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

At the boss’s right hand, watching for trouble, just like the Fever Knight trained him. Today, of course, there’s no need to look for trouble – just step out on to the street, let the mob find them, and there it is.

The burned towers are visible everywhere in the New City. An accusation, black against the sky.

“Did you know?” asks Baston.

“I knew Vorz had a plan to deliver me the strength I needed to bring down Mandel. I did not know the details.”

The details. The details were named Enry Sarrason. The details were named Muira Longwater. Thamas the Carpenter. Stonewoman Jal. Two families from Mattaur, three from Severast, three from Jashan. Eighteen children among the details. Rescuers choking on the ash from the details’ scorched flesh.

“I shall make this right,” says Rasce. “It’s war, my friend, and there is always suffering in war. But we have won a great victory, and there shall be a share of the spoils for the deserving.” He glances back at Baston. “They don’t know which dragon it was. You must not tell them.”

“I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

They emerge from a warren of alleyways and descend down steep slopes towards the harbour. The seawall rises high above them, a frozen wave of stone. The New City docks are under Ghierdana control, Eshdana muscle keeping the mob at bay, and the sound of shouting and weeping fades as they descend.

Only the waves on the shore, now, the crying of the gulls – and the rumbling colloquy of dragons.

The pain in Rasce’s leg vanishes when he sees Great-Uncle. His breath comes more easily when he sees Great-Uncle. His worries dissipate like ice, melting in the heat of the dragon’s presence. Seeing him approach, the dragon turns from Thyrus and Carancio, and mantles one wing, offering Rasce a private conference. The dragon’s head, eyes glowing with wisdom, fills the world as Taras enfolds Rasce.

“You have done well, my nephew,” says the dragon. The rumbling of his voice can be heard through the stone.

“It has been hard,” admits Rasce. Gods, he’s missed Great-Uncle. He’s missed that guidance, that certainty. “Very hard. We lost…” His voice breaks, and he gestures helplessly with his hands. His own injuries to body and soul. Vyr’s death. So many betrayals. So much death and suffering. “But I did what you ordered.”

“Forget what has been lost. Consider what has been gained. The only question, nephew, is whether we are in profit or not, and what coin to measure that profit in. We have spent blood and gold, yes. You have suffered, yes, I see that. But from all this, we have won power, and from power all else flows. We have won a greater victory than you understand.”

“Then tell me. Show me. Take me aloft.”

“In time,” rumbles the dragon. “Patience, O Chosen of the Dragon. Patience. You are still needed here,” says the dragon, uncoiling. “Major Estavo has work for you.” Great-Uncle folds his wings back, leaving Rasce blinking in the harsh light. The dragon slithers away, returning to his conversation with the other two wyrms.

A flurry of activity. Doctor Vorz, first, with his black bag and his vials. Muttering to himself, talking about absorption rates, conversion efficiencies, projection quotients. Injecting more of his tinctures into Rasce’s battered flesh. Small stone scabs have formed over the injection sites, and Vorz curses as one of his needles snaps. Rasce feels like some alchemical apparatus, being checked and calibrated.

As Vorz works, Rasce watches a graceful young woman cross the dockside. She has a breathing mask tucked under one arm, her other hand resting casually on the hilt of a blade at her side. She moves like a lioness, proud and cruel. Her features remind Rasce of one of his younger cousins, Vyr’s sister. The woman glances over at him, a look of pity on her face – and then Vorz injects something into Rasce’s face that makes his eyes water, and he loses sight of her with his human eyes. His inner eye, though, tracks her as she saunters up a gangway and vanishes aboard Vorz’s ship moored at the dockside.

Then Estavo, the major mopping his brow, looking back towards the dragons for support. He has a bundle of papers in his hand. Architectural drawings, hastily prepared, the ink damp in places. A plan for fortifying the Lyrixian military compound, for sectioning off the Ghierdana compound from the rest of the New City. Wide, wide streets, deep trenches. New walls and barriers, all to be conjured from the mutable stone.

“The dragon Taras assured me you could do this,” says the major, wiping his moustache. His voice low, like they’re engaged in something shameful.

“I don’t know if I have the strength,” says Rasce.

“Oh, don’t worry,” says the major. He pats Rasce on the shoulder, careful to avoid any contact with his skin. “Doctor Vorz explained that he has some sort of, ah, alchemical engine down on Lanthorn Street. We shall supply you with, ah, the necessary fuel.”

Baston’s waiting for him at the foot of the stairs.

“What’s the word, boss?”

“They will bring more… offerings to Lanthorn Street. We should return there.”

“And then what, boss? You destroyed Mandel. What’s next?”

“Yliaster,” croaks Rasce. He can’t even remember what the stuff does. “There’s a shipment of yliaster coming up from Ilbarin. We control the city’s yliaster trade.” Baston starts to shake his head, but Rasce presses on. He clutches his dragon-tooth knife, and his plague-granted strength is enough to crack the hilt. “When the shipment comes in, there’ll be coin enough to solve everything. It’s… it is business, my friend. It will all be worth it.”

But there will be no shipment of yliaster from Ilbarin.

Across the sea, the yliaster refinery on the edge of the drowned city lies in ruins. Moonchild’s guns bombarded it while Carillon, Dol Martaine and the rest of the crew broke open the work camps. Then on to Ushket where they looted the contents of the Ghierdana warehouses, taking on food and supplies for the