Slave in the City of Dragons (Dinosaurs and Gladiators Book 1)

by Angela Angelwolf

  These saurians were moving and jostling at a busy intersection. There were many vehicles that moved under their own power. The clothing on the saurians was different. Almost mechanical. There were only a few humans in the crowd. These were mostly naked, and went about on chains attached to saurians.

  “What is this?” Pashera asked.

  “It’s a time window,” Tol’zen said. He indicated the busy scene on the other side. “This is Guadalquivir two thousand years ago … or three thousand, or four. I don’t really know. At one time, someone thought it important to view a scene out of history. They knew where and when something happened in the past. They built this window, or temporal oculus, for viewing it.

  “I’m sure there must have been a ceremony,” Tol’zen continued. “And lots of scientists standing around and nodding. And then they proved or disproved whatever theory they had by witnessing the actual event. And then life moved on.”

  Pashera was hypnotized by the window into the past. She could see the palace in the distance.

  “I knew an old saurian,” Tol’zen said, “well, he was old when I was a boy. The only thing I knew him to do was to stand and stare into a window like this, day in and day out. And then one day, he was gone. He’d wasted his own life watching another.”

  Tol’zen took her by the hand and gently led her away. “Don’t make the same mistake, Pashera. Live your own life, don’t waste it watching the lives of others.”

  They rounded a corner when Tol’zen suddenly put a hand across her chest to hold her back. Pashera froze. Tol’zen called her forward with a crooked finger, and she peered around him to see a procession of robed figures striding silently along a wide, flower-lined path. Tol’zen pulled her back.

  “It’s a funeral,” he whispered. “The only reason anyone comes here anymore. Just our luck. But there is another way.”

  He led her back the way they came and chose another path, leading her on a meandering trail toward the big building in the middle.

  At the corner of the building, Tol’zen indicated they should climb, and boosted Pashera up. The building was entirely made of metal, but what type, Pashera couldn’t guess. It didn’t show any rust, despite obvious pitting, scarring and other signs of age. She found hand- and footholds and scrabbled her way up the corner of the building. Tol’zen followed.

  She passed windows on the way up; all sealed. She reached the corner of the roof, three stories off the ground. There was a weathered old dragon-mouthed metal rainspout sticking out of the corner at the top, and she had to work her way around it. But finally, she got up on the roof, panting. She sprawled out on the white metal tiles of the gently sloping roof until Tol’zen joined her.

  From the roof, he pointed out the city below them. The temple sat on the rising slope of the mountain, so it had a good view of most of Guadalquivir. “Over there, that is the merchant’s district, near our home,” he said.

  Pashera wouldn’t have admitted it, but her heart secretly thrilled when he described it as “our” home.

  “And there you can see the palace,” he said. “On Freedom Way.”

  He went on, naming various landmarks. While some were colorful and unique – the “Snail Circus” made Pashera laugh – about a fourth of the place names were some variation of “dragon” or “freedom.” Pashera thought it very ironic that a race which fetishized freedom would keep slaves. But she kept that thought to herself.

  He pointed out the factories, which bordered the arena, and then towers of various interest groups within the city. “Over there,” he pointed, “those are the towers of the sorcerers.” She saw towers of gold, red, deep orange and brilliant green clustered in one quarter of the city.

  “They work magic?”

  “They’d like us to think so,” Tol’zen said. “But no, they work wonders using technology. Very advanced technology. One of their achievements is immortality, but they didn’t share it. That degree of selfishness earns a whole lot of hate.”

  “Why didn’t they share it?”

  “The sorcerers said our society would collapse under the strain,” Tol’zen said. “But I believe it’s because if everyone was immortal, the sorcerers wouldn’t feel special.

  “Anyway, most of the sorcerers were killed in the great calamity of the last age. Remind me to tell you about that sometime. Now, the remaining few of them squat in their towers like malevolent old toads, and have very little to do with the rest of us.”

  Tol’zen pointed out a few more features, then got her on her feet again. They duck-walked up to where the roof they were on joined the next, higher roof. And there was a higher roof after that.

