568 hauled Tomaaz out of the eating area. “Get your shovel. Feed that beast. Then off to latrine duty.”
It sent him off with Droopy Eye, who had the number 1666 tattooed on its wrist.
Over a thousand tharuks. What hope did he and the other slaves have against so many? The slaves had numbers, but, numlocked, they’d be mowed down like wheat in a hurricane.
Tomaaz took a shovel from the tool heap.
“No, you don’t,” said 1666. “Get your old shovel from the beast.”
The last thing Tomaaz wanted was to visit that beast twice.
“I got a better idea.” Droopy Eye grinned, baring its yellow teeth. “Use your hands.”
Tomaaz shrugged and allowed himself to be escorted to the stinking animal heap. Once again, a tharuk was sprinkling a rat with gray powder. Numlock? Why would they keep their own beast numlocked?
Tomaaz grasped the tail of the rat and carried it, holding it away from him. Its fur was dark with grunge and flies buzzed around its caved-in skull. The rat’s jaw hung open like a slack-mouthed slave. Although Tomaaz tried to breathe through his mouth, he could taste the putrid stench.
Once they turned off and got to the bend in the beast’s gully, Droopy Eye lagged behind. “Off you go. I wait here. No mucking about. Don’t forget that shovel,” the tharuk snarled, cracking his whip. “Or you’ll feel this.”
Relieved he was alone again, Tomaaz loped along the gully floor. The distance seemed shorter, now that it wasn’t dark. Soon, he was facing the three caves at the end of the canyon. Protruding from the cave mouth on the right was the handle of his spade. He must’ve dropped it when he’d spoken with Pa.
A chain clanked.
Tomaaz steeled himself. All he’d seen of the beast so far was an eye.
A low snarl built, echoing off the gully walls, building into a growl.
Tomaaz’s skin prickled.
Within the cavern, something lurked in the shadows. Something huge. Coming his way. A blunt head appeared, its serpentine neck snaking along the ground. Shoulders emerged, towering above Tomaaz. The whole creature was gray, its eyes covered in a thick gray film. It bared its fangs, snarling.
Lovina flashed to mind. Before—with Bill. And after.
The creature’s powerful limbs flexed, bringing it closer, saggy folds of gray skin dragging at its the sides. It tilted its head, squinting. It moved again, the chain clanking. It was captive, too. The powerful creature was a washed-out parody of a dragon. Nothing like Handel, Liesar or the blue dragons he’d seen in Lush Valley.
Then again, Pa has said Zens could grow tharuks, breeding them without parents. Had he grown this beast too?
If so, why was he keeping it numlocked?
Tomaaz flung the rat, and the beast raised its head to catch it, snapping it down.
“I’m sorry it’s such an awful breakfast,” Tomaaz crooned.
It was a prisoner, just like him. Perhaps it was smart. Tomaaz kept talking, low sweet murmurs, like he was soothing an angry dog. The beast tracked him with its filmy eyes as he retrieved the spade. Squinted at him as he placed a few clear-mind berries onto the blade and held it out. Tomaaz’s legs shook as he approached. How far could the beast’s chain reach?
The gray beast’s nostrils quivered. It snaffled the berries and licked the spade.
“I’ll be back later,” Tomaaz crooned.
The beast stood staring as he retreated down the gully.
He was getting distracted again—today, he had to find his mother.
§
The creature cocked his head, nostrils flaring as it scented the new human. This one smelled strangely familiar, yet the creature knew it had never come across this particular male before. It sniffed again. This new man carried the scent of an old friend with him. Nostrils still quivering, the creature strained to remember his friends. Hazy memories of blue and green and vast open spaces flickered at the edge of the fog, but couldn’t break through.
Then the male started to talk. Not the harsh bellows of his tormentors, but a soft cadence that rose and fell like a gentle breeze. Squinting against the harsh sun, the creature tried to see through the fog.
The human was approaching. Offering delicious-smelling berries.
The creature gobbled them down, pining for more, then watched the male depart.
§
Tharuk 555 hurried along the ravine. 000 had told it not to feed the female prisoner, but 000 hadn’t meant to forget the prisoner completely. 555 was sure Zens wouldn’t like that. But then again, with 316 dead, it’d had more work in the mines. Then there’d been an unruly slave to deal with. It jiggled the key in the lock. Bars clanked against stone as it opened the door. The prisoner was still asleep.
