by Jason Letts
“Cut that out!” Tommack shouted, getting up and approaching. He had no idea where Bolt & Keize found these men, but it was clear they were getting what they’d paid for. Good for manual labor and nothing else, the pair couldn’t muster a thought between them.
Before Tommack could cover half the distance to them, one of the men slipped on the pipe, stumbled back, and then fell over the waist-high railing marking the edge of the plateau.
The falling man’s shriek seemed to fill the entire valley, and soon Tommack and his other two companions were looking over the railing at the speck of a broken body against the rocks hundreds of yards below.
Tommack grimaced. There’d be time later for yelling at the other worker for his utter stupidity, but for the moment he found himself thinking they’d be able to manage if he and the technician covered the lost man’s duties. The land had told him something bad would happen, but oddly this didn’t seem that bad.
“Come on. Let’s just calm down by the fire and talk about what we have to do now,” Tommack said.
“There’s no way we’ll be able to finish in time,” the technician groaned.
“We’ll be fine,” Tommack said.
“There’s no way,” the technician continued.
“We’ll be fine if we all pitch in and do the work, regardless of job title. Then we can get out of here,” Tommack said, shutting him up.
A few minutes by the fire wasn’t enough to soothe Tommack, whose agitation only continued to grow. He listened to the crackling fire and the heartless land, waiting for it to tell him more was coming. The sun continued to sink toward the horizon while the men decided how to proceed. It took a while for the technician to agree to pick up some of the responsibility, which would’ve been a relief if Tommack hadn’t just noticed some rustling by the end of the outcropping.
Jerking his neck almost fast enough to snap it, Tommack spied some movement under a section of tarp. Whatever it was couldn’t be larger than his fist.
“Liquid hell, what is it now?” the remaining worker said, getting up and trudging closer, which was the exact wrong move. There were too many things in the Plagrass wilderness that could outmatch a man, even at that size.
“No, stop,” Tommack commanded. “The job is over. We have to leave. Now.”
“You must be out of your mind!” the technician said, raising his voice. Another mistake. “There’s no way I can leave this. Keize will have my head if this thing isn’t operational!”
But Tommack’s eyes were fixed to the twitching section of tarp. He gasped when the creature underneath crawled out; a small black lizard flexed its wings and emitted a harsh cry. While the creature gnawed on the tarp, another one just like it flew over the edge of the plateau, followed by another one, and then another.
Tommack already had ideas about his escape. Despite spending years crisscrossing Plagrass, he’d never seen a dragon and never expected to, only hearing whispers and rumors in back alleys. Worst of all, he never thought he’d see them angry. For all he knew, the worker had fallen just outside of their nest, and now over a dozen of them were crawling around the installation, turning shades of black and gray beneath the reddish sky.
Making a blind run for the crags and vegetation in the plateau’s interior was the best option, though Tommack didn’t hold out much hope that they couldn’t find him if they wanted. Instead, he raced closer to the end of the outcropping where his tent was.
As he ran, a thunderous roar ripped through the air and shook the ground, followed quickly by the first anguished cry. A few of the dragons flitted around the workman’s head, one landing on his shoulder and biting his neck. The man flailed his arms and actually grasped one of them only to cry out again when the dragon’s hide burned the skin from his hand.
The technician, already out of breath from the commotion, grabbed a flaming stick from the fire and attempted to ward off the dragons with it. Tommack admired the courage it must’ve taken to do something so stupid.
After diving into his tent, Tommack reached for his bag and yanked it open. The bottle. He needed the bottle. It was madness that he had it to begin with, paranoia based on nothing more than an overheard comment and an unscrupulous desire to be prepared for anything in the wilds. But sometimes there’s truth to those absurd notions that most people scoff at.
Putting his hands on the bottle, full of clear liquid that was so close to water but wasn’t, Tommack dashed out of the tent but almost lost his footing as another ear-splitting roar enveloped him. Once outside, he glanced back in time to see a massive dragon, at least fifty times larger than the others, rise over the precipice. Silvery and of bulbous hide, it clamped onto the edge with one claw and then lunged for the solar installation with the other.
