Haven Divided: The Dragon's Brood Cycle, #2

By Josh de Lioncourt

Forever is composed of nows…

Emily Haven and her friends have been given the seemingly impossible task of uniting the worlds—a mission they failed once before, in another lifetime.

But Emily made a promise, and she intends to keep it. A small boy risked his life to save hers, and while Michael sets out to rejoin the Dragon's Brood, she heads east with Celine and Corbbmacc to rescue Daniel from a band of desert slavers.

Time does not stand still, however, and the dark legends are true. They deal in blue fire; they deal in death; and they travel through the long nights on autumn winds.

Samhain has come, and this year, the harvest will be in blood, gold, and souls.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Draconis Entertainment
• Release date: Jul 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781393597575

Book preview

Haven Divided

The Dragon’s Brood Cycle

Volume 2

by Josh de Lioncourt

Cover illustration by Max Naylor

COPYRIGHT

Copyright © 2020 Josh de Lioncourt

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real events, locales, mythical creatures, or actual persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental or are used fictitiously.

To fallen heroes…

Our judgment ripens; our imagination decays. We cannot at once enjoy the flowers of the Spring of life and the fruits of its Autumn.

—Thomas Babington Macaulay

Forever is composed of nows.

—Emily Dickinson

Remember Your Friends

Once, the world was full of magic.

It flowed through the rivers, lakes, and oceans; it sank deep into the soil and bedrock of the Earth; it waxed and waned with the cycle of the seasons; and it traveled beneath the stars on the wings of dragons.

But then came Man, caught between the creatures of magic and the mundane, and never fully part of either. He feared magic, even as he craved its power. There were those among his number who caught hold of it, wielding it to ends both good and ill, but these successes were met with envy and anger by those who failed to understand.

In time, the gods of Man were born—a shield against magic and a vessel by which to harness it. They were the prism through which Man could seek to know; they were the path by which the mystery was laid bare. For a time, there was peace.

But it could not last. Fear of the magic came to dominate the hearts and minds of the people until it blossomed into hate, and the hate consumed Man from within. He sought to destroy that which he hated—that which he feared. He burned the witches; he slew the dragons; he forsook the knowing…

But the Mermaids of Avalon had foreseen that a savior would come.

When all seemed lost, a man rode out of the smoke and ash of a dying world, holding aloft the legendary sword Excalibur like a shining beacon of hope. At his side came the greatest of his knights—Lancelot the First and Galahad of the Blood. Together, these three were destined to unite the world and end the war that threatened to destroy them all.

…Or so it should have been…

Standing on the very brink of victory, the king and his knights were betrayed, and the chance to secure peace was lost.

In a final desperate act to save themselves and the other creatures of magic, the Mermaids of Avalon cast the single greatest work of magic the world had ever seen. It could have destroyed the world; it nearly did. On the very eve of their destruction, the sorceresses tore the world asunder, and between the newly formed halves, a veil was woven—a curtain lowered.

And thus, there were two worlds—the one of ordinary things…and the Haven.

This separation could not last forever, they knew. The breath of life could not go on without both the magic which had birthed it and the mundane that fed its flame. They had done nothing more than buy time…time until the king and his knights walked the worlds in fellowship once again…time until they could prevail where once they’d failed.

Years turned to decades…

Decades became centuries…

Centuries flowed into millennia…

…And the veil began to crumble…

Prologue

Interference

Outside the wind howled, and its miserable, plaintive cry was driving her mad. Autumn was coming; it was only weeks away now, and it seemed that, here in Coalhaven at least, it was determined to move in before summer had even packed its bags. Already the leaves were beginning to fade from lush greens to the dull shades of red and orange that heralded the impending fall. On some nights, when the chill of the wind bit especially close to the bone, it brought with it the sweet aroma of woodsmoke and thunderstorms. Another autumn…another year…

With a scowl, Paige snapped the book she’d been reading closed, adjusted her fedora, and rubbed her eyes. Perhaps she should try to get some sleep. She wasn’t going to get anything more done listening to that racket anyway. The sound made her flesh crawl and her antennae quiver as it rose from a low, piteous moan to the insane shriek of a cornered and desperate cat. It was the one true failing of this particular safe house, but it didn’t seem to bother anyone else.

