“Yes. My brother recognized your gift of healing, because he, too, was a healer. He saw a vision and knew your line was destined for great things. So, he sacrificed himself, passing his healing energy through the shell of his egg to heal you, so you could have children.”
Marlies gasped. “He knew what he was doing? He willingly died for me and my children?”
“Yes.” Maazini tilted his head. “Tomaaz reminds me of Dyanmar, but I can’t understand why.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure. There’s something about him …”
That wee dragonet had sacrificed his life to help her. She hadn’t murdered him. It had been his choice. The mantle of pain and regret that had nearly suffocated her slowly eased from Marlies’ shoulders.
§
Yelping, a man was cowering in the corner, a tharuk looming over him. Under his blanket, Tomaaz gripped his pallet, trying not to act, for Ma’s sake. The fabric ripped beneath his fingers. He thrust his hand inside, grabbing a fistful of straw, the ends poking into his palms, trying to restrain himself from leaping up to help. Then he sighed in relief as the tharuk turned away from the man, yelling for everyone to get up.
They traipsed to the eating area and chewed their crusts of stale bread. Another day in the latrines. He was so exhausted, he could crawl back onto his pallet and sleep for a week.
“If only I could lend you energy,” Maazini melded, “but I’m too weak, now.”
“If only I could set you free.”
“We’ll find a way.”
Tomaaz didn’t reply. How could he? He’d been racking his brain all night and hadn’t come up with a way to free Maazini.
“Get to work, you lot,” 568 bellowed.
Slaves went to the tool piles.
“You,” 568 bellowed again, pointing at Tomaaz. “Feed the beast. Now. Zens wants that beast soon.”
Zens wanted Maazini. No! Pa was coming tomorrow night. If they left Maazini behind, he’d be doomed. Tomaaz plodded to the tool pile.
At his feet was a thin saw. Its curved handle was hooked on the stem of a shovel. No one was watching. Casually, Tomaaz stepped on the saw blade and yanked the shovel handle, snapping the blade. He dropped the shovel, letting it clatter to the pile to mask any noise. Used to clumsy slaves dropping tools, the tharuks didn’t even look his way. Tomaaz bent to grab the shovel and tucked the broken saw end into his boot. At last, a chance to free Maazini.
§
555 stood before Zens, head bowed.
555 was trusty, a lot better than his sneaky underling, 316, had been. Then, why wasn’t the prisoner’s rucksack where 316 had left it? Zens sent the image to 555 again—the image of the crevice he’d seen in 316’s mind before he’d killed him.
“I checked there, sir. This morning,” 555 replied. “There’s nothing there. Just 316’s scent and some scuff marks.”
Zens pried through the beast’s mind, but found nothing untoward. “A rucksack can’t just disappear!”
000 shot him a mental message, “Perhaps another patrol member moved it. I’ll question them tomorrow morning. We’ll find it then.”
“Good idea,” Zens said. “Now, I must get back to my new lovely.”
000 guffawed, just as keen as him to unleash their new lovelies on Dragons’ Realm.
§
A young boy was working next to Tomaaz in the latrine pits that day. He was slow, stumbling under the weight of the dirt. Young, but so weak and wasted.
“Faster,” 568 barked.
The boy twitched, dropping half his dirt, then scrambled to get it back onto his spade.
“Haul him out,” 568 called to Burnt Face.
Burnt Face dragged the boy out of the ditch, bellowing, “Boss said, work faster. Do it.” The tharuk sent the boy sprawling into the ditch, then jumped in after him, raking his back with its long claws.
Tomaaz bit back a gasp.
Four gashes slashed the boy’s back, blood seeping into his ragged shirt.
Dark spittle flew from Burnt Face’s tusks. “Get moving. Work faster. All of you.”
Tomaaz bent to dig, keeping an eye on the boy. Whenever the tharuks’ backs were turned, he steadied the lad to stop him falling. Soon the lower half of the boy’s shirt was drenched in red. Splatters covered his breeches. Ragged breaths hissing from his chest, the boy kept digging. The tharuks ignored him, targeting other slaves.
Tomaaz’s gut churned. Tomorrow he’d escape, leaving all these poor folk behind. Most of them would be dead within moons. It didn’t matter to Zens. He’d just send his raiding parties out to abduct more.