  Tol’zen peered over the top roof, which ran in a square around the temple, then looked back at Pashera, put a finger to his lips, then signaled her forward.

  Lying prone on the roof, the hot, sun-baked tiles warming her skin, Pashera watched a ceremony going on in the inner courtyard. The figures were so far away that they were hard to make out. It seemed to involve figures stepping through an arch while a collected chorus chanted to one side.

  “What are they doing?”

  “One of the mysteries of the Temple of Science,” Tol’zen whispered. “Probably initiates graduating from one level to another. Outsiders aren’t supposed to see it. The penalties for being caught are quite severe.”

  They watched for a while longer.

  “I’ve been through some of the early initiate rites,” Tol’zen said. “It’s all done in an old language; we have to learn the syllables by rote. The ceremonies might have had some real meaning a long time ago, but now ...” he shrugged. “Finally, I gave it up.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s all ceremony, no real meaning. Not here. The real temple of science is the Cogitorium.”

  Then Tol’zen got up, crouching low, and led her along the roof again.

  He stopped and showed her a trap door. He heaved on it and stairs led below. “Follow me,” he said.

  Inside was more murky half-light. “No one uses this level,” he says. “But let’s not give them a reason to investigate.”

  He quietly led her along a corridor. “When I was a lad, I investigated every inch of this place and others like it,” he whispered. “When I got home, my mother would ask where I’d been all day. I’d say, ‘at temple, Mother.’ She thought me a very devout boy.” He chuckled at the memory.

  Tol’zen stopped at a door. It opened with the dusty creak of ill-used hinges.

  Inside, the room was as dark as a pit. But Tol’zen found the lights. Recessed lights overhead came on, and more on the floor. The lights on the floor surrounded a throne of pearl-white. Tol’zen brought Pashera inside and closed the door behind them.

  He pointed to the throne. “This chair is called the Throne of Heart’s Desires,” he said.

  “What does it do?”

  “It grants wishes.”

  “Stop jesting with me,” she said. “I don’t know whether to believe half the things you say.”

  He looked hurt. “I’m not jesting,” he said. “Make a wish, and if it is in its power, the Throne of Heart’s Desires will grant it.”

  They moved closer to the chair. It seemed to be carved of limestone or some other rock. Strange sigils and inscriptions of gold ran along the arms and up the sides.

  “This grants wishes,” Pashera wondered. “And it just sits here, forgotten?”

  “I believe the sorcerers created this,” Tol’zen said. “before they stopped being scientists and went off to their towers. When I was a boy, I used it multiple times. But there are good reasons why it was left behind.

  “There is a limit to how many times an individual can use it. The wishes have to be ones the machine can grant. Also, knowledge of exactly how its powers work are lost. So, the wishes can go disastrously wrong. They can backfire on the user.”

  She looked at him like he was crazy to suggest she climb into the chair.

  “That only happens to people with evil in their hearts,”
Tol’zen explained. “It won’t hurt you. You have a gentle heart. It never hurt me when I could use it.

  “Oh, and also, importantly, there a limit to how many times an individual can use it. You get three tries for a wish, and about a dozen wishes in a lifetime.”

  He considered the chair for a minute. “The fact that evil men can’t use it is maybe why the sorcerers left it behind.”

  He took her hand and put it on the arm of the chair. The entire chair lit up with a soft, interior light. Instinctively, Pashera tried to flinch away, but Tol’zen kept her hand in place. The stone of the chair warmed under her touch. She could feel a pulse through the rock, a throbbing that reminded her of the white tower in the jungle.

  “Sit down and make a wish,” he said. “You get three tries.”

  Trembling, she sat in the chair. Tol’zen guided her to put her head back. There was a head-rest, with two forks or horns that projected out beside her face. She heard a low humming sound as she put her head back. And then a sphere popped up from a concealed compartment in the right arm of the chair. It was white, like the chair, but patterns swirled on its surface. The top of the right arm swung over in front of her, so the ball was easily within her grasp.

