The Broken God by Gareth Hanrahan (desktop ebook reader .TXT) 📕

Today, Great-Uncle suns himself on a wide plaza. One edge of the plaza ends abruptly at a sheer drop down to the sea; armed Eshdana guards patrol the other entrances. The dragon sprawls out across a row of ruined houses, occasionally scraping his back against the rubble. Vorz the Dentist has applied some alchemical salve to the wounds Great-Uncle took in the recent raid; ugly black scabs on the golden-red magnificence of the dragon. Nearby, marring the pristine stone of the plaza, is the scorched carcass of a goat. Great-Uncle’s breakfast.

People file up to Great-Uncle, one by one, to whisper into the dragon’s ear. Reporting to him, begging for favours. Or offering tribute – there’s a growing pile of coins and bank notes on a black cloth in front of the dragon, a microscopic fraction of the dragon’s hoard back home.

Rasce walks across the plaza, head held high. Swaggering, the dragon-tooth knife at his belt gleaming bone-white in the sun. The onlookers watch him as he crosses the open ground, but few dare meet his gaze. They bow their heads, offering respect. He spots his cousin Vyr. Unlike most of the Ghierdana, Vyr doesn’t look away, but the expression of naked jealousy on his face is tribute enough for Rasce.

He reaches the head of the dragon and kneels smoothly, drawing his knife in the same motion and holding it out so that Great-Uncle can see his own carved tooth, symbol of the bond between the two.

“Beloved Uncle.”

“Rasce. Come, sit.” The dragon nudges a block of masonry forward with his chin, a seat so close to the dragon’s maw that Rasce can feel the fiery heat of Great-Uncle’s breath.

“Vorz,” rumbles the dragon. Doctor Vorz glides out of the shadows, holding his black bag. He hands Rasce a folded sheet of paper, then reaches into his bag and draws out a glass vial. The Dentist closes Rasce’s fingers over it as if it’s something precious. Vorz’s own fingers are soft and very, very cold.

“There is other business,” says the dragon. Great-Uncle extends one bat-like wing over Rasce, angling it to create a leathery tent overhead. The dragon’s long neck slithers out, twists around and tucks under the edge of the wing. Stones crack and tumble as Great-Uncle coils his tail round them, making a perimeter wall. Suddenly, Rasce’s entirely surrounded by the dragon, cocooned in a hot little box of wing membrane and scaly flesh. Alone, facing the dragon’s head.

Great-Uncle snorts, and the sulphurous smell fills the space. Rasce swallows hard, trying not to gasp for air. Beads of sweat run down his back; it’s furnace-hot in the dragon’s embrace. A private conference is an honour.

“I have a task for you,” says Great-Uncle. “Look at what Vorz gave you.”

Rasce opens his hand. The glass vial glimmers softly with silvery light. It’s full of liquid and some whitish-grey crystals, like salt. “Yliaster,” says the dragon, “spirit brine. Used in great quantities by the alchemists. The substance is vital to their industry.” Great-Uncle licks his lips, and the scraping of tongue over scale is deafening in the enclosed space, like a sword being dragged across stone. “And we have secured control of a vast deposit of yliaster. Soon, we will begin importing it. The alchemists’ guild of Guerdon relies on a handful of merchants here in Guerdon for their needs. Deny them yliaster, and the factories grind to a stop. They must have a constant supply.”

“Where’s our supply?” asks Rasce.

“Ilbarin,” says Great-Uncle.

The Firesea region is a long flight. The direct route is perilous, but going via Lyrix and on through safer territory adds days to the journey. “I’ll get my flight gear,” says Rasce.

“No. Doctor Vorz will ride in your place,” says Great-Uncle.

“Alone?” Rasce can’t believe the dragon’s words. A dragon might – rarely – carry a passenger, bundled up like cargo, but for someone who isn’t family, who isn’t Ghierdana to ride in the saddle is unthinkable. “He’s not one of us!”

“Your place,” says the dragon, “is here. There is work to be done, and it may be that you are best suited to it. The yliaster importers… they must buy from us.” Great-Uncle’s massive tongue scrapes again over his scaly lips. “Give them the dragon’s choice.”

Take the ash, serve the Ghierdana. Or perish.

Great-Uncle withdraws his head. The wing’s edge comes down, closing the gap, leaving Rasce alone in the hot darkness of the dragon’s embrace. Outside, the sound of bone crunching, meat tearing as Great-Uncle takes another mouthful.

Rasce is momentarily blind-sided by this. Why him? It must be a test, he tells himself. Artolo was high in Great-Uncle’s favour, but failed, fell when he was given a mission here in Guerdon. Rasce tries to breathe, but there’s no air in here. The merchants who currently supply this alchemical stuff, this yliaster – he needs to persuade them to serve the Ghierdana. To take the ash, even. All of them are outside the Lyrixian Occupation Zone, so he cannot draw on the strength of the Ghierdana directly. A hundred ways this could go awry.

He must not lose Great-Uncle’s favour. He will not.

He squares his shoulders, lifts his head proudly, as a Ghierdana should. He is Chosen of the Dragon. He never fails.

Great-Uncle’s head returns, his chops now covered in blood and goat entrails. Rasce wraps the paper around the yliaster vial, stuffs both inside his jerkin. “It shall be done, Great-Uncle.”

“Good boy,” says the dragon. He lifts his wing, and abruptly Rasce is back in the bright courtyard.

Vorz is now wrapped in an expensive fur coat, with a breathing mask strapped to his head. The Dentist doesn’t look any more or less human with his eyes hidden behind bulbous glass goggles, with a breathing tube snaking from his mouth to a tank on his back. He clutches his black bag tightly.

Vorz lays a gloved hand on Rasce’s arm. “You are far from home, here, and there are powers in Guerdon you do not know. Your Uncle Artolo moved without caution, and it cost