“My name is Garrison, subcommander to the Prime. I am here on his orders. The Hom prisoner is to come with me.” He bowed as Grendel came into view. She raised her head to tower over Grymric, even though they were of similar size.
Grymric began with a sigh. “The Hom prisoner—”
“Is dead,” Grendel cut in. “You are welcome to what’s left of him, though I doubt that Prime Grynt will find it particularly … appetizing.”
She looked down to her left. Gayl emerged from the shadow of her mother’s tail, the severed arm dangling from either side of her jaws. She opened them and snapped them shut again, to catch the arm better between her small fangs. A bone crunched. A sorry chunk of limp flesh separated off.
Garrison dilated his nostrils a little, trying not to show any sign of disgust. “By order of the Elders, I would remind you that eating of Hom is forbidden.”
“Only while they’re alive,” said Grendel.
The commander made a sound that resembled a huff. His eye ridges shrank a fraction. He held Grendel’s stare for another moment, then bent his head toward the arm. A slightly imprudent move at best. Gayl’s warning hiss was so intense that Grymric gave a start and one of the guards outside lost his grip on his perch. He flapped wildly to regain his hold while the other barked a scornful reprimand at him.
Garrison was somewhat less startled. He drew back his head, casting a repugnant glare at Gayl. “I must see the remains, to know they are genuine.”
That surprised Grendel. She hadn’t expected to be challenged. Here, for once, was a dragon who was thorough. His persistence was almost admirable. Keeping her composure, she said, “Are you asking me or my wearling to vomit?”
The scales around Garrison’s throat showed a slight blush of green. “If I do not have proof to take to Prime Grynt …”
“Proof?” snarled Grendel. “Proof?”
To her right, Grymric shuddered. The young matrial was sounding more like Gossana with every breath.
“Are you accusing me of deception?” she growled. “When my wearlings are both officially Named, I will be the queen of this colony. You would do well to remember that, Commander.”
Garrison bowed, his expression impenitent. He took a pace back, his head so low it almost scraped the ground. His resolve, though damaged, was not entirely crushed. “I can scent a male dragon elsewhere in this cave.”
“That’s … Gabrial,” Grymric jumped in. “He came to me with an injury. I’ve given him something to make him sleep.”
“Injury?” That sparked fresh interest from Garrison.
“Some minor wing damage. A clumsy accident … apparently.”
“Accident?” said Garrison.
Grymric did his best not to gape. Why did it always fall to him to defend the dubious activities of others? “I could wake him if … ?”
The bluff hung in the air for what seemed like an age, until Garrison finally twisted his snout and, still looking pointedly at Grendel, said, “Thank you, healer. That won’t be necessary.” He glanced down at Gayl and back again at Grendel. “You might like to teach her that it’s better to pin her prey to the ground and rip it.”
Gayl was gnawing the arm as if she’d like to swallow it whole.
To help her cause, the hand dropped off. Grendel swept it into Garrison’s feet. “Thank you for your valuable insight. Take the hand as proof to Grynt. Your duty here is done.”
Garrison gave a nod so faint that the dust motes between them barely moved. He gathered up the hand and quickly departed, calling the two guards after him.
Moments later, Gabrial emerged from the shadows. The first thing he heard was Grendel ordering Gayl to drop the arm. The wearling at first refused, but proved no match for her mother’s stare. Glumly, she put the arm down.
Grendel thumped it out into the sky. “Let the crows have that,” she said, wrapping her tail around Gayl briefly. “You will never eat Hom flesh again.”
Graark, went Gayl, spitting a shred of dead skin. It wasn’t clear if she had understood the ruling or not.
“Grymric, you need to see this,” Gabrial said urgently. He was standing over Rolan again. Barring the loss of the arm there was no real change in Rolan’s body. But in the pale blue light of Gabrial’s gaze, something was glittering on the man’s face.
“Is that … a fire tear?” Grymric gasped.
“If it is, then he really is dead,” Gabrial whispered. He looked up at Grendel. “The cold was too much.”
“Then burn him,” she said. “If Garrison comes back, there must be nothing left.”
“But that’s dragon auma flowing out of him,” said Grymric, still mesmerized by the tear. “I’ve never seen anything quite so extraordinary.”
“Gayl, NO!” Gabrial cried suddenly.
Too late. Gayl had stepped up to Rolan’s face and casually licked the tear off. It was gone in a gulp. The wearmyss wrinkled her snout and idly walked away.
“What does that mean for her?” Gabrial said in a panic. “Grymric, what has she taken in—dragon or Hom?”
“I … I don’t know,” said the healer. He opened and closed his mouth several times. He looked worriedly at Grendel. “I don’t know,” he repeated. “Possibly both.”
“Then the Hom lives on in our wearling,” she said. She stared at Rolan’s face, committing it to memory. “What’s done is done. Burn the body. Grynt can find another way to get to Ren.”
“A hand?!”
Prime Grynt’s rush of fury had turned his face the same purple as Garrison’s chest.
“I asked you to bring me the complete man, not a sample of him!”
Garrison raised his head. “I attempted to. Grymric and the matrial claimed he had died.”
“Matrial? Grendel was there?”
“With her female wearling, yes. She—the matrial—had allowed the wearling to feast on the body. I brought a small part of what was left.”
“You saw the remains?”
“An arm, nothing more.”
“Idiot! How do you know he was dead? How do you even know the arm came from that Hom?”
Garrison lowered his gaze. “Why would a dragon of my rank challenge the word of a queen-elect?”
“So you might execute the orders of your PRIME!” The force of Grynt’s reprimand carried a storm of hot dust across the cave. He turned away, blowing short bursts of steam. “Grendel can never be queen. Her wearlings are adopted. She’s not worthy of that title.”
Garrison’s expression suggested otherwise. “The matrial is greatly admired for her commitment to Grystina’s line.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Garrison stared dead ahead. “I merely say what I hear. The Wearle still mourns Grystina’s death.”
Grynt gave a derisive grunt. “Well, hear this and hear it well. I give the orders to the Wearle, not Grendel. Was the blue with her?”
“Yes. Sleeping.”
“Did you check?”
“No.”
“Did you listen for his snoring?”
Garrison sighed quietly. “No.”
“Then how do you know he was ASLEEP?!” Grynt kicked a rock against the wall in frustration. “What’s the matter with the dragons in this colony? I chose you to be my commander on the ground because I believed you were intelligent! Garodor himself put your name forward. Yet you’ve been misled by a bumbling healer and a female barely old enough to shed her birth scales. And her wearmyss!”
“Matrial Grendel is very astute,” said Garrison, struggling to keep his voice level. “I was chasing my isoscele from the moment I engaged her in conversation.”
“Astute,” Grynt repeated with a scornful hiss. “Gossana’s right. They’re plotting against me. That blue is dangerous.”
Garrison tapped his claws together. “With respect, I think you’re mistaken. I have heard no rumors of a conspiracy. Gabrial is highly thought of since the goyle attacks. But there is no indication that the roamers look to him to be their leader. I
would know of it. I swear the Wearle is loyal to you.”
Grynt gave another contemptuous snort. He circled around to Garrison’s other side. “Earlier today, Gabrial and a roamer called Gus slaughtered the last two Veng in the colony, claiming they’d acted in self-defense.”
That froze Garrison’s breath. “The Veng are dead? That’s how Gabrial was injured?”
“Well, he didn’t roll off his settle in his sleep!”
Garrison’s eyes darted in thought. “Where is Gus now?”
“Across the sea, if you believe the blue’s account.”
“But that’s an unmapped area. We’ve no idea if there’s land within reach.”
“Then he’ll return,” snarled Grynt. “And when he does, he’ll be dealt with. Severely. In the meantime, you are going to obey your orders and bring me this BOY. You know the Hom settlement beyond the scorch line?”
“Yes. I was there once with Veng Commander Gallen.”
“Good. The Hom are a scourge. I want them destroyed.”
“Destroyed? Is that wise?” Garrison looked up in shock. “I was in the forest when the boy laid down his terms. If we harm his people—”
“You think Graven will rise?” Grynt said scornfully.
Garrison turned his face away.
“Go to the settlement and flatten their dwellings. Drive them out. Kill any that resist. No, wait—spare just one.” Grynt hardened his stare to a point. “Gallen spoke of the boy’s mother in his final report. A wild woman. Do you recall her?”
Garrison nodded. “She was the one who struck Gallen and was injured.”
“Good. Find her and bring her to me—all of her.”
And with one last snort, he pressed his foot against Rolan’s hand and crushed it.
Gossana’s plan to get proof of Gabrial’s deceit was simple. She would ignore the blue and his arrogant “queen” and concentrate on the idiot, Gruder, instead. It would be an easy task to intercept him along his sweep of the domayne, force him to the ground, and glamor him. Ruthlessly. There were few things more enjoyable than watching a feeble mind give up its secrets. His confession was really just … a glare away.
The obvious place to wait for him was on the headland where the Veng had been killed, thereby fulfilling Grynt’s order in the process. But Gossana cared nothing for the sier pent class (or orders, for that matter). She cared even less to see their bodies torn apart and bathed in blood, carrion birds squabbling over them like wearlings, scraping at the scales for the flesh beneath.
So she headed out toward the scorch line instead, on a shallow trajectory that glided her over the sprawling forest where the Veng commander, Gallen, had met his end.
In less than twenty wingbeats, she was at the line. It was quiet. Not even a sheep was grazing. She cast her gaze both ways, extending her optical triggers to their maximum. No sunlight had broken the cloud for days, but she could see through the overcast well enough.
No sign or scent of Gruder yet.
But something interesting did prick her nostrils: Hom blood, relatively fresh.
In the flatlands beyond the last slope of the hills lay the small Hom settlement where the upstart, Ren Whitehair, and his irritating tribe of accomplices had come from. Until this day, Gossana had never ventured beyond the central hub of the colony. She took no interest in the mappers’ reports of the “features” that lay beyond the mountains. Endless fields. More clusters of trees. Deep valleys. The occasional river. A tremendous profusion of fauna and flora. Fauna. What a ridiculous word. These natural “wonders” bored the matrial. The quickest route home to the flame-carved labyrinths of old Ki:mera was all she truly cared about. Open landscapes baffled her.
Yet, for want of some amusement, and to satisfy her glint of curiosity, she decided to follow the scent of the blood. In a matter of moments, she saw a Hom body. It was lying on the hillside, just the wrong side of the scorch line. A male, she thought, though it was hard to tell; the body had been quite badly … mangled.
She circled once, before landing a few strides away from the corpse. Still no sign of that idiot sweeper. Any self-respecting Hom could have been halfway to Vargos by now.
But not this Hom. It really was a mess. A starving wearling wouldn’t leave its prey this badly damaged. Which begged the question, what had done this? And why had it been left on the wrong side of the line? Was it supposed to be some kind of taunt?
She poked an open wound with a claw. The jab disturbed a cradle of flies. They swarmed around her head like angry rain. She snorted and flashed her tail at them, barely harming a single fly, bar one that managed to buzz up a nostril and was vaporized the instant she blew it out.
Issuing an angry growl, she picked up the body and hurled it well back into Hom territory. It landed with a juicy splat.
Near to another.
Gossana adjusted her optical triggers. No doubt about it. Two bodies, not one. Pah, what of it? she asked herself. What did she care that two Hom were soaking into the hill?
Curious all the same. What were those bodies doing there?
With a furious huff, she took to the air and went to investigate.
That was when she saw a third body. It too was lying on open ground, as far distant again as the first two bodies had lain apart. Then she saw a fourth. And another ahead of that. Someone (or some thing) had laid a trail of death on the ground. And Gossana, for whatever reason, followed it. It would lead her to a place she would never otherwise have dreamed of visiting.
The home of the Kaal.
The Hom settlement.
Not once did it cross the matrial’s mind that following the trail could be a dangerous endeavor, or indeed a trap. She was aware that the arrogant boy, Ren Whitehair, had threatened the Wearle with swift retaliation if the dragons refused to let the Kaal roam freely across their land. But even with all Ren’s dubious tricks, what could a bunch of poorly armed men do against a dragon of her power?
She glided stealthily over the encampment. It was nothing more than a tightly grouped knot of round-shaped dwellings. To her surprise, every one was discolored by burning, all the roofs opened up like sores. Yet there was no activity. Barring the straggle of bodies to the scorch line, she could see no Hom.
Thinking they had seen her coming and were hiding, she dropped low and swept over the settlement at speed, building up a rolling downdraft of turbulence. Dwellings leaned. Dust clouds billowed. An old wooden water trough somersaulted noisily across the clearing. Gossana herself squealed loud enough to make a Hom ear bleed. But no Hom came running in terror from their homes.
In frustration, she landed. The ground felt unusually lush underfoot, but she paid no real heed to it. Instead, she swaggered into the clearing, blowing fire from each nostril in turn, lighting up threads of thatch in the air.
Some kind of Hom was here, she could smell it. A more animalistic scent than she remembered, but close enough to their revolting sweat to make her nostrils contract in disgust. Compared to dragons, all species stank. But if she could scent a presence, why couldn’t she see it?
Finally, something did appear, but it was like no Hom Gossana had previously encountered. It had the same basic shape as a man, but was smaller, crouched, much rounder in the shoulders. It wore no robe and had a stringy tail that it held in a half curl away from its body. Its upper limbs were limp and long. The legs were so bowed it was a wonder it could stand. Yet the body was lithe, the feet and hands both powerfully clawed. It was covered in a skin of smooth brown hair.
“Turn,” Gossana snorted, though she doubted the beast would comprehend. It was facing away from her, its head part-hidden in a shale of dust.
But it did hear. And it did turn. And when the dust cleared and she saw its face, her misplaced bravado quickly deserted her.
Attached to its head was the upper part of the skull of a dragon. Scraps of dead tissue were clinging to its crevices, blood smears lining the dark eye sockets. One of the fluted nostrils was broken, the other plugged with leaves
and dirt. A more unsettling sight Gossana had never seen. But what disturbed her most about this grisly apparition was that she recognized the basic shape. For this was no ordinary dragon skull. It was long front to back and could have been easily mistaken for a female. But the tooth pattern gave it away. The fangs were greater in number than most dragons would possess and arranged in a double row toward the front. The skull had come from a Veng-class beast.
Gossana suspected it was Gallen.
She backed off, roaring fire at the thing, carpeting the ground between them in flame. Two things happened as a result. The creature unexpectedly jumped—higher and quicker than she could have predicted, using its tail to bounce off the erth. At the same time, she heard a great scream of pain and the ground she had flamed came alive. A whole host of creatures similar to the skull wearer split away from her with fire running up their backs. She saw one of them fall as a leg was consumed. The creature gurgled low in its chest and opened a pair of poky brown eyes. It died making a chattering sound, revealing a row of square-shaped teeth that seemed too big for its blunt-nosed face.
A victory for Gossana, but momentary at best. The creatures were soon swarming over her, skipping up her tail and covering her back as lightly as a breeze. She reared and shook most of them off, stamping out one that landed by her feet. It burst like an overripe berry, the wet shell of its body gumming to her claws. She used it to slap the next assailant, almost taking its head off its shoulders.
They went for her wings, but she was wise to that. One vigorous flap saw most of them thrown. Those that clung on began to rip at her sails or gnaw down the joints with their powerful teeth. One of them seemed to be poking her ear. She blazed in anger and tried to fly, but so much ballast had destabilized her shape. She fell awkwardly on to her back, kicking like a wearling on its first failed attempt at takeoff.
And then, just as all seemed lost, terror raged down from the sky. Grynt’s commander, Garrison, swooped on the settlement, flaming the land all around Gossana. Five, maybe six creatures died in his fireball, melting in an orange river of ruin. On his second pass, he snatched two creatures off her back, crushing them as easily as she had stamped one flat. He let their blood rain over the clearing before dropping what was left of them back to the ground. The creatures fled in ripples after that, no match for a dragon in flight. As Gossana righted herself, two more dropped off her back. She dispatched them with a swipe of her tail so vicious that both were cut through at waist height.
The New Age Page 8