555 kicked the female’s ribs.
No cry, no twitch.
This one was hardier than it’d thought. The tharuk bent, shaking the woman’s shoulder. Her head rolled toward him, eyes open and glassy. Her lips were tinged blue.
Dead—the prisoner was dead.
It’d never get away with hiding the body. 316 had hidden her rucksack and look how that had ended. 555 would have to take her to the flesh pile, then report to Zens.
§
Bone-weary, Tomaaz shoveled his evening gruel into his mouth. Occasionally, the spoon missed, hitting his jaw or cheek. Was he numlocked? No, after days of digging latrine canals, exhaustion was making him clumsy.
Or shock. Tharuks had been especially vicious today, whipping and beating slaves. More than one had died. The overseers had barked at the crew leaders to drive their slaves harder, even though people were dropping around them. 568 had even whipped littlings.
Now the tharuks were standing in a group, grumbling.
“Zens got bad news,” said 568. “That’s why overseers whip.”
“Kill more slaves. They will speed up,” reasoned Droopy Eye.
“Zens can chop their hands off,” snorted another and they all guffawed.
As if that would help anyone dig faster.
Tomaaz blanched and slipped a clear-mind berry into his gruel, scoffing it down, just in case. He checked his nails. After this morning’s dragon scale, they were gray again. Three mind-numbing days in this place and he hadn’t found a trace of Ma. He couldn’t give up. Last night, Pa had looked worse. Frustration welled inside him, then sputtered and died. It took too much energy. He slurped his gruel, then picked up his shovel.
“Hey, you!” 568’s whip flicked Tomaaz’s calf, stinging. “Take that stinking corpse. To the pile.” The tharuk gestured at Half Hand, who’d lain there for two days.
Dead, while Tomaaz wore his shirt. Flies buzzed around the body, flitting into Tomaaz’s face as he picked up the boy. He huffed, trying to blow them away without tharuks noticing.
“Take your shovel,” yelled 568. “Feed that beast. Or see Zens.”
The way 568 said see made Tomaaz’s back prickle.
Half Hand was all poky bones and saggy skin, but Tomaaz still staggered under his weight. His head spun. Their meager rations would make anyone weak.
568 hadn’t requested a tharuk escort, so Tomaaz shambled off on his own.
Along the gully, he passed slaves, eyes empty and slack-faced, returning from depositing the dead. When he got to the flesh pile, bile rose in his throat at the stench of decomposing bodies. A little girl lay on the heap—she’d been two canals over, whipped, for stopping to pee. The second lash had done her in. The hand of a tiny littling peeked out from under a man’s corpse. It wriggled. Gods, was the littling still alive?
Sharp teeth and a twitching nose poked out from under the hand, followed by a rat’s body and long tail. No, the littling was dead, now a rodent’s feasting ground. A crow cawed, landing on a body and pecking at its eyes. Tomaaz hissed and waved his hands, but it just hopped over to another body. Nauseous, he averted his eyes, carrying the boy to the edge of the heap.
“I’m sorry,” Tomaaz murmured. “Sorry you had to die here, so far from family and fres
h air.” He lay the boy on the earth, to the side of the pile, refusing to toss him on a heap, like a discarded vegetable scrap. Did this boy have family? Had they died too? Or were they at home where the earth was fertile and green, while he’d wasted away in this land of dust, dirt and death?
His eyes stung.
He was the only one not drugged, among thousands. It was hopeless, searching for Ma.
The stench of death clawed at his nostrils, forcing its way down his throat, making him gag. He fought it, then gave in, retching until his guts were empty.
Wiping his hand on the back of his sleeve, Tomaaz rose, and turned to take one last look at the boy.
His breath caught. Oh, Gods. It couldn’t be.
Under a man’s body at the top of the pile, sticking out at eye level, was a boot bearing the mark of the Lush Valley cobbler. A boot just like his.
“No!” Tomaaz whispered.
He scrambled up the bodies and rolled the man away. Glassy turquoise eyes stared lifelessly from a pale face, framed by dark hair congealed with blood.
He’d found Ma.
