salinda helped him to his feet. Her hand steadied him as he lurched, keeping his eye on the guards and the Inspector.
“Chain him and set them to work.” The Inspector pushed an indolent guard out of his way and marched off.
Ange headed for the fire and grabbed a length of chain. Caressing it, he grunted out a command. “Fust, bring the prisoner. The rest of ya, git.”
The remaining guards drifted away sulkily into the vines or wandered off in the direction of the village. Fust shoved Brill toward Ange from behind and then kicked the rebel’s leg forward for the ankle manacle. The memory of her chaining returned to Salinda, as acrid as the smoke. The emotion, the utter desolation welled up inside her. She had to breathe through it—push the images, the feelings, away.
Brill screwed up his face as he leaned away from the heat of the soldering iron.
“I’m called Salinda.”
Brill nodded and then tensed his face when the hot iron was brought back for his wrist. After tugging on the chains to test them, the two guards stood back. When she saw the metal anklets, the memories surged back. It was long ago and she was free of them now, an earned privilege, but her ankle still bore the mottled, white scars.
“I said git.” Ange waved smoke away from his face and the second guard, Fust, heaved a fluid, chesty cough before spitting a glob of green-tinged mucus at her feet.
Ignoring it, she caught the boy’s eye again. “Come, I will teach you what you need to know to survive here.”
Brill’s face was slack with surprise, and it took a moment for him to register what she had said. “What? … I am Prince Brill, late of …”
A thump across his ear sent him reeling. “Save yer ’igh talk ’til later. She’s a poxy whore … nuttin’ else. Ya know—tavern slut. Don’t go puttin’ yer rod in there or it’ll drop off. She’s diseased.” Ange spat at her and walked off, rubbing his groin. If any prisoner was still abed, they would suffer Ange’s attentions that morning.
Brill moaned slightly, once again claiming her notice. Salinda put her hand under his elbow to support him. He lifted his wrist, testing the heavy weight of chain linking it to his ankle.
“The chains are more for show, you know. Walking is possible once you learn how to manage the weight.”
He gaped at her in disbelief while flexing his bicep.
“It’s true. There’s no point in preventing you from working, is there? They hinder rather than prevent escape. It’s all in the mind—don’t let it get to you.”
Closing his mouth, he nodded and cast a look around him, the dark shadows beneath his eyes a telling sign of his despair. He leaned on her and then gradually worked out a rhythm with the chain, looping the slack over his arm so he could walk. A chained prisoner couldn’t run from a dragon on the plains, nor could one climb down the side of Crawlers Gorge, even if they found a way to it through the maze of mud pits, boiling pools of water and hidden steam vents. The road was guarded by more than the Inspector’s men. Fear and degradation created worse prisons; they entrapped minds.
As they passed in front of Fust, he glared at them with red-rimmed eyes.
“Move,” he yelled after them. “Or I’ll chain ya together ’n’ make ya dragon fodder.”
CHAPTER TWO
Dragon Dung
Salinda kept walking steadily, weaving through the grid of vine rows, out and away from the central spoke, which was the main path through the vineyard. It connected the outer rim to the winery buildings, the staging area and the free village. After twenty minutes they reached her hut and she saw that Brill was completely disoriented, surrounded as he was by row upon row of grapes.
Open-mouthed he stared at the structure, which was made from old cask wood and bits of cloth. A half-round of pipe ran along one edge of the roof, allowing her to collect water in a large ceramic urn. Her work tools were piled up alongside.
“This is home,” she said, and left him standing while she prepared some tea. “Being out on the rim of the vineyard has its advantages. We’re not usually bothered by the guards as they are too lazy to walk out this far. I hope you don’t mind the open air. I only sleep inside when it rains. The hut is not that big, but useful for storing things.”
“Salinda …” he began as if he wasn’t sure he had a voice.
“Please, call me Sal.”
His brows drew down. “Are you really a whore?”
She laughed and ladled water from the urn into a pot. After squatting down to kindle a fire, she put the pot on to boil. How fastidious this young lad was to be worried about whether she was a whore or not. She supposed prince and whore were an odd mix. She turned slightly to assess him as he stood there waiting for an answer. He had trusted her, so she may as well trust in return.
Letting out a slow sigh, she explained, “You can imagine how it is here for a woman. One must do things to keep whole. I had a fever rash when I was brought here. I told them I was a common tavern whore with the pox. So they let me be.” She tensed at the thought of Ange and the women he had mangled over the years. After licking her lips tentatively, she added, “I told them I was such a lowly slattern that I couldn’t afford to get my lips dyed red.”
Brill nodded, accepting her explanation. “So what were you really?”
She stirred some vine leaves into the water and shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now. My life is here. Only survival is important.” Thoughts of old Mez, her mentor, and the years they had spent tending vines arose, and his words echoed in her mind, but then that sensation, that presence of his, slid away.
Brill lowered himself to the ground by the fire, guarding his ribs, and surveyed the vines around him.
“How can you say that? This is a prison.”
“Old Mez taught me that I was a prisoner before I came here.�
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“Mez?” Brill’s gaze darted around him.
Going into her hut, Salinda crouched and lifted a flat stone. Beneath it was a ceramic flask full of dragon wine, one of Mez’s illicit stashes. She measured some wine into a cup. From the look of Brill he needed it. The tea would help restore him, but slowly. The wine contained deeper healing powers and this young rebel was in immediate need. “Mez taught me to tend the vines, and now I’ll teach you what I know. Here, drink this … it will help.” She handed the wine to him.
His eyes widened involuntarily before he cringed and touched the cut on his forehead with a tentative finger. “Who and where is this Mez?” He took the cup and tossed back the contents in one gulp.
“My mentor. Over there,” she said, nodding to her left.
He looked to where she indicated. “Where?”
“There in the ground, under that young vine. He died two months ago.”
Brill sat forward, grimacing and hugging his ribs. “You put him in the ground? But that’s sacrilege.” His words hissed through his teeth.
Salinda quirked an eyebrow at his expression of half-horror and half-disbelief. “So is the common belief.”
He blanched at her comment. “You must be purified by fire to pass into the next life. How will the source receive us otherwise?” He paused, furrowing his brow. “They don’t bury all dead prisoners in the ground to condemn them in the next life as well as this one, do they?”
Salinda shook her head. “No, not usually. We are fed to the dragons when we can no longer work.”
Brill’s complexion grayed. “Truly? But …”
Salinda leaned forward and interrupted Brill’s contemplation of the religious consequences of being eaten rather than burned in death. “Mez asked me to bury him. He wanted to mingle himself with the essence of the vines and the warmth of Margra. He didn’t think fire helped or hindered our return to the source.”
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