If he got to Dragons’ Hold with Maazini, Tomaaz would petition Maazini’s mother, the dragon queen, to save these people.
That evening when he fed Maazini, Ma showed him the chain. “I’ve sawed halfway through the metal loop that hooks it to the wall,” she said. “If tharuks come, Maazini will stop them from getting in here to check, and tomorrow, I’ll keep sawing. When is Hans coming?”
“Sunset.” Had she forgotten already? He’d only told her yesterday. She was still pale, with dark smudges under her eyes. Her face was gaunt. Those piaua berries had knocked her about badly.
“I’ll take care of her,” Maazini melded, sending a wave of affection through him.
Feeling Maazini’s powerful emotions every time they melded was amazing, but it took some getting used to. Tomaaz rubbed the dragon’s snout and went back to the sleeping hut.
That night, Tomaaz was woken by whimpers. A puppy? He rubbed his eyes. No, he was in Death Valley. There were no puppies here.
In the sputtering candlelight, he glanced about the hut. The boy who’d had his back raked by Burnt Face was huddled on his pallet, moaning, biting his fist so he wouldn’t make too much noise.
The stomp of tharuks alerted Tomaaz to approaching guards. That was odd. It was taking them longer than usual to get here. A tharuk flung the door open. The whimpering stopped. Tomaaz shut his eyes as the tharuk strode among the pallets, then stomped off, slamming the door behind it. Tomaaz heard it laughing with the other monsters as they continued on patrol. He could hear them better than usual. Weird—unless imprinting had sharpened his hearing. Maybe it was possible. Pa had said dragon riders received talents from their dragons. Maybe great hearing was one of them.
Breath hissed through the boy’s teeth. Moans racked his little body. Poor thing. Tomaaz pulled on his boots and made his way between the pallets to the boy. The littling froze as he approached.
Tomaaz laid a hand on the lad’s shoulder.
He flinched.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Tomaaz whispered. “There’s a healer in Death Valley. Can I take you to her?”
No answer.
The candle hissed and flared. The boy was terrified, the whites of his eyes gleaming.
“It’s all right. I’ll carry you, but we’ll have to be quick.”
The lad gave a sharp nod.
Tomaaz scooped him up, careful not to touch his wounds, and cradled him against his chest. Starved, the boy was lighter than half a sack of carrots. Shards, what he wouldn’t give for a carrot now—or even a bite.
Nudging the door open, Tomaaz peered outside. No tharuks around.
He was halfway through the door when a guttural voice startled him. “Why are you creeping around?”
Tharuk! Tomaaz froze, scanning the valley, but couldn’t see anyone.
“Want to trade? You can have it for six rats.”
Somehow, Maazini had sharpened his hearing. Much further along the valley, to the north, a door to a sleeping hut was ajar. Tharuks were inside talking. He hoped neither were trackers.
“Hungry, are you?” A guffaw. “Two rats. It’s measly. Could find a better one myself.”
“Four rats.”
Hurrying on, Tomaaz kept to the shadows, his pounding heart marking each soft footfall.
There was a snarl. His body tensed. It was just those tharuks, fighting.
The boy’s eyes were wide, fixed on Tomaaz. He was grimacing against the pain, teeth digging into his lip to stop himself crying out.
At last, they were speeding along Maazini’s branch of the valley.
“Tomaaz, I sense you.” It was Maazini mind-melding. “Stick to the shadows. There are tharuks patrolling the hilltops tonight.”
“Shards! That was close. I was about to start running out in the open.”
“Easy does it. Take your time and be stealthy.”
A wave of soothing calm spread through Tomaaz. How did Maazini do that? Calm his emotions and ease his pounding heart?
“Years of training. Stealthy, now.”
Although the boy was light, Tomaaz hadn’t had decent food in days, and he was tiring. Just as he was near the bend, a rock skittered down the hillside above him, landing right next to him. He stopped, waiting in the shadows for what seemed like forever, before he moved on.
Slower than a snail, he made his way toward his waiting dragon, creeping along the hillsides, arms burning with fatigue.
A short distance from Maazini’s cave, the dragon melded again. “They’re gone, but be cautious, just in case.”