Grimacing at the pain in her lower back, she rose, stretched her wings, and made her way slowly across the room to the study’s only window. She pulled the drapes apart and stared through the grimy glass and out into the darkness beyond.

There was just enough moonlight to make out the skeletal outlines of the tree limbs that dipped and swayed as the wind rustled through their curling leaves. Folds of black velvet shadows fell from them, pooling on the ground below. Another couple of weeks and it would be Samhain, and the streets would be full of fiddlers and bakers and laughing, playing children. Revelers would be crunching their way through the carpet of brittle leaves, emptying their purses and filling their bellies. Her lips curved slightly as she remembered the festivals of her own youth, nearly always spent in the company of Garrett and Mona. Those were some of her happiest memories—some of her only memories of her adolescence, come to that.

She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the cool glass. If she cleared her mind for just a minute, she could almost smell the sweetbreads and the popcorn; she could hear the snaps and crackles of the firedancers; she could almost see her sister once more—almost.

A sharp rap at the study door brought her out of her reverie with a start, and she straightened, letting the drapes fall back into place to hide the moonlit trees.

She moved back to the table, absently repositioning the fedora on her long dark hair as she went.

What is it? she called, sinking down into her chair again and folding her wings over its low back. She turned the oil lamp that burned beside her on the table to face the room’s only entrance.

The door swung open, and a young girl scurried inside, blinking in the lamplight and nervously fingering the ties of the apron she wore over a plain, loose-fitting dress. Though Paige was sure she’d seen her before, she could not bring the girl’s name to mind. Samantha, was it? Something like that, she was sure.

Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, I know it is late, but there’s a man who came to the door and we’re not sure what to do with him.

Send him away. You know the rules. Tell him your master and mistress are away, and you were left with instructions that no one should enter until their return.

The girl swallowed and looked down at her feet. She was twisting the fabric of her apron now, rolling it back and forth between her fingers, and Paige was surprised to see they were shaking.

Aye, ma’am, we tried that. That is what we always do. But beggin’ your pardon again, ma’am, he’s askin’ for you…by name.

Paige’s own fingers slipped in the act of turning down the lamp. Who would be asking for her? Who even knew where they were?

And then, with the suddenness of a bolt of lightning, it came to her all in a rush.

Garrett? Is it Garrett?

The girl blushed but raised her face to meet Paige’s gaze again.

Beggin’ your pardon again, ma’am…

Jesus Christ! Paige snapped. Just show him in, then.

The girl bobbed a clumsy curtsey and then darted from the room, her relief at being excused evident in every movement of her scrawny frame. As she disappeared into the hall outside, Paige sat back, forcing her muscles to relax and trying to slow the pounding of her heart. It was Garrett; she just knew it. It had to be him. Who else could it be?

The seconds slipped by with painful slowness. She shifted in her chair, straining to hear the low rumble of Garrett’s voice coming toward her. In her mind, she rehearsed for the hundredth time what she’d planned to say when he’d inevitably returned and apologized for the humiliation he’d caused her. She would not accept it—not at first, anyway. No, she would let him suffer. He deserved to suffer that much at least.

When the figure appeared in the door to her study, she was halfway out of her seat before she realized it wasn’t Garrett. The man was too small and slight, and he shuffled into the room with his shoulders hunched and his head down, a mop of greasy gray hair hiding his face. He looked more like a deader than a man, and she felt a moment of irrational fear as he staggered across the threshold.

Warily, Paige sank back into her chair and watched as he came into the light of her lamp and approached the table. He walked with a pronounced limp, and his coat and trousers were stained, little more than rags. The harsh aroma of cheap ale and stale tobacco preceded him, and his ragged beard was streaked, like his hair, with gray.

