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

from that sword is henceforth mortal. The priests of Velthe can command demons. A saint blessed by the Moon Goddess can walk among the clouds and hurl spears of moonlight. Can you do any of those things?”

No.

“But you conjured this city.”

We stole the power of the Black Iron Gods. They had a vast reserve of miraculous energy, accumulated over years of worship and sacrifice. We used all that to make the New City.

“Had I the power of those dread gods at my command, friend, I would have spent it more wisely.”

I was mostly dead at the time. The memory of Spar’s fall from the apex of the Seamarket wells up, overlaps with the thought of Rasce falling from this ruined spire. The tower shifts, sending dust and pebbles cascading over the edge to plummet down to the streets far below. Portions of Spar’s consciousness fall with the pebbles. Rasce grabs the wall for support.

“Of course. Forgive me, friend. As with any new Eshdana, I must know your particular talents.”

I’m not one of your recruits!

“You’ve already taken the ash,” laughs Rasce. He holds up soot-stained fingers. “Very well. Our partnership shall be one of equals, for I bow to neither god nor man, only to my Great-Uncle.”

The thunder of great leathery wings scatters Spar’s mind like leaves in a hurricane. Has he lost track of time again, slipped forward a few weeks to the return of the dragon? No – it’s a smaller dragon, one of the other Ghierdana family heads. Spar reconstitutes himself (a flurry of minor miracles across the streets near the tower: a pot falls from a stove, shattering; a pistol in an Eshdana armoury goes off spontaneously; birds take flight, cawing out the name of Idge) and refocuses on Rasce.

The dragon circles the tower twice, the winds from its wings nearly knocking Rasce from his perch. A young woman in riding gear clings to the dragon’s back; through her goggles, she watches Rasce with suspicion. The dragon lands, clinging to the side of the burned tower like a gigantic bat, claws sinking deep into the masonry for purchase. The long neck cranes so the head can look in at Rasce.

“Young Rasce,” says the dragon Thyrus, “why are you all alone atop this spire?” The rumble of its voice sends ash and debris tumbling from the tower.

“I seek the pure night air, great Thyrus, for this city is full of miasmas and foul smoke. And I seek to remember what it is like to fly.”

The woman on Thyrus’ back whispers to her mount. The dragon’s head twists around. “Be kind, Lucia,” she admonishes. “Or perhaps I shall make you walk, too.”

“How goes the war, great one? Does Major Estavo work you hard?”

The dragon extends one wing, displaying an ugly suppurating wound on the inside of the forewing. “Not Estavo. This I got from some Ulbishan trade ship, crossing the sea. The Ulbishans trade in alchemy now, too, in imitation of Guerdon. I thought to take one of their ships, and they drove me off with death-glass.”

“The dragon is invincible.”

“The dragon needs more than aphorisms,” says Thyrus, ruefully. “Next time, the dragon shall fly low, and Lucia here shall slay their gunners from afar before they can wound me. A week, and I shall hunt again – unless Estavo comes knocking. With my brother’s long absence, we must all work harder to fulfil our bargain with the mainlanders.” The dragon’s lip curls, exposing three rows of fangs each as long as a man’s hand, but Rasce can’t be sure if the dragon’s distaste is aimed at the mainland of Lyrix or at Great-Uncle. “My brother has still not returned from Firesea. What is he doing there, I wonder, that keeps him so long away?”

“Family business, great one.”

“Does he know you have dipped into his hoard, Rasce? I would not be so quick to forgive such a thing, were one of my kin to steal from me.”

“My Great-Uncle trusts me, great one. He has given me a task, and I shall spend the dragon’s gold as needed.”

The dragon snorts. “We watch you, Rasce. Remember that we are all bound by the Armistice. Be careful, child, that you do not break what you cannot mend and do not own.”

“All things,” says Rasce, “belong to the dragons.”

“Flattery.” Still, the dragon preens. “There is something different about you, boy. I smell it.”

“I have been across the border. Even into the zones held by our enemies. Unlike you, great one, I can move unseen. Your presence is too glorious to go unnoticed by our foes.”

The dragon stretches its wide wings. “Your Uncle Taras had better hurry back. This peace, I think, will not last for long. Haith is too withered. Ishmere is a caged beast. And Guerdon is too rich a prize to be left unplucked. The gold of the alchemists may be made in their factories, but it is gold nonetheless.”

Silver, mutters Spar. Ishmeric miracles devalued silver, years ago.

Rasce ignores him. “All things belong to the dragons.”

“Yet you employ thieves who are not ash-bought. I hear you overruled your Cousin Vyr, and brought the unmarked back into your house. Why?”

“Family business, great one.” Rasce bows, affects a mocking smile, but Spar can feel the man’s heart pounding in his chest.

“It stays family business,” says Thyrus, “only so long as it does not trouble the other families. We must share this miserable city, boy. Do not overstep.”

With that, the dragon’s gone. It opens its claws, falling from the tower, then spreads its wings and catches the air, swooping low over the New City and flapping away. Rasce waits until the dragon has vanished into the clouds before speaking again.

“You will listen, won’t you, to what is spoken in the compounds? To know what Thyrus whispers to her Chosen, or to her counsellor, that would be a precious boon indeed.”

I’ll try. It’s not always easy for me to focus.

“I’m told that you struck down Ishmeric godspawn in the war, when they dared enter the New