  “Put both hands on the sphere,” Tol’zen said. “And wish.”

  “What do I wish for?” she said.

  “Whatever you like. But make it good. Think good thoughts.”

  Pashera tried to clear her mind of any evil thought. Hesitantly, she put her hands on the ball. It lit up as bright as any lamp. She rubbed it and thought hard.

  The first thing that crossed Pashera’s mind was freedom. But no – it was more complicated than that. She wanted freedom, and she wanted Tol’zen. Could she have her freedom and Tol’zen both? She focused her thoughts: “I wish to be free. No! More than free. I wish to be queen, with Tol’zen by my side.”

  “That is beyond my power,” said a dry, hollow voice. “Try again.” It took Pashera a second to realize the throne was talking to her. Tol’zen didn’t react. Was the voice only in her head?

  It WAS only in her head.

  So she tried again. Maybe she was being selfish just thinking about herself.

  Pashera thought: “Free all the humans from slavery in this city. Let the humans in Guadalquivir be free and happy.”

  “Too ambiguous, contradictory, and not attainable,” the throne said. “Try again.”

  Pashera started to doubt the chair’s power. Maybe that’s why the sorcerers had left it behind; because it wasn’t powerful at all, and an uncomfortable chair to boot!

  But then something else occurred to her, a guilt that she had carried with her since she’d left her village. She rubbed the glowing ball again.

  “I want to talk to my mother,” she said aloud.

  It was like the top of her skull opened up and she went hurtling across the sky. There was her village below her. There was her mother, helping other women butcher a kill. She looked so … sad.

  Suddenly, she was inside her mother’s head. The flint knife dropped from her mother’s hand. A wall of sorrow that was loss for Pashera suddenly cracked. Pashera felt those emotions wash over her.

  “Mother, I am alive,” she said. “I am with a man, a good hunter, a brave warrior, in a city far away. Can you hear me? Can you understand me?” It was strange to talk in her native tongue; she’d been speaking the saurian language ever since her adventure in the white tower. But she found the old words and used them.

  Pashera’s mother convulsed. She fell to the dirt, twitching. Her mind was a weird mix of both panic and joy. She was so grateful to hear from Pashera again. But the experience of the voice in her head was terrifying … unnatural.

  Pashera felt the power of the chair course through her. The chair showed Pashera something in her own mind – like opening a tool-kit. There were many tools for mental communions. Perhaps this toolkit, like mental communication itself, was a vestigial aspect to all intelligent minds. There was even a tool for tranquility.

  Using the mental tool, Pashera calmed her mother’s mind. She told her how wonderful Tol’zen was, and how he made her happy (she did not mention that Tol’zen was not human; her mother’s mind was strained enough). She expressed her deep sorrow for causing her mother grief.

  In return, she got forgiveness. A wave of love washed over her. It was cathartic for her soul.

  Scant minutes past – and without warning, the contact was broken. Pashera found herself sitting in the chair. Tol’zen looked at her curiously.

  She wept. Tol’zen led her out of the room and back the way they came.

  “You made a good wish,” he said as they went along. “It’s good to talk to your mother while you have the chance. Too many people miss such opportunities.”

  Pashera silently fumed that she wouldn’t have to talk to her mother through the arcane machine if Tol’zen hadn’t kidnapped her. But she held her tongue.

  “You can try again in a month,” Tol’zen reassured her. Suddenly he froze. Pashera heard it, too. A voice speaking. It was a calm voice, carrying through the walls, but the words were muffled.

  Tol’zen relaxed. “I’ve heard that voice before,” he said. “It’s just one of the old machines. They get very lonely up here.”

  “Machines get lonely?” Pashera wondered.

  “Of course. It’s so rare that someone comes to talk to them anymore,” Tol’zen said. “The machines taught me so much when I was a boy, they were just grateful to have someone to talk to. I’ll introduce you next time we come back; you’ll see.”

  Pashera had more questions, but Tol’zen shushed her and led her back to the roof. He closed the trap door behind them and led her to the edge of the roof, away from where they’d entered the temple grounds.

  They dropped from one roof to another, then again. At the far corner of the lower roof, a rickety metal walkway stretched out away from the building.

  It had no railings, and was so thin that it might be invisible from below unless you were really looking for it. “Come on,” Tol’zen said, and walked out confidently.

  “Tol’zen!” Pashera nearly shouted. He turned. “I’m scared. It’s too high, and there’s nothing to hang on to.”

  Tol’zen sighed. He came back and opened up some of the pockets on his sash, and took out the “magic” rope he’d used to tie her up when they first met. “Hold onto this, I’ll guide you,” he said. “And if you fall, hang on and I’ll catch you. The trick is to not look down.”

  Then he led her out on the walkway. It was sturdier than it looked. Pashera concentrated on putting one foot directly in front of the other, just as Tol’zen did. They walked along, going uphill, up the mountain. They passed over the wall of the Temple of Science and into the next walled yard. The colors were very different from the reds and metallic colors of the Temple of Science. This place was done in colors of brown and green.

  “Is this the Temple of Earth?” Pashera asked as they followed the walkway right to the roof of the next temple.

  “Very good,” Tol’zen said. “But hush. They use their gardens, and they might hear us.

  Below, saurians in ones, twos, and larger groups busied themselves in various activities. If any of them had looked up, they could easily have seen Tol’zen and Pashera. She realized that they never looked up at the sky; they were all too busy in their tasks.

  She saw figures engaged below in the multiple courtyards surrounding the main temple. Some were obviously doing athletic exercises, but others seemed to be educational. And in one courtyard she saw dozens of saurians in deep meditation.

  The walkway, which had been on a steady incline, brought them to a sloped, wooden-shingle roof about three stories up. The temple of Earth was larger than the Temple of Science, and more populated. It was also above the Temple of Science on the slope of the mountain, so the view from this roof was really extraordinary.

  Whereas the Temple of Science was square and smooth-lined. The Temple of Earth started as a ziggu
rat, a stair-stepped pyramid with many staircases. The sky walkway Tol’zen and Pashera had crossed ended at one of these staircases, and now they climbed the stairs. It seemed to Pashera that she could hear saurians talking just around the corner, but Tol’zen explained that the others were on different staircases, and they would never meet. Indeed, the stairway Pashera and Tol’zen were on soon folded into and around the other staircase on this side of the ziggurat. The climb was arduous; they paused more than once to catch their breath.

  After rising for quite a distance, the ziggurat came near a peak. But it did not peak; instead, it ended in a cradle for a giant, white-domed globe.

  Here, near the summit, Tol’zen paused to show Pashera another breath-taking view. To one side were animal pens, and Pashera heard the grunts and calls of the leatherbacks. She shuddered as she remembered the ceremony of the Pakaian.

  On all sides of the ziggurat, facing away from it, were giant statues. Tol’zen named them some of the nearer ones. Dragon-headed An, the father of creation. Ki, another dragon, the mother of creation. Nammu, the goddess of the sea. Enlil, the god of the air we breathe. Nin, Hur and Sagg, the three wives of Enlil and the goddesses of the fertile earth. Enki, the goddess of rain and freshwater. Nann, the goddess of the moon. There were more that Pashera couldn’t see around the sides of the ziggurat.

  “These are the ancient gods,” Tol’zen said. “Dreamed up when our race had no better way to explain the universe. They are still revered, though. The people cling to their superstitions. And the authorities find this religion a useful tool of control.”

  “Didn’t you say something about revering the Earth? What’s wrong with that?” Pashera said.

  “Nothing’s wrong with the concept,” Tol’zen said. “But thinking the rains depend on whether you sacrifice a goat on a stone butcher’s block is sheer foolishness. And a waste of a goat.”

  “What about your ‘honored’ alliance with the Cydars,” Pashera said bitterly. “You seemed to think that was important, too. They do that here, don’t they? Your Pakaian.” She practically spit the last word.