Can I help you? she asked. As though startled by the sound of her voice, the man stopped abruptly and lifted his head to look at her through a pair of mismatched eyes. One was bright, blue, and bloodshot; the other was dark and covered in a thin film that frothed slightly each time he blinked.

Paige, then, is it? he asked, squinting against the lamplight to study her. Constellations of gin blossoms and sores around his mouth rippled and shifted as the muscles of his face worked beneath them.

I’d say you’ve got me at a disadvantage, old man, she drawled slowly, and her hand fell instinctively to the dagger at her belt. She did not like the feel of his eyes on her; she didn’t like it one bit.

The man laughed. Oh, well, my friends all call me Jack. And we’re all friends here, aren’t we? Of course we are.

With a grunt and a sigh, he seemed to almost tumble into the chair across from her. He lifted his right leg, resting his ankle on his knee, and began massaging the muscles with a grimace.

Damn leg, he muttered, but his gaze never left her.

What is it you want? Paige asked. I’m not predisposed to welcome unexpected guests.

The man cackled, his face creasing into lines of genuine, if malignant, mirth, revealing a mouthful of uneven teeth the color of sawdust.

No, I don’t suppose you are. I’m not here because I want anything. He chuckled again, and the milky film overflowed from the corner of his eye and ran down his splotchy nose. He batted it away absently, still laughing. Not exactly, anyhow.

Then I suggest you…

I’m here, the man went on, as if Paige hadn’t spoken, because I have something you want.

They sat, the silence spinning out, as each took the measure of the other.

I seriously doubt that, Paige said at last.

Do you? Oh, well, that’s fine then. I’ll just be on my way and leave you to it, shall I? He put his foot back on the floor and made a show of dusting off his filthy trousers. It was a useless gesture, but his intent could not be more plain.

It was all an act, and yet Paige found herself responding to it even as she understood what he was doing.

All right, she sighed. Say what you’ve come to say.

The old man sat back comfortably in his chair, and the lamplight gleamed in his eyes.

Oh come now, he said. You don’t really expect me to give up such valuable information for nothing, do you? I may be old, and my clothes may not be as well kept as yours, but I’m not a fool, either.

I’m not interested in playing games. Say what you have to say, and if it’s worth something, I’ll make sure you’re compensated. If that’s not agreeable, you can go.

Her visitor studied her with benign curiosity for a long moment, then shrugged and got back to his feet.

Good evening to you, then, Miss Paige.

He turned from her and limped toward the door, the tails of his miserable coat waving jauntily at her from his emaciated backside.

Paige watched him go with some trepidation. She listened as the uneven rhythm of his tread faded away down the hall. Had she been too hasty? Could he have something that would be useful to the Brood? What if she was wrong to dismiss him out of hand. He was a drunk, but drunks were often the ones in the best position to overhear whispered conversations from the shadows of corners in crowded taverns. No one notices them; no one ever realizes they are there. They are the ones the well-to-do try to ignore while stepping over their motionless bodies lying in gutters; they are the unseen ones calling out for a coin—unseen, but not unheard—the coins come in the hopes that a flash of gold or silver will drive their miserable forms back into the shadows.

What if he did have something?

Paige rose and made her way quickly through the dark and sleeping house.

She caught up to the man who called himself Jack in the foyer, where he was waiting for the servant girl to open the door for him.

Sanista, that’s her name, Paige thought distractedly. The girl’s parents had been part of the Brood in Ravenhold. How could she have forgotten that?

The man heard her coming and turned, one eyebrow raised. Both his eyes were clear now—the film gone from the darker of the mismatched pair. Had she only imagined it before?

Leave us, Paige told the girl, who had a hand on the bolts that secured the door. Sanista snatched her fingers away as though the cold metal had burned them.

