The Dragon Star (Realms of Shadow and Grace: Volume 1)

by G. L. Breedon

  FIREFLIES FLITTED through the evening air, their luminescence illuminating faces in the shadows not eaten by the light of the fires. Tarak watched a firefly hover near Yeth’s long face before floating down to inspect Shifhuul. The wyrin shooed the insect away in annoyance. The outlanders still guarded the gate to discourage any locals from attempting to escape and allow the militia access to the castle.

  Tarak looked back to the courtyard, small fires blazing at the edge of the three separated groups — townspeople, pilgrims, and carnival folk. Fires also burned in iron braziers atop the castle towers fighting back the encroaching darkness of the moonless sky and providing light for the guards to watch for any endeavor by the militia to scale the walls.

  “Everyone. Listen. I have news.”

  Tarak followed Leotin with his eyes as the carnival leader walked to the middle of the courtyard, the castle soldier, Pi-Gento, and Palla at his side. The three had stood with Tarak, Yeth, and Shifhuul moments before, discussing the best options for dealing with Palla’s revelation.

  “Quiet!” Leotin waited for the various conversations and prayers to cease. “I have ill news. The militia is building a battering ram.” A few of the townspeople cheered, but Leotin raised his hands and continued. “We do not know how long it will take them to complete the ram, but they could attack the gate before dawn.”

  “Good.”

  “Raise the gate an’ burn the trash.”

  The townspeople barked their opinions as the pilgrims began to pray again.

  “If the gate is broken, they’ll kill us all.” Pi-Gento stepped before Leotin and shouted to the crowd. “They’ve seen the tahn fall from the walls. They’ll consider everyone inside a heretic. You saw what the last lot did. If they come through that gate, it’s swords for the men, rape for the women, and the fires for the children.”

  The townspeople fell silent, looking to their neighbors for guidance that they did not find.

  “Pi-Gento is correct.” Leotin raised his voice again. “They will kill everyone if they breach the gate. But we can stop them.”

  “With what?” a townswoman cried. “Our bare hands?”

  “Yes. With your bare hands.” Leotin pointed to the stables behind the crowd of townspeople. The castle walls comprised the back of the stable, but the sides were built of large stones. “We need to reinforce the gate against the ram. We’re going to pull down the stable walls and pile the stones before the gate.”

  The townspeople turned to look behind them at the stables, a murmur running through the crowd as they considered the idea. The notion had been Shifhuul’s, a suggestion he took only moments to make upon learning of the militia’s ram. The wyrin showed a surprising ingenuity at times for a creature who seemed intent on ignoring most events around him.

  “We will stay divided in three groups.” Leotin drew the townspeople’s attention back to himself with his voice. “You townsfolk will tear down the stables and separate the stones. My carnival folk will haul the stones to the gate and the pilgrims will pile them up. I know none of you have eaten, but we have made preparations for food, and a meal will be brought out shortly.”

  The courtyard fell silent with the end of Leotin’s speech. He turned slowly as he looked around. The priest raised his voice in the silence.

  “Do not help them,” the priest shouted. “Ni-Kam-Djen will guide the swords of the militiamen and spare the faithful.”

  “We can survive this if we work together.” Leotin looked to the priest. “If we do not, we will likely all die.”

  “Only you heretics will perish when the gate comes down and The True God’s soldiers smite you.” The priest pointed to the gate, the townspeople following his hand.

  “You are wrong, brother.” A girl of fifteen in a canary-colored dress turned to the priest from where she stood beside him. Tarak had seen the girl with Palla not long ago and wondered who she might be. He understood the priest to be the dead tahn’s son. This seemed the dead man’s daughter. “They will kill us all as heretics, and me especially, as I am one of them.”

  The girl walked away from her brother to stand beside Palla and the pilgrims. The brother priest stood motionless, shocked into silence, not knowing what to say or do.

  “Enough words. There’s work to do.” Pi-Gento’s voice boomed across the courtyard, a commander’s shout instilling action. “Get the horses out of the stable and find some rope.” Pi-Gento marched through the close-pressed townsfolk toward the stables.