Hope Awakened
Hans was over the Great Spanglewood Forest, only a day’s flight from Dragons’ Hold, but it felt like years away. He clung to the saddle, arms and hands spasming. His legs had the tremors. An anvil was pressing on his chest, making him gasp sips of air. Another shudder ran through his body. The breeze pricked his sweaty skin.
He had to face it: he was dying. Tharuk poison was killing him from the inside out.
He scrabbled in his pocket with cramping hands and pulled out a calling stone. The angular one—Marlies’ one. He rubbed it. The stone flared, then crumbled into ash in his fingers. So Marlies’ calling stone had been destroyed. By Zens? Tharuks? Or had it been an accident? He shoved his fingers at his pocket, missing. Then tried again, more slowly. On the third attempt, he extracted Tomaaz’s calling stone and rubbed it … nothing. He tried again … nothing. Afraid he’d drop it in midair and have no means of communicating with his son, he shoved it back into his pocket.
Gods, he wasn’t going to make it.
“Hang on, Hans,” Handel melded. “We’re not too far away.”
“Too far for me,” Hans said. “You’ll be returning on your own. Give Ezaara my love. Tell her to get Tomaaz and Marlies.” Shards, how awful. He’d never see his family again. A spasm seized his chest, making his whole torso convulse. Hans gritted his teeth until it passed.
“Think,” said Handel, beating his mighty wings. “Think, Hans, there must be something we can do.”
A vision shot through Hans’ head, of him riding Handel into battle with Ezaara at his side on Zaarusha.
“No, Handel, it’s not possible.” He gritted his teeth as another spasm hit him. “That’s not prophecy, just wishful thinking.”
But it felt like prophecy. That same sense of mystique washed over Hans, as it always did when he saw the future.
“Think back over your life, Hans. There must be some way we can save you. A different remedy? A place we can go … I’m not giving up on you, so soon. We’ve barely flown together.” It was obvious that Handel had run out of ideas.
Flashes of his life appeared before Hans’ eyes: Marlies crumpling in his arms when she’d killed Zaarusha’s dragonet; fleeing Dragons’ Hold; their wonder at their newborn twins; Tomaaz and Ezaara as littlings, laughing; Ezaara’s first arrow hitting a clump of grass; Ezaara and Tomaaz fighting in the marketplace the day Ezaara had imprinted with Zaarusha—the last time he’d seen her; Ana giving him the little pouch; tharuks attacking Lush Valley; Lovina and Tomaaz on Liesar.
“There!” Handel latched onto one of his memories, showing it to him again. “What did she say, Hans? What did Ana say when she gave you that pouch?”
“I don’t know.” A spasm ran across his face. The sun was too bright. All Hans wanted to do was close his eyes and …
“And fall to your death. Hans! Pull yourself together!” Handel roared, the rumble jolting him back to reality. “Ana. Think.”
Ana’s words sprang to mind. “She said, if I’m in a tight corner, to rub the ring and say her name. Her mother was Anakisha.”
“Anakisha’s ring? She gave you a ring of power, Hans. Use it! Now!”
Hans drew in a strangled breath. The pouch, where was it? He fumbled, taking it out of his other pocket. As he was untying the strings, it slipped. He snatched it, cupping it against his leg, and grabbed it with both hands so it wouldn’t drop.
The trees below were tiny twigs against a ribbon of blue.
“Don’t get distracted, Hans, put the ring on.”
Hans jammed it on his finger. “Ana,” he called, rubbing the jade whorls. “Help me.”
The forest, sky and distant ranges disappeared.
Hans and Handel were suspended in a tunnel of billowing clouds, bathed in golden light. A woman moved toward them in a flowing white gown. Strange, she was transparent, the glowing clouds showing through her. As she approached, Hans recognized her.
“Anakisha! I thought you were dead.”
She spoke in his mind. “Zens entered Dragons’ Realm in my reign, so I am trapped in the land between life and death, only able to pass on and join Yanir in the great flying grounds when Zens and his evil are purged from Dragons’ Realm.”
“Where are we?”
“The ring creates a realm gate, similar to a world gate, but you can only travel within Dragons’ Realm.”
The possibilities were endless.
“No, Hans, not endless. Every time a realm gate is used, the walls of the gate grow weaker, creating a ripple in sathir, the energy of life. Zens senses those ripples. If he takes advantage of them and encroaches the walls, he’ll be able to move throughout Dragons’ Realm at will. Imagine the danger.”