Aye, ma’am, she murmured, and she hurried away, unconsciously reaching for her apron ties once more. Paige watched her go.

She doesn’t like this man, Jack, any more than I do.

Slowly, she turned back to the stranger, troubled but determined not to show it.

What is your price? she asked without preamble.

Oh, now you’re singing a different tune, are you?

Paige said nothing, only watched him. She may have changed her mind about wanting the message, but her opinion of the messenger himself remained the same.

My price, he said softly, is reasonable enough, I think. Merely a holder.

Excuse me?

A holder, the man repeated. Just a holder for a drink. Telling tales is thirsty work, ain’t it? And a man’s got to have a drink, don’t he? And it takes a bit of coin to get a drink.

Paige frowned. You’re going to tell me some ‘valuable’ information in exchange for a single holder? she asked, unable to mask the sarcasm in her voice.

My, you’re dim. Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to look a gift horse in the mouth, Miss Paige?

Without expression, Paige wordlessly pulled on the drawstrings to the pouch at her belt and fished out a large gold coin. For a long moment, she clutched it in her fist and studied the old man, who simply watched her impassively. What was this? Some kind of joke?

But she’d come too far to back down now. And anyway, it was only a holder.

After another moment, she held the coin out to him. He snatched it from her palm with ill-disguised glee and dropped it into a pocket of his coat.

Thank you, Miss Paige.

Paige did not respond; she simply waited, watching.

There’ve been a lot of attacks on Seven Skies, haven’t there? the man mused. The slaughter at the square last winter was the first. Then the trap set for the hunters when they were out east of the city last spring. A few weeks ago it was the explosion at the Stay Inn. That one was the worst, wasn’t it?

Paige winced involuntarily. Jacob had been blamed for that, and then executed—just one more coal to feed the flames of the war that was brewing. She didn’t believe for a minute that he’d had any part in it. Jacob had been a good man—but who was she kidding? He’d barely been a boy, and he’d been one of her charges. She should have never sent him to Seven Skies to retrieve Corbbmacc; she should’ve waited it out, she should’ve trusted the wizard.

Yes, the man breathed, leaning closer. The rancid smell of his breath enveloped her in a melange of old ale and cheap smoke. That one still stings, doesn’t it? Disgruntled Broodsmen, impatient with how the resistance is going, because it isn’t going anywhere, is it, Miss Paige?

You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know, she snapped, taking a step back from him. She reached up and massaged her temples where the dull throb of a headache was beginning to form.

Disgruntled Broodsmen, he said again, only it wasn’t Broodsmen at all, Miss Paige.

She glared at him, unable to look away, but not wanting to stare into those weird, mismatched eyes any longer than she had to.

If not renegades, then who? she asked, surprised by the calm steadiness of her voice. You’re surely not suggesting that someone in the Brood authorized…

Paige broke off as the man’s lips twitched, but there was no mirth behind this smile.

Why, it’s Marianne, of course.

Marianne? You suggest that she’s killing her own citizens in her own city?

Just so.

But why? What possible reason could she have…

And then it hit her. Marianne wanted to wipe out the Dragon’s Brood. What better way than to convince her subjects that the Brood was responsible for these atrocities and make their rebellion an inviting target?

The man—Jack…his name is Jack—grinned at her, displaying those rows of jagged and broken teeth again.

I see you understand. Not as dim as I feared, then. Very good.

He turned away from her and moved to the door.

You’re lying, Paige said, but there was no conviction in her voice.

The man looked back over his shoulder at her as he drew the bolts on the door. A look of surprise crossed his gnarled features—perhaps the first genuine expression she’d seen there.

You know I’m not, he said quietly, and then he turned, pulled open the door, and limped out into the wind and darkness.

Paige stood in the doorway, watching him climb the narrow lane that led up from the small valley where the safe house was nestled. The dark figure moved slowly and steadily, little more than a shadow amidst shadows, shoulders hunched against the wind. Faintly, Paige was aware of the scent of woodsmoke in the air and the rumble of thunder in the distance.