  “We work do also.”

  Tarak looked down to Shifhuul beside him. “What work?”

  “The wall up we go.” Shifhuul pointed to the top of the castle walls. “Look look for good thing.”

  “He is right.” Yeth raised her eyes to Tarak. “We may find a weakness in the militia’s deployment. Or an unknown strength in the castle walls.”

  “Yes. Another good idea.” Tarak spread his lips wide to show his teeth, resisting the urge to pet the wyrin on the head. The creature would doubtless be displeased.

  They left Palla and a few of her armed carnival companions to guard the gate from potential traitors among the townspeople who might attempt to turn the priest’s words into actions. By the time they assailed the south tower stairs to the top of the wall, the castle soldier, Pi-Gento, stood with several men from the town hauling tripods of steel and large cauldrons of iron to the edge of the parapet. Other men carried buckets from the east tower to set beside the cauldrons. Tarak could smell the stale oil in the buckets even from twenty paces away.

  “Good good,” Shifhuul said as he watched the humans work. “Burn the down men.”

  “Yes. If they get close enough to the wall.” Yeth leaned over the side of the parapet.

  Tarak imitated her action, seeing now the intended result of the humans’ endeavors. He noted drains reaching out from the wall over the gate. The cauldrons of heated oil could be poured through the drains and down over the assailants below before being lit from flaming arrows. Tarak marveled at the violent thinking behind the design, feeling his usefulness wane in light of their circumstances. The roagg peoples did not build castles and fortifications. When the urris liberated them from the sheetoo, their human creators and betrayers, they had retreated to the sanctuary of the Stone Realm, abandoning almost wholly the martial ways of their past. They lived in small clans or larger tribes, migrating with the weather across the plains and mountain ranges in search of fertile lands to graze their sheep and plentiful forests to hunt. A few tribes established small permanent communities for farming or to mine and smelt the ore of the mountains into steel for trade. Tribes might clash over territory from time to time, but such matters were settled with symbolic combat rather than open warfare. Few roaggs took the life of another, seeking peace instead of dominance in their dealings.

  Among all the roaggs he knew, Tarak had been the only one to take another’s life. An act that led to his travels in the Iron Realm, which led to the taking of more lives, and now left him standing atop a stone mountain of sheetoo creation, waiting to take lives yet again. As the spirit talkers said, each choice begets many lives — more and more choices demanding still more and more choices in turn. How many times would he choose to kill? How many times would his first choice echo down through the canyon of his life to force that same choice again and again?

  “They work quickly.” Yeth pointed into the darkness of the nearby town where the militia labored by the light of several torches.

  “Too quick.” Shifhuul shook his head. “Stones for gate not enough fast.”

  Tarak agreed. His eyes saw better in the dark than the yutan’s, if not as well as the wyrin’s. The militia bound together the tree trunks they had logged from the nearby forest, creating one massive ram the width of three men. While some of the soldiers worked to shave the fronts of the logs into immense, pointed spears, others constructed a wooden roof atop posts attached to the sides of the three wagons supporting the logs. He had no experience with which to judge the effecti
veness of the ram, but did not see how the gate could sustain the intended blows without Shifhuul’s stones in place to strengthen it.

  They needed to find a way to slow the militia’s work, to give time to the people working below in the courtyard. He stepped to the inner wall and looked down at the humans swarming around the stable, hacking at the stones with picks and pulling at the support beams with long ropes. His strength could be useful there, but it could just as easily frighten the humans into unpredictable action. He found it hard to know what sheetoo would do. They were in many ways far stranger than the wyrin or yutan, their motivations less obvious and potential decisions unclear. He had not expected Leotin to kill the tahn of the castle. Had not anticipated Palla joining the pilgrims. Had not foreseen that the castle soldier, Pi-Gento, would help his people by helping Leotin against the militia.

  “They won’t reinforce the gate in time.” Yeth spoke from beside him as she looked down at the humans struggling to defeat their oncoming deaths.

  “Fire arrows to burn ram?” Shifhuul scratched the fur of his head as he stared at the nearby brazier filled with glowing coals.