The giant dragon’s claw melted through the metallic exterior like butter, liquefying swaths of the satellite dish, the solar cells, and the control interface. The technician screamed, but not because months of his work had been destroyed. One of the dragons perched on the end of his log directly in the fire.
Backing away slowly so as not to draw attention, Tommack knew what was coming next. The smaller dragons preoccupied the technician while the larger one waddled forward, and then they all darted away just as that massive claw came down to crush him. The worker was already facedown in the dirt, covered in writhing black bodies.
It was only a matter of time until the swarm came for him. Already one or two were floating closer to his tent. When the first one had him in its sights, Tommack turned and ran for a set of boulders closer to the plateau’s interior. His lead of fifty yards wouldn’t last long, not with the roars and yelps echoing louder in his ears.
Holding the bottle firmly in his hand, he sprinted away in search of a spot that would provide him even a moment’s cover. The terrain grew rockier, and Tommack stumbled against the first boulder, crashing against the hand that held the bottle. The impact stung, but he held on.
Swiveling behind the rock, he unscrewed the lid and stuck his hand inside the bottle, feeling the cool sting on every inch of his skin. Removing his hand, he spread the liquid over his face, neck, hair, and on his overalls. In his mind, Tommack remembered that comment, the one that was going to mean the difference between life and death.
“Those dragons, they love metal. Made of it themselves. But just like metal, some hydrogen peroxide will rust ’em right out. H2O2.”
Tommack didn’t have time to think about how the ragged old man in Horux had come by that information. Dragons were already crawling on the rock above him and flitting about in the dim space between the other boulders. One gray-colored beast with warty hide hung just in front of his face, looking at him in an intelligent way he’d never seen in any animal or most humans.
Others joined behind it. Perhaps the smell gave them pause, or maybe they were waiting for the fluid to dry out. The bottle was still about half-full, and Tommack’s hand was ready to spray it at them if need be.
The gray dragon floated ever closer, extending one claw forward while Tommack wheezed. Beautiful and terrifying, these dragons would have to pay if they killed him.
He was pressed against the boulder when the dragon dragged its claw against his cheek, opening a cut with the precision of a scalpel. But it pulled back immediately and uttered a shriek. That gray claw grew red and brittle all the way up to the knee, finally cracking and withering until nothing remained at all.
The gray dragon flapped its wings and rose out of sight, and its companions quickly followed suit. Tommack had no question they would’ve killed him if given the chance, and perhaps they still could’ve if they’d wanted, but they must’ve known it would cost them dearly.
A quick sigh of relief was all Tommack afforded himself. He wouldn’t be safe until he’d descended the plateau on the other side, which would be a feat in the dark. Nothing more than a few knick-knacks in his pants and the half-full bottle of hydrogen peroxide were available to aid him, but at least he was on the move again.
A
nd that was just fine by him.
CHAPTER 1
“Sign your names at the bottom here.”
In a cramped, candle-lit Madoran clay hut, Lowell Bracken sat with his ex-wife, Tris, and children, Sierra, Randall, and Taylor, around a rickety table supporting a single sheet of paper. The planning that had gone into this had been meticulous, the import of recovering from their financial ruin and expulsion was suffocating, and now it was time to form an agreement binding enough to make sure no one backed out.
Lowell had never imagined that the toughest deal he would ever have to close would be with his own family.
Sierra, whose facial bandages from the gas explosion would come off in a cycle or two, rose from her seat, crossed her arms, and turned to the wall.
“I’ll never sign it. I don’t care what a good idea you think it is,” she said.
“It’s for the family, for our people,” Lowell said, staying calm. But Sierra snapped around and pressed her finger against the paper, the running ink staining it black.
“Not after what we’ve been through,” she declared. Sierra was crying.
Lowell couldn’t blame her. He knew how difficult it was to ask for this from her, but the part that made it difficult was exactly the part that would make it work.