The man reached the top of the hill where the lane gave way to a paved thoroughfare. She could just make out his coat as it billowed around his slender frame.

She was about to turn away and close the door when she saw him pause. He seemed to be fumbling with something in his coat for a moment, and then a light blazed in the darkness. He raised it before him, letting the reddish glow illuminate the road at his feet.

There was another moment when he seemed to be staring back over his shoulder at her, but of course, there was no way she could really know that in the dark. It was just her imagination.

The seconds slipped away, and then the light and the man moved on, vanishing into the night.

It wasn’t until the stranger was gone and she was bolting the door against the chill wind that Paige realized she’d never asked the man how he’d known where to find her.

Charging

Sam Tawny’s eyes snapped open before his mind had even realized that he was awake. Faint moonlight, as dingy as the glass of the window through which it fell, shone across the room, allowing him to see only the vague outlines of objects—the hulking shadow of the wardrobe, the delicate lines of his wife’s vanity, and the steep, rounded curve of his own belly as it rose and fell beneath the sheet. Beside him, his wife, Laura, snored on, the clockwork rumble of her respiration putting him in mind of the roar and hiss of a summer storm.

What the devil had woken him? If he could sleep through his wife’s constant noise, he should be able to sleep through pretty much anything.

He listened hard, thinking of the dogs who’d gotten into the slop bins behind the shop last spring, but there was only silence. Well, apart from Laura, anyway.

With a sigh, Sam shifted his bulk and closed his eyes. He needed to try to sleep. He had an ox to butcher in the morning for Lord Kyran’s feast tomorrow afternoon. If it was late, His Lordship was likely to have him served on the gleaming platters intended for the ox.

Go back to sleep, he told himself.

And he almost did.

He was just beginning to slip languidly from the gray into the black, when a loud metallic clang from outside brought him all the way back up from the depths once more.

So it was the dogs, then, damn it all.

He quietly heaved his considerable bulk out of bed, but his attempts at stealth were wasted. The mattress shifted as it became suddenly free of his weight, and Laura’s snores abruptly ceased.

What is it, Sam? she murmured sleepily as he rammed his feet into the boots he’d left by the footboard.

Just dogs, Laura, he told her, out in the bin again. Go back to sleep. Be back in a minute. I’ll have to chase them off.

Without waiting for a reply, he stomped down the stairs and into the cold mustiness of his shop. Before he’d even reached the bottom, he’d heard Laura’s snores resume.

Must be nice, he grumbled under his breath as he turned toward the back.

The familiar smells of steel, blood, and roasting meats filled him, as they always did, with a warm sense of nostalgia. He’d grown up here, in this very shop. His father had been a butcher, and his father’s father before him. Now it was Sam’s, and he’d be damned if he was going to let a bunch of mangy strays make a mess for him to clean up in the morning.

He stomped over to the back door, debated, then pulled his cloak from the hook beside it and threw it around his shoulders. Summer was coming to an end, and the wind outside was chill. He couldn’t risk catching cold or worse, this close to Samhain and the harvest. There’d be more work than he could keep up with soon, and he couldn’t afford to turn any of it away.

He drew the bolt, then paused again, eyeing Laura’s cane beside the door. He took it, hefted it, and let it rest against his round, meaty shoulder. Better safe than sorry. That’s what his old man had always told him, and it was a motto Sam had lived by all his life. It had kept his belly full, his fire stoked, and his woman by his side for nearly thirty years.

He pulled the door open, and a gust of bitter wind forced him back a step. The early autumn winds were worse than he’d expected—worse than they’d been this early for as long as he could remember, in fact.

Grimacing, he bowed his head and stumbled out into the alley behind the shop, pulling the door closed behind him. Grit stung his eyes for a moment, and he paused, rubbing it away before turning to his left.