“How can you tell?”
“Their scent, but my best sense, by far, is my hearing.”
That explained his newfound skill.
When he edged into Maazini’s cave, Ma was waiting.
Maazini moved to the cave mouth to block them from view as Ma pulled out a small vial that shone in the dark, quickly shrouding it in cloth so only a sliver of light shone on the boy’s wounds.
She inhaled sharply. “Place him face down on my blanket,” she whispered, laying her tiny light on the floor and rummaging in her healer’s pouch.
Tomaaz sank to his knees, still cradling the boy. The lad clung to him, casting fearful glances at Maazini.
“It’s all right, he’s my friend,” Tomaaz whispered in his ear. “He’ll protect you from tharuks.”
The boy went limp in his arms. Tomaaz placed him on the blanket and tousled his hair.
He kissed Ma on the cheek.
“Go,” she whispered. “Get back before they miss you.”
§
A face swam into focus. Blonde hair. Green eyes.
“Ezaara?” Hans asked.
A cool hand touched his forehead. “Pa, you’re awake.”
Hans tried to sit up. Shards, his limbs ached something fierce, and his chest was sore.
Ezaara pushed him back down. “Relax. It’s going to take time to recover.”
“Ezaara.” His voice came out croaky. She passed him a cup of water, and he drank. Then she hugged him, avoiding the wound in his chest.
He winced anyway. “Sorry, still a bit sore.”
“Of course you are.” Her brow tightened.
In all his years of using dragon sight, he’d never seen anything as welcome as her sitting here, looking every bit a dragon rider. Actually, the Queen’s Rider. “So, how are you finding Dragons’ Hold?”
“A lot has happened since I got here. I’ll fill you in later. But first, Lovina says Ma and Tomaaz are in Death Valley.” Her voice was tight with concern.
Hans nodded. “They are.” He spared Ezaara the details: the haggard expression on Marlies’ face and how gaunt Tomaaz had looked after only a few days. “How long have I been here?” His memory was hazy. He’d floated in and out of consciousness.
“Since yesterday afternoon. You slept all night.”
Well, not all night—he’d woken to talk to Tomaaz. He tried to gauge what time of the day it was from light filtering in through an unshuttered hole in the rock face, and failed. “How late is it now? I have to contact Tomaaz at sunset.”
“A couple of hours until then. Pa, you’re going back, aren’t you? To Death Valley.”
He nodded and squeezed her hand. “I have to bring your mother and Tomaaz home.”
“It’ll be dangerous.”
“I’ll be fine. I—” He sighed at her stubborn expression. “Yes, it will be dangerous. But I’m going as soon as I’m able. Tomorrow.”
“Good,” she said, “then, you won’t object to me healing your chest with piaua juice.”
“Piaua? But that’s only for grievous injuries! Marlies would skin me alive for using it on a non-fatal wound.”
“You’ll be facing hundreds of tharuks. Our entire family is depending on you and you can’t even shoot an arrow properly with that hole in your muscle.” Ezaara folded her arms. “I’m not having you go back there to get shot again. Or worse.”
It was true. He drew his bowstring with his left arm. His wound would hamper him. He hesitated.
She pounced. “Great, I knew you’d agree.” As quick as a hare, she tugged his bandage open, and uncorked a vial of pale green piaua juice. Raising an eyebrow, she asked, “You’re fine with this, aren’t you? I mean, you want the best possible chance of saving our family, don’t you, Pa?”
Hans sighed. “When you put it like that … yes. Go ahead.” He held his shirt open.
“This won’t hurt a bit.”
He snorted. “That’s not what Marlies says.”
Ezaara flashed a feral grin. “It may burn a little.”
He burst out laughing. “Ow, my chest hurts when I laugh!”
Tharuk Crackdown
The door of the sleeping hut flew open, bashing the wall. Tomaaz jerked awake, bone-weary.
568 and Burnt Face marched into the room. “You check the small male. I’ll wake the others,” 568 said, hefting a stick as thick as Tomaaz’s bicep. It strode among the pallets, whacking slaves.
Their yelping woke the rest.
Burnt Face stomped about the room, muttering, “Skinny rat must be somewhere.”