  “It is too far.” Tarak thought about the idea. “I could reach it with my bow, but the human bows are too weak. A few arrows lit with flame would not be enough. It would take hundreds. And the shield they build atop the ram will protect it when it is closer.”

  “We should help them move the stones then.” Yeth shook her head. “Even a few extra hands will help.”

  “Stones too big. Time waste. Save strength for to fight.” Shifhuul nearly growled his words.

  “It was your idea,” Tarak said.

  “Good idea for not this day,” Shifhuul replied.

  Tarak watched one of the carnival folk pulling at a rope disappearing down into the castle well. The man hauled up a wooden pail filled with water and poured it into a metal pot. As the man cast the bucket and rope down into the stone-lined well, Tarak thought of another rope and another wall of stone.

  TEN MONTHS AGO

  HARD-EDGED STEEL bit into thick flesh beneath long fur, blood welling up to stain brown hairs black. Tarak stumbled back, blocking the returning ax blade with his own, his arm shuddering under the impact. He regained his footing and swung both hands, both axes together, seeking to drive his opponent back.

  Tarak battled a large roagg male half a paw taller than himself. They fought at the edge of a wide mountain plateau, a steep cliff dropping away beside them. Twenty or so roagg males and females gathered nearby, observing silently the warring contestants before them. One of the roagg females watched more intently than those around her.

  Tarak glanced at Reeshka briefly, reading the concern in her face. He fought for her. For them both. For their future. He pushed the roagg he faced, a male named Korrat, back toward the cliff edge under a barrage of ax blows. Korrat blocked each blow even as he lost ground. Tarak swung at the roagg’s leg, drawing blood and a growl of anger. He backed away, both males breathing hard as they sized up their adversary.

  The rules of the contest stated that the winner must claim blood three times. Each had drawn only once in the ten minutes of their duel. As they tired, it would likely be the more skilled warrior who prevailed. Tarak possessed greater experience in mock battle, but Korrat had superior speed and strength on his side. The victor took away nothing beyond regained honor, but both males fought desperately for that prize.

  Korrat charged, bellowing in rage and throwing an ax toward Tarak’s chest. He twisted to the side, the blade slashing his arm, as intended, just before Korrat crashed into him. The two roagg males fell to the ground, hitting and biting at one another as they rolled toward the edge of the cliff. Tarak slammed his ax into the rocky earth, attempting to arrest his motion. It only served to wedge the blade between two stones and yank the handle from his grasp as he continued to tumble and battle Korrat toward the ledge.

  Tarak tried again to halt their roll toward the cliff, but Korrat seemed unconcerned with the danger, continuing to slash at Tarak with his claws and pummel his head. Tarak reached out, grasping at a jagged stone to grip, but the combined momentum of the two massive bodies sent them careening over the edge of the cliff, spinning as they fell.

  A small ledge of rock broke their descent, cracking under their weight. Both roaggs still clutched an ax and both used it to try and subdue their opponent. Tarak realized now that Korrat did not care to draw more blood.

  “Stop, Korrat.” Tarak growled. “This does not reclaim honor for either of us.”

  “The spirits shit on your honor.” Foamed spittle flew from Korrat’s muzzle as he raged. “If she will not have me, then she will not have you.”

  Korrat roared as he shoved his ax blade into Tarak’s chest, casting him over the edge of the small ledge, stone crumbling away beneath him. Tarak bellowed as he pushed back against Korrat, shocked at finally understanding the other male’s true intent in requesting a contest of combat. He did not want to regain honor for the loss of his mate. He desired revenge on the two who had cost him that honor. To lure away another roagg’s mate, whether male or female, caused dishonor for both parties, only one of whom could regain that honor through the drawing of blood three times in battle. Korrat clearly decided that blood alone would not heal his wounds. Only the death of Tarak, depriving Reeshka of her new love, could accomplish that.

  Anger and fear roiled in Tarak’s mind. He felt an uncontrollable longing to see his new mate, the female he stole from another with kind words and thoughtful actions. He knew that if his opponent succeeded, he would perish and never hold her again. Never confess again in panted breath his love of her. Never feel her holding close to him in the deep chill of winter nights. Never hunt the summer fields together. Never bring forth cubs to teach the roagg ways of the mountains.