Slowly, he made his way along the alley toward the vague shapes of the slop bins at the far end. The wind roared in his ears, and leaves and bits of rubbish swirled around his feet, adding their brittle, scraping caw to the din. He heard nothing else; all was as it should be in the dim moonlight.

As he passed the bins and rounded the corner of the shop, he saw two things simultaneously. The first was that the old fire bucket that had hung on the wall, unneeded and unused since his grandfather had been a boy, was gone.

The second thing was the dark shape, tall and lithe, running toward the street.

It was just a bucket, an old and rusting one at that, and yet anger roiled up inside him at the violation. It had hung there for over eighty years, and now some hoodlum was running off with it! Bastard!

Thief! he cried, and he started to run after the dark shadow in the night. He’d forgotten he was old; he’d forgotten he was stones heavier than he ought to be. He ran, brandishing his wife’s cane and shouting obscenities.

The figure did not slow or look back, and it didn’t seem to hear Sam’s shouts at all. It reached the front of the shop and turned down the dark street, its movements unnaturally graceful.

Sam ran faster, his boots slapping the stones with loud, thunderous claps.

Stop! You…bastard! he gasped. His heart thudded in his chest, suddenly racing with the rush of adrenaline.

By the time he reached the street, he’d stopped shouting. It took all his breath just to keep his body in motion.

Far ahead—too far ahead—he could just see his quarry reach the corner before disappearing into the shadows. Goddammit! How the devil was he moving so fast?

Wheezing, Sam ran on. That bucket was heavy, full as it was with fifty pounds of sand. Surely, the thief couldn’t keep up that kind of pace carrying such a weight.

He paused at the corner, clutching a stitch in his side and unsure which way his quarry had gone.

To his right, the broad cobblestone street burrowed deeper into the city. He saw no sign of movement amidst the pools of darkness between the buildings; only a few lights shown from the windows of taverns that served their customers until dawn. He heard music from somewhere—a piano accompanied by harsh, drunken singing, loud and off-key—but nothing out of the ordinary.

He looked left, in the direction of Seven Skies, and there he was, the thief, his cloak billowing out behind him as he hurtled toward the dark stone towers that reached into the star-strewn sky.

Thief! he shouted again, and then he ran on.

He stumbled over uneven places in the pavement, windmilling his arms wildly but keeping his feet moving. He couldn’t understand why no one had come in response to his shouts. Never a guard when you needed one, but always twenty on hand if you sneezed the wrong way—that was one of his old man’s little chunks of wisdom, too. But surely, someone must have heard him.

Suddenly, the street ahead was illuminated by a flickering blue light that gave all it fell on a strange purple sheen. The light danced and flickered before Sam’s eyes, moving faster than he could track.

Warily, he slowed, squinting against the sudden brilliance.

The man—surely it was a man—had stopped beside one of the high stone walls of Seven Skies. He seemed to be almost dancing some kind of crazy jig, leaping high into the air and flitting back and forth. The blue light moved with him, as if it shone out from the palm of one hand and onto the stone wall.

Sam was only a dozen yards away when he finally appreciated the unnatural speed and agility with which the man moved. His leaps grew higher and higher, until Sam thought he would simply fly right over the spikes that topped the wall and into the courtyard beyond.

From inside the fortress, there were shouts, and a bell began tolling vigorously. Finally, someone realized that something was happening. About fucking time!

Feeling braver, Sam started forward again, unmindful of the stitch in his side, the painful hammering against his ribs, or the harsh, ragged rasps of his labored breathing.

Imagine! What if it were him, Sam, who brought down this troublemaker and turned him over to the mistress’s men? Surely there’d be some kind of reward for that, wouldn’t there? And suppose—just suppose—the man turned out to be one of them Dragon’s Brood fellows. There was no telling what sort of gratitude the mistress might show him for such a brave and noble deed as that. Maybe he’d be able to take fewer jobs this Samhain; take Laura for some time away. They could visit her family in Coalhaven, or maybe even his niece in River’s Crossing.