“The abject horror of this aside, it is genius,” Randall said before Lowell could respond to Sierra. It was strange for Lowell to have to count on the support of Randall, whom he’d never been particularly close to, but perhaps the political nature of the plan appealed to the former representative on Cumeria’s Grand Council. Or perhaps the dire situation had shifted Randall away from his self-indulgent ways. Either way, Lowell had to take support where he could get it.
“We’ve talked over every aspect of this. We’ve weighed the options. It’s clear that this is the only way to get back what we’ve lost,” he argued.
“Are you sure you want to go back, Lowell?” Tris asked him in that disarming way she had. “You’ve been here for nearly a month. Let’s let go of the old life and realize we have opportunities here that are even better.”
“We’re not any safer here,” Lowell said in a low voice, hoping Tris didn’t notice when he glanced at the X-shaped scar on her neck.
“You think…you think you can play everyone?” Sierra raved, her voice warbling. “The Wozniaks, the Illiams, the Lus, Chancellor Aggart, even the Defender and the Mind of Madora—there’s no possible way you can anticipate what they’re all going to do. It’ll never come to this!”
Lowell pursed his lips and cast her a sympathetic look, knowing she was reaching a breaking point that would put her beyond reason. He understood how much she stood to lose, and that was if the plan succeeded. Taking a deep breath, he rose so he could look at her straight on.
“This is the only way to get back what’s been taken from us. The Brackens never got to where we were by letting other families knock us around, no matter how hard the knocks. I know there are a lot of moving pieces and it’s a lot to bank on, but there are some core motivations people always hold true to, and I’ve got every one of those people pegged. I stake my life on it.”
Sierra glared back at him from watery eyes. Nothing would make her relent, which proved heartwarming to the old man. He wouldn’t have expected anything less.
“But this isn’t the only way to get back to power,” Tris spoke up. “The market is still growing, we’re adding more artisans, and more money is coming in than ever. There’s no need to try to cut corners or do something rash in order to get it back with one reckless move.”
Sighing, Lowell remembered that during his planning he had known these objections were coming. If any of them were in his shoes, they’d feel the searing indignity of being run out of home and country as he did. And they’d give absolutely anything to get it back.
“I’ve seen the markets, Tris, and I’ve run the numbers. What you’ve done there has been amazing, deserving of effusive praise, but it would take decades to become just a player in Madora, let alone the world. I don’t have decades left to make the slow climb, not when there aren’t any guarantees something won’t happen anyway.”
Tris wore a placid expression, oblivious to the problems he saw in the market that she wasn’t ready to hear. Sure, Tris had created an offshoot of a luxury market where commoners could hawk crafts, but the money attracted the poor beggars who were starting to overrun the place. Tensions with the main market were beginning to rise, and sooner or later the clash of threatened businessmen and defenseless masses would lead to catastrophe. Tris’s eyes were full of opportunity, leaving no room left to see these impending problems.
“Yes, Mom is right,” Sierra agreed. “We can build a new company on our own terms, start fresh and leave behind all of the unpalatable practices required in Cumeria. We’re better off without the board members, the inspectors, and the investors.”
“I doubt anyone is too worried about those things in Cumeria at the moment,” Taylor said, speaking for the first time all evening. He was a fighter, not yet twenty but with great strength and a strange power that made him impulsive. A bold plan like this would be a natural fit for him.
“And what do you think, Taylor? Should we execute this plan and get in position to rescue the ClawLands, or should we lick our wounds, accept defeat, and eke out a living in the Madoran market?”
Hunched over with his chin resting on clasped hands, Taylor stared at the ink-stained page on the table.
“It’s a big bet,” Taylor replied, taking some of the wind out of Lowell’s sails. Even an alternative as slow and painful as working a dirty street market in a city of thieves would prevent them from doing what they needed to get back where they belonged.