He was looking for the boy, and it was obvious the lad was missing. His blanket was hanging off the end of his bloodstained pallet.
Burnt Face halted by the mattress, sniffing at the blood. Tomaaz’s brow prickled with sweat. He fought not to shiver; to look dull-witted and numlocked.
“Hey!” Burnt Face called. “Small one is gone.” His head swiveled and his nose twitched. “Get a tracker.”
Shards!
“Not now. Get these slaves to work,” 568 snarled. “Or Zens will reward you.”
“N-no. N-not a reward.” The tharuk’s scar spasmed.
It would’ve been funny if Burnt Face hadn’t looked so petrified. Zens had created these monsters, but they were terrified of him.
“Go on.” 568 waved his stick at Burnt Face. “Feed them. Get them to work. I send tracker to flesh pile for the boy.”
Burnt Face herded the slaves out of the hut, tossing chunks of hard bread after them. The slaves scrabbled in the dirt to retrieve the tough crusts. It was the strongest emotion Tomaaz had seen from them, apart from the mother throwing herself into the sewage canal. He shuddered.
Sharp claws poked through the back of his jerkin. “Shivering? Got a chill?” Burnt Face thrust his snout over Tomaaz’s shoulder.
His stomach churned at the beast’s rat-laden breath. Tomaaz lunged among the slaves to snatch bread. He sat on his haunches in the crowd, gnawing at the hard chunk until Burnt Face looked away.
That was close. He had to keep his emotions locked away until they left this hell.
Tomaaz checked his fingernails. A faint pink tinge was showing on the edge of one nail. His dragon’s scale vial was with Ma. How long before his eyes turned green? By sunset they’d be gone. He couldn’t risk discovery now.
Two tharuks were gesticulating by the tool pile. Tomaaz wandered through the milling slaves, until his enhanced sense allowed him to hear what the tharuks were saying, then he sat down to finish eating.
“This saw blade is broken,” said a tall gangly tharuk.
“Probably old.”
“No, it’s new. From our raid last week.”
“You sure?”
“Look. See notches on handle? This is saw eighteen. A new one.” The tharuks leaned in, examining the saw han
dle. “Wasn’t broken two days ago.”
“Where’s the rest of blade?” the other tharuk asked, rummaging through the saw pile and searching the nearby ground.
“Missing,” Gangly said in a rough undertone. He scanned the slaves. “One of them might have it.”
“No. They numlocked. We’ll check the mines. Don’t want Zens’ reward.”
“I checked. It’s not there.”
“We look again. This morning.” The tharuk scratched the matted fur on its neck. “Then we check the slaves.”
“Don’t tell 568,” said Gangly.
“Course not.”
Now they were looking for the boy and the blade. Tomaaz had to return the blade or all the slaves would be at risk. No, he couldn’t. Ma hadn’t sawn all the way through Maazini’s chain yet. He swallowed down the tasteless pap, kept his eyes lowered, and shuffled over to get his spade to feed the beast.
A crack sounded in the air and a whip struck him. He staggered, pain blooming across his back.
568 glared at him. “No! Not feeding beast today. Zens says feed beast later.”
Latrine duty first, then. If he was lucky, the stench of the sewage would stop him from being linked to the boy. Shards, his back stung. Cool air nipped at his skin. The whip must’ve broken the fabric. Tomaaz dragged his shovel, shoulders slumped.
As they filed past the water station, Burnt Face was towering over a short tharuk, 216. “Gone? What you mean, gone?” Burnt Face growled.
“I counted them. One is missing,” 216 said.
“When you count waterskins last time?” Burnt Face’s red eyes gleamed.
“Uh, th-three days ago.” 216 cowered.
Burnt Face’s scar contorted with anger. The tharuk slashed out, leaving three bloody gashes in 216’s forehead.
“Count skins every day,” Burnt Face roared. “Take 216 to Zens.”
Two burly tharuks dragged the screeching underling away.
It was his fault. He’d had to steal that waterskin to keep Ma alive. That poor tharuk. Hang on. These beasts enslaved people and killed them. He sneaked a glance at the retreating tharuks, who were dragging 216 inside a metal door between two deep fissures. So that’s where Zens was.
568 cracked his whip, herding the slaves to the latrines.
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