With his head full of possibilities, Sam put on one last burst of speed and came forward, raising Laura’s cane in both hands and readying himself to hit the man over the head with it at the first opportunity.

The thief, still unaware or unmindful of Sam’s approach, leapt again, and Sam’s gaze followed his progress high into the air. He saw the figure convulse, and then a flash of dull steel as the fire bucket went flying. Sand, which had rested easily within the confines of the old bucket for nearly a century, ran down the stones of the wall, illuminated momentarily by another brilliant flash of that strange blue fire.

The bucket hit the cobblestones with the low booming toll of a bell and rolled noisily away into the dark.

Sam watched, transfixed, as the man seemed to float, almost weightlessly, back to earth, his cloak billowing out around him.

There was a great metallic clang as the man’s feet made contact with the ground once again, and then he whirled to face Sam.

Terror such as Sam had never known ran through his body in a sickening wave. His heart, playing a thunderous drumroll only a moment before, suddenly stopped for the space of a second, leaving the big man breathless before resuming an unsteady rhythm.

There was nothing recognizable as human in the face that stared back at him from beneath a helmet of shining steel and glass. Crimson eyes blazed like the red coals of hell; mottled gray skin gave way seamlessly to cold, smooth steel that moved and rippled, as malleable as muscle and sinew.

The thing’s lips parted, and a strange, flat voice emerged from its throat, utterly devoid of anything human.

Should’ve stayed home, old man, it said, and then blue flame erupted from everywhere, filling Sam’s world with fiery brilliance.

Laura’s cane clattered to the ground as Sam reached for his face, already screaming before he’d even truly felt the pain. His eyes were burning…burning… It felt as though his whole head was ablaze. The pain bit deep—deeper than the chill of the winds that blew around him.

He heard, more than felt, when his eyeballs popped like overdone chestnuts. He could smell his own flesh cooking, filling his nose with the rich, meaty aroma of bacon that he knew so well. Gods, he could hear his skin sizzling…sizzling!

He fell to his knees, screaming and blind. Dimly, he heard the clang of metal on stone, a harsh accompaniment to the thing’s flat, toneless laughter.

As guards poured out of Seven Skies to surround Sam’s trembling and soundless form, the sun rose over the mountains far to the east. Its rays shone down on the city that surrounded Seven Skies; they warmed the faces of the drunks who had spent a long cold night huddled against cold stone walls; they gilded the windows of manor houses and shops; they stroked the matted fur of sleeping stray cats and dogs.

Finally, they reached out and touched the wall that loomed over the place where Sam Tawny lay.

There was but one man who did not have his attention focused on the city’s best butcher; one man who had already issued his orders and was now staring up at the fortress that he, for so many years, had called home. He watched, in silent fascination, one hand running absently through the graying hair above a lump of scarred and twisted cartilage that had once, many years before, been his right ear.

Etched into the wall, nearly fifty feet wide and thirty-five feet high, was the intricate image of a dragon. Its outline was cut deep into the stones, which were blackened as if they’d been burned away, though he could not even begin to fathom the intense heat required to do such a thing.

The dragon’s wings were spread in flight, and flames were wrought with elaborate detail, issuing from the beast’s enormous tooth-lined jaws.

The sunlight reflected and refracted across the dragon’s scaly hide, shimmering in a thousand different colors. Fragments of rainbows danced, shifting and swirling as the light crept slowly higher up the wall. The illusion was one of constant motion, as if the great beast was about to turn its monstrous head toward the crowd below and incinerate the bystanders with one mighty breath.

The man frowned, squinting his one good eye against the glare, and stepped forward.

Cautiously, he reached out and touched the dragon’s long leg with the tip of one finger.

The wall was still hot, but not enough to burn. The dragon’s scales were as smooth as the finest satin sheets.

Glass, he muttered to himself. The whole damned image was made of glass.

He stared for another moment, then turned back to his men and the shaking, smoking wretch that, