Despite the oppressive heat and gloom the young men of Obsidian returned to their usual tasks, working the mines, carving the black glass, tending the crops. The women kept house, cooked and cleaned, wove and sewed, minded the livestock and the children. The old men thatched roofs, polished brightwork, and took care of the other less urgent, less strenuous jobs.
And the children ran errands and helped out as required, but still found time to play and explore. On the third morning after the water run Arlian climbed up to the top of the great black rock north of the village; at the top, sweaty and filthy, he settled down cross-legged and looked out over the countryside.
Up here it was just as hot as in the village, but the air seemed not quite so still and thick. From here he could see for miles upon miles, out across the Lands of Man, across fields and forests, from the Sandalwood Hills to the Bitter Lake, from Skygrazer Peak back to Tara Vale, miles in every direction but southeast, where the mountain blocked his view.
To the north, far off on the horizon, beyond the lowering clouds and the pall of mountain smoke, he could see a dull line of blue sky. At one point, to the northeast, that blue was marred by a smudge of smoke; his father had once pointed it out and told Arlian that that was where the great city of Manfort lay, where humans had first resisted, and finally broken, the dragons’ hold on the world—Manfort, where the great lords and ladies lived in their stone palaces, in their fine clothes and fancy coaches, with their dress balls and formal duels, amid rumors of secret societies and elaborate intrigue.
Arlian stared at the smoke for a long time, trying to imagine what the city was like.
When he grew up he wanted to travel; he had said so for as long as he could remember. His grandfather had been a traveler in his youth, and Arlian loved to hear him talk about it. He wanted to see all the places Grandsir had described—Blackwater, and Deep Delving, and Benth-in-Tara, and the groves of Nossevier.
And maybe he could even get to Manfort, as Grandsir never had, to see the palaces there, and the old shrines to the dead gods, and the lords and ladies with their swords and horses, and the Duke of Manfort, heir to the great warlords of old. Grandsir had stayed clear for fear of being robbed, or captured by slavers and sold, or killed by some lord he had inadvertently offended, but Arlian was certain he would be able to handle a visit there.
Or he might cross the Desolation to the Borderlands, where, it was said, one could see wild magic flashing across the southern skies, above the wild lands—magic was weak and scarce in the Lands of Man, useful only to trained sorcerers and severely limited even then, but Arlian had heard that in the Borderlands beyond the desert magic was so strong it danced like brightly colored fires in the sky. The intervening Desolation was said to be hot and almost waterless, a wasteland where anyone losing his way would leave bleached bones in the sand, and where bloodthirsty bandits roamed—but caravans still crossed it every year, and Arlian could surely join one.
There was magic beyond the eastern seas, as well, and ships sailed there from the ports of Benthin and Lorigol, and someday Arlian might travel in one.
And maybe he would become a lord himself—he would own a business, perhaps a caravan or a ship or a manufactory, where others would labor on his behalf, and he would carry a sword and dagger on his belt and ride a fine horse.
But wherever he went, Arlian told himself, he would come home at the last, to settle in his own familiar village, just as Grandsir had. Arlian thought he would find a pretty wife somewhere and bring her back here and raise half a dozen children, sons and daughters both, and he would treat them equally and fairly and raise them to be good and just people. And he would tell them stories of his travels at the supper table, just as Grandsir did.
With that thought he realized that it was almost time for the midday meal. Arlian wiped black-tinged sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, then turned away from the distant smoke of Manfort and started back down the jagged side of the black rock.
Later, after everyone had eaten, as his parents headed for the fields, Grandsir beckoned to Arlian.
“Summer can’t last much longer,” he said, “and we haven’t put aside as much for the winter as usual. I want to take a look in the cellars, see what we have and what we need. Come along and give me a hand, would you, Ari?”
Arlian smiled and came willingly; the cellars were usually cool, and any respite from the muggy heat would be welcome. He was not permitted in the cellars without adult supervision; there were too many ways for an active lad to do damage, down there in the cool darkness.
“Bring a candle,” Grandsir said, gesturing toward the drawer.
Arlian rummaged through the drawer until he found a good thick candle stub as long as his finger; he lit it with a splint from the kitchen fire, which was kept burning even on days as swelteringly uncomfortable as this.
The candle flared up, and even in the well-ventilated kitchen with its wide-open doors and windows the little flame seemed to brighten the room; the day was darker than Arlian had realized, and seemed to be darkening as he watched.
He took a final glance out the window at the black clouds, then followed his grandfather, trotting through the long narrow pantry, past the tiered shelves to the door at the back.
The rush of air from the cellars when Grandsir opened the door was disappointing, nowhere near as cool as Arlian had expected—apparently the heat had even penetrated into the stone-lined depths beneath the house. Still, it was cooler than anywhere else he might go.
The old man went down the ladder first while Arlian held the candle high; when he reached the bottom the boy handed the light down, then turned and made his own way down the sagging wooden rungs. The rails were slick in his hands, polished to a silky sheen by generations of hands sliding down them, and he had to watch his step closely.
When he stepped off the final rung the stone floor felt warm beneath his bare feet; he glanced down in surprise.
“The mountain is hot,” Grandsir said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it erupts soon.”
Arlian said nothing, but his eyes widened at the notion. The crater that loomed over the village had smoked all Arlian’s life, but there had been no actual eruption for almost fifty years.
The natural path for any lava or ash was down the far slope, well away from the village, but still, an eruption was an exciting, frightening thought.
“Come on,” Grandsir said, leading the way down one of the passageways, between dusty shelves lined with earthenware crocks and black glass jars.
Arlian followed, brushing aside cobwebs and soaking in the dimness and the rich musty smells. Somewhere behind him, from the sunlit world above, he heard a distant shriek—probably Kashkar the Stonecarver’s three girls playing some silly game, Arlian thought.
A man’s voice shouted, but Arlian could not make out any words—probably Kashkar, telling his daughters to go elsewhere with their racket. Arlian paid no attention to the noise, but watched as Grandsir ran a careful finger along a shelf, counting crocks.
“Eighteen pots of the soft cheese,” the old man said. “Count the wheels of hard cheese on the bottom shelf, boy, the ones in black wax—my old knees don’t want me to stoop that much anymore, and my eyes…”
Arlian squatted and began counting the big drums of cheese—the black wax did tend to fade into the dark background, and he could see how Grandsir might have trouble.
More voices were shouting somewhere in the distance, Arlian realized as he counted—had those girls started the adults arguing?
Then he heard another sound, a hollow metallic booming, and started up so suddenly he almost knocked the candle from Grandsir’s hand.
The old man hardly noticed; he had heard the same sound, and was staring at the open door at the top of the ladderwell. From where they stood only a corner of the opening was visible, a triangle of dull gray light in the brown darkness.
They both knew that sound. Everyone in the village knew it. Once a year everyone gathered around and sole
mnly listened to it, simply so they would know it when they heard it. It was the ringing of the great brass warning bell that hung in the otherwise abandoned village shrine.
“Do you think the mountain’s erupting, Grandsir?” Arlian asked.
“I don’t know,” his grandfather replied, taking a step toward the ladder, the candle held high. “It could be. But I don’t hear any rumbling…”
Then he stopped moving, stopped talking. People were shrieking again—but this was no game. These were screams of mortal terror, from grown men and women as well as children.
“What’s happening?” Arlian whispered hoarsely. He stared at the ladder.
Then a rush of hot air swept down into the cellars, flinging long-settled dust into the air in great swirls; dust stung Arlian’s eyes, blinding him momentarily. He blinked frantically, and dabbed at his watering eyes.
Somewhere overhead he heard a tremendous roaring.
“Come on,” Grandsir said. “Whatever’s happening, we don’t want to be trapped down here.” He tugged at Arlian’s arm.