  Tarak roared in fear and anger as he turned sideways, letting the edge of the ax slide across his chest and dig into his arm, giving his opponent the third blood of the contest. Korrat did not stop fighting and neither did Tarak, as he used his now free arm and the turn of his body to swing his ax into his adversary’s head. The thick skull of the roagg did not shatter against the steel, but the blow stunned Korrat, giving Tarak the opportunity to twist free of the other male’s grasp. He swung the ax again, this time into the side of the cliff, driving the blade deep into a fissure between two rocks. Continuing to yank his body from underneath the larger roagg, he got a foot beneath Korrat’s belly and shoved with all his might.

  Korrat rolled toward open sky, over the edge of the precipice, clinging to Tarak’s arm, the ground hundreds of paces below. Tarak held tight to the handle of the ax, looking to see the blade sliding free of the rock. He realized now the error of his anger. Intent on taking both lives, Korrat would not release the grasp on Tarak’s arm. He should have continued to strike Korrat with the ax and rendered him unconscious. His rage led him to the impetuousness of trying to kill his opponent, the very sort of action being taken against him, the very act the ancient Granag Stones warned against. Now he faced a new choice that determined his honor.

  “With your death, I will spare you the inevitable betrayal she visited upon me.” Korrat’s eyes glowed with wild anguish as he reached up another hand to pull at Tarak’s arm.

  “She betrayed only her heart when she came to your tent.” Tarak kicked at Korrat’s face, smashing the heel of his boot into the other male’s muzzle.

  Korrat’s head snapped back, and Tarak kicked at him again and again, swinging his leg sideways to drive the toe of his boot into the roagg’s temple. Korrat’s grip loosened on his arm as Tarak kicked harder. Korrat raised an arm to block the impact of Tarak’s leg. Tarak used this opening to lash out with his other foot, striking his opponent in the chest. Korrat’s paws slid along Tarak’s arm, and then he fell from view.

  A silence of small noises came over Tarak. He expected to hear Korrat roar in anger, but he only heard his own panting breath, the tumble of rocks settling after the battle of the two roagg
s, the whistle of wind along the cliff face, the hum of a bee inspecting a flower blooming from between a nearby crevice of stone. Then he heard the sound of bone and flesh tearing against rock and cracking to a halt.

  He rolled away from the edge of the rock ledge, unwilling to lean over and see the consequences of his choices sprawled in blood among the rocks. He looked up instead, seeing the face of Reeshka staring in confusion and horror as the rest of the roaggs around her murmured among themselves. They spoke for a long time, Reeshka adding her voice to the debate. Tarak could have heard them if he chose, but his mind seemed incapable of clear thought. He had killed a fellow roagg. One who had wanted to end his life, but one whose life he did not need to take. His quest for honor, or to at least restore honor to another, had ended in even greater dishonor.

  Motion brought his eyes away from the sky to see a rope being lowered down to him from above.

  THE PRESENT

  THE ROPE snaked over the edge of the stone-walled well, trailing the plummeting bucket, ceasing its movement as a splash echoed up from the bottom. Tarak turned from the sight to his wyrin and yutan companions.

  “Come. There may be another way to slow the humans outside the walls.” Tarak walked back through the tower and then along the western wall. Shifhuul and Yeth followed him.

  “What plan you have?” Shifhuul struggled to keep up with Tarak’s long, swift strides.

  “No plan yet. Merely a notion.” Tarak turned through the north tower and onto the north wall where a human from the carnival stood watch in the shadows beside one of the fire-filled iron braziers. He recognized the man as Lhando, the actor who took the more romantic roles in the plays the humans performed.

  “Is all well?” Lhando asked as they approached. “What’s happening? Have they completed the ram?” He shrank back from them, an instinctive reaction for most of the humans in the presence of the outlanders, Tarak in particular.

  “They have not finished building the ram, but they will soon.” Tarak looked out over the field beyond the rampart wall. “How many humans watch this side of the castle?”