Hans swallowed, his throat tight, as another spasm wracked his body.
“Only use the ring in dire circumstances,” Anakisha warned. “Never for convenience.”
“Help, Ezaara!” Handel called. “It’s your father, Hans. He’s dying.”
“It’s no use calling Ezaara, she can’t hear you.” Desperation was making Handel do ridiculous things. His daughter couldn’t meld with a dragon other than Zaarusha.
A dark ripple flashed through a cloud, like lightning in a stormy sky.
“What was that?” Hans asked Anakisha.
“A crack in the wall. Hurry. Where do you want to go?”
“Dragons’ Hold.” Gods, he could hardly hold on.
“Safe travels,” Anakisha said.
With a loud crack, the glowing clouds disappeared and Hans and Handel were suddenly above Dragons’ Hold.
“Welcome home,” said Handel, satisfaction radiating from him.
Hans was about to reply, but he blacked out.
§
Ma’s body was still warm. Tomaaz’s heart hammered. He held his fingers under her nose. No breath. He felt her neck. No pulse. Dead, dead, dead. Oh Gods, he was too late to save her. A sob burst from his throat. Tomaaz cradled her against his chest, staggering over the dead bodies. Under his boot, a rat squealed and scurried deeper into the pile. He shuddered. He couldn’t leave Ma here as fodder for rats or carrion birds. He half-slid down the flesh pile, his mind in a frenzy. He had to get her out of here. Take her somewhere. Give her a decent burial.
There was plenty of dirt near the latrine pits. No! No! He wasn’t burying Ma near a pile of human excrement. Not anywhere here. He’d take her back to Lush Valley. Wait for Pa, and take her back. But where could he hide her until then?
Tomaaz’s boots hit solid ground. Backhanding tears, he slung Ma over his shoulder and picked up his shovel. As long as he was feeding the beast, he’d have freedom. He snorted. Confinement to a lousy valley under duress was not freedom.
He traipsed to the rat pile, his shoulders bowed under Ma’s weight. Dark sorrow clogged his throat, making his breath come in gasps. Thank the Egg, the rat tharuk had finished duty. Scooping rats onto his shovel, Tomaaz
headed toward the main valley. He’d tell any tharuks he saw that Ma was a dead slave; that he’d dump her on the pile once he’d fed the beast. Even so, he stuck to the lengthening shadows.
His legs were boulders, weighing him down. Perhaps Pa was dead, too. Lovina had also been limplocked. And Ezaara? What if everyone he cared about was dead? What then?
Weighed down with his mother’s corpse, Tomaaz trudged up the branch toward the beast’s cave. Although he didn’t encounter any tharuks, he could hear them further along the main valley, whips cracking as they mustered slaves to the sleeping huts.
Rounding the bend, Tomaaz stumbled along to the dead end. The beast growled softly, sticking its head out of its cave as he approached. Barely glancing at the creature, Tomaaz threw the rats at it, then carried Ma into the neighboring cave. Here, she should be safe.
He gently laid Ma on the floor near the far wall. Stroked the matted hair back from her face. Oh, Gods, this was real. He bowed his head to her chest and put his arms around her, sobs tearing from him.
Tomaaz wasn’t sure how long he cried, but suddenly there was snuffling at the hole in the wall. A tongue flicked through.
Shards, the beast. It might make a ruckus and bring tharuks running. Sighing, Tomaaz pulled some clear-mind from his pocket, placing it on the tip of the shovel, and held it by the hole. The beast made short work of the berries, then shoved its eye against the aperture, observing him. Was the gray film over its eye growing thinner? Probably just his imagination. It was hard to see in the half dark.
Tomaaz took out his calling stone and rubbed it. Nothing. Dread rushed through him. If Pa was dead, there would be no chance of getting Ma out of here—no chance of saving himself.
He should get back. Tharuks might notice he was missing. But somehow, nothing mattered anymore.
Tomaaz lay on the cold stone floor next to his mother’s corpse, staring into the dark.
§
Dawn stole through the cave, waking Tomaaz. His mouth was dry and his hands and feet were numb with cold. Blearily, he gazed at Ma, his thoughts pushing through sludge. It was hopeless. He rolled over and drifted back into a nightmare-plagued sleep.
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