Still squinting, Arlian came, staggering toward the ladder. The doorway seemed much brighter now—much too bright, Arlian thought. He realized with a start that the wind had blown out the candle and he hadn’t even noticed at first, so much more light was spilling down from above.
Hot air roiled about them when they reached the ladder. Grandsir gestured for Arlian to wait, and began climbing.
He reached the top and took a step forward, and Arlian did not wait for a signal, but started up the ladder himself.
The minute his head cleared the pantry floor and he could see through the other door he knew why there was so much more light; the kitchen roof was gone, torn away, and the kitchen walls were ablaze. The pantry’s stone walls were intact, but the wooden ceiling was beginning to smolder and blacken, and the top shelf on one side was askew.
“What’s happening?” he shouted—he had to shout to have any hope of being heard over the immense roaring that now seemed to fill the entire world. Hot whirlpools of smoke and air spilled through the pantry, blinding him anew. “Where’s Mother? And Father, and Korian?”
“I don’t know,” Grandsir said, stepping forward, arms raised to shield his face against the fire.
“Is it an eruption?” Arlian shouted.
Grandsir stopped dead, staring.
“No,” he said. “It’s not an eruption.”
Arlian stared as well; still on the ladder, his waist level with the pantry floor, his vision was limited to what he could see by peering around his grandfather’s legs and out through the door to the kitchen. He could see a corner of the kitchen table, a burning fragment of wall, and a wedge of gray sky—and framed in that wedge he saw the dragon.
He could not judge its size accurately, but he knew it was huge. It hung there, flapping its tremendous wings, and Arlian knew that that flapping was what had caused the whirlwinds that had swept through the cellars.
It looked black against the sky, but Arlian could not be sure that was its true color. Its eyes were the color of flame, but perhaps they merely reflected the blazing village.
Its wings swept up in a graceful, gigantic curve, then snapped down, then swept upward again, and between them hung a body as long and lithe as a snake, tail whipping and winding below. Its long neck arched elegantly, and it seemed to be staring right at Arlian.
“Oh,” Arlian breathed. The dragon was simultaneously the most beautiful and the most terrifying thing he had ever seen.
Then it turned and soared away, moving through the sky as smoothly and effortlessly as a fish moves through water.
“It’s gone,” Arlian said.
His grandfather took a cautious step forward, and Arlian hoisted himself up off the ladder, stepping through the doorway into the pantry.
Then they both froze as the second dragon appeared.
This one did not look their way, but simply flew across their field of vision, left to right and angling upward. Its scaled flank caught a gleam of sunlight and shone a dark, rich green, though the rest of it seemed as black as the other.
It was definitely not the same dragon, however. The proportions were different—and the face, even when seen only from the side, was different.
Arlian was startled at how readily he could know that. The dragons, he discovered, had faces as distinctive and as instantly recognizable as people. Why or how it could be so he did not know, but he knew it was.
“Two of them,” Grandsir said—he, too, had seen immediately that the two were not the same creature. “Two dragons!”
“Are they gone?” Arlian asked.
“I don’t know,” Grandsir said, stepping cautiously forward. He coughed as a swirl of smoke reached him.
Just then a dragon reappeared—the first one, Arlian was sure. It swept down from the sky toward something Arlian could not see through the burning ruins of his family kitchen, and spat flame.
It was just as Grandsir had said three days before—the dragon opened its mouth and flexed its jaw, and something sprayed out, then burst into flame. The fire never touched the dragon itself; instead a burning mist spattered down across the village below.
Grandsir coughed again.
“Dragons or no, we can’t stay in here,” he said. “The smoke will kill us both. Maybe we can get to the cisterns—if we hide in there the flames can’t touch us.”
Arlian nodded hesitantly, and stepped forward—and that was when the third dragon appeared in the kitchen doorway. It was afoot, strolling through the village rather than flying, and had thrust its immense black head into the flaming ruins of the kitchen to see what might be in the depths of the house. It stared into the pantry, directly at Arlian and his grandfather.
Arlian screamed and stepped back involuntarily, back through the door. His foot missed the edge of the floor and he fell backward, hands flinging out in an unsuccessful attempt to catch himself on the doorframe. He tumbled heels over head down the ladder into the cellars and landed, bruised and dazed, on the warm stone floor.
He heard his grandfather shouting wildly; at first he was too stunned to make out the words, but then his senses began to return.
“… our home! May the dead gods curse you and all your kin, dragon—what have you done with my daughter and her husband, and my grandson? You get out of here, back to your caverns! Your time is over! You have no place in the Lands of Man!”
Arlian looked up and saw flames and smoke licking across the pantry ceiling, turning the familiar surface fierce and strange. Still bleary and stiff from his fall but desperate to get out, to not be trapped down here, he struggled to pull himself upright on the ladder.
Then a shadow fell across him and he looked up again to see Grandsir standing on the brink, his back to the cellars, his heels almost over the edge.
“You get away from me!” the old man shrieked, his voice cracking with terror.
And then there was a rush of air, of hot, fetid air laced with a biting acid stench like nothing Arlian had ever smelled before, and a deep, deep sound that was neither growl nor cough nor roar nor rumble nor bellow, and Grandsir let out a scream and fell backward into the cellars, pulling the ladder down with him, knocking Arlian down and landing atop him, the ladder wedged across the passageway over both of them.
Somewhere above, flames blossomed into roaring brilliance.
The boy’s head hit the stone, and again Arlian was dazed; pain shot through his head and neck, and he tried to contract his spine, to pull himself inward in self-defense, but he was unable to move.
He lay sprawled on the stone, and Grandsir was sprawled atop him; the back of his grandfather’s head was pressing down on his right eye, blocking his vision on that side. With his left eye he could see the burning ceiling far above, now pierced by widening flame-lit cracks, the remaining ceiling black between the lines of fire. Swirls of gray smoke filled much of the ladderwell now and dimmed the light, even though the flames were bright and the ceiling was spli
tting and crumbling. He could see the left side of his grandfather’s face, more or less, but it was so close he had difficulty focusing on it.
Grandsir’s weight on Arlian’s chest was so much, and the smoke so thick, that he couldn’t get his breath to speak—and Grandsir did not speak.
Even if Arlian had been able to speak, and Grandsir to hear, he wasn’t sure he would be heard. Above them the pantry and the surrounding village were roaring chaos, a constant hammering of undifferentiated sound—flame and wind and terror.
Grandsir did not move to get up, did not stir, did not raise his hands or shift his feet. He lay still. Arlian thought he might be dead, but that blurry, out-of-focus bit he could see did not seem lifeless—Arlian could see motion, as if Grandsir were blinking, or twitching.
But then he managed to blink the smoke from his eye and get a clearer look, and realized that what he could see was not Grandsir’s own face moving, but something on his face—something liquid, something that seethed and steamed and roiled.
Arlian desperately wanted to shriek at the sight of that, but he couldn’t get enough air; he let out a strangled moan and struggled to free his left arm—his right was too securely pinned under Grandsir’s body.
Red and gray fluid was bubbling up where Grandsir’s left eye should have been; a bright, sharp stink scorched through Arlian’s nostrils, making it even harder to draw the deep breath he desperately needed. Arlian’s mouth was wide open as he sucked frantically for air.
He watched in sickened horror as the thick red fluid oozed down Grandsir’s cheek.
That was not just blood. Blood would have been bad enough—to have his grandfather lying atop him, perhaps dead, perhaps dying, with blood welling up from his eye socket, would have been terrible enough to give Arlian nightmares for years. But this was not just blood; human blood did not steam and bubble, and was never so viscous.
Arlian knew what had happened. The third dragon had looked into the pantry and seen Grandsir there, and Grandsir had shouted defiance. The dragon had listened for a moment, then grown annoyed. It had been unable to reach into the stone pantry with fang or claw, had not wanted to trouble itself with smashing down the stone walls, so it had breathed its fiery venom at Grandsir.
Dragon Weather Page 2