“Being a Bracken means thinking big,” Lowell said, his hand reaching for the sleek hilt containing Legacy at his side. His family’s sword required him to fight his way back by any means necessary, and Lowell didn’t take that responsibility lightly. Still, it seemed he’d have to accept that nothing he could say would convince them to move forward with the plan.
A sudden flurry of shouting in the street broke their focus, and the sound of stamping footsteps revealed that someone was coming. Now Lowell’s hand reached for Legacy’s handle, but he let go when Dedrick spilled through the gaping entryway.
“The market, the market!” the young boy huffed, catching his breath.
A flicker of alarm flashed in everyone’s eyes, and together the entire family rushed out into the street.
“Nemi sol,” Sierra said, calling the diminutive dragon perched above the entryway’s arch. Nemi flapped down onto her shoulder and emitted a sharp cry that conveyed a palpable understanding of how important the market was. Lowell knew something was bound to erupt there, but he’d never have guessed it would happen so soon.
The only question was what they’d find when they made it through the dimly lit, crowded streets and arrived at the affluent market near the north end of town. A fire? A fistfight? A dust storm? Anything was possible.
Lowell and the others couldn’t make it to the market fast enough, but abandoning all caution on the streets of Madora was unwise. Not only was it possible that knife-wielding thieves could jump out from every alley, greater dangers lurked unseen in the vicinity. Though Tris hadn’t seen the Defender since the conjoined twins known as the Mind of Madora told her about his vicious schemes, she still kept her eyes on the rooftops as if he were there watching her every step.
The Brackens heard what was happening at the market before they saw it. The sound of clanking steel blades, snapping wood, and cries of terror carried all the sounds of a roiling riot. Turning the corner, they saw that the once peaceful alley housing quaint shops and creative stands had turned into a warzone, where artisans and patrons scrambled to safety while sword-wielding mercenaries roamed the streets. More than a few bodies and trails of blood dotted the ground. To Lowell, the scene had a strong resemblance to the chaos in the ClawLands during the invasion.
�
�Where is Agjam?” Tris asked, referring to the first artisan she’d brought to the market, but more pressing concerns struck Lowell.
“Taylor, protect Tris and Randall. We’ve got to find out what’s going on here,” he ordered, pointing to a narrow street behind the market buildings that seemed vacant. Just a glance at the market raised Lowell’s suspicions. While Tris’s stands and carts were completely destroyed, the market shops had been boarded up and had likely been closed intentionally much earlier.
Drawing Legacy and letting it lead the way into the narrow street, Lowell hoped they’d be able to catch some of the mercenaries off guard enough to pin one down and get the whole story. What they found was two guys terrorizing Agjam near the end of the alley. Strangely, the men didn’t appear to have any interest in raping or robbing her. They simply menaced her with shouts and clanging steel.
Lowell nodded at Sierra and Taylor. Taking care of these guys would be fun. While Lowell and Taylor crept up behind the men, Nemi flew overhead and waited for a chance to melt through their swords. Just then a shriek from inside the market filled the air, causing one of the men to look back and catch sight of Lowell and Taylor.
The mercenary didn’t hesitate, taking a big swing at Taylor, who only had his blue-tinted hands to defend him. But Taylor jumped back while Lowell lunged in, fought off the next swing, and stabbed the man through the stomach. Lowell’s inexperience showed when the other attacker quickly approached, leaving Lowell struggling to withdraw his sword in time to block.
Instead, Nemi landed on the attacker’s shoulder and bit his ear in time to thwart the blow. Soon Agjam was alongside Tris and Randall while Lowell and Taylor held down the bitten mercenary, whose chain-mail shirt was poorly hidden under the rags of a commoner.
“Is Dedrick here yet? We need him to translate,” Lowell called back to the others. The boy was still the only one who understood both Cumerian and Madoran. The captive struggled fiercely in a murderous rage.
“You’ll never get him to talk,” boomed a voice from within the shadows. A man emerged in an open, hooded robe, displaying sleek black armor like serpent’s skin and buckled weapons lining his sides from chest to heel. Lowell had no trouble identifying him as the Defender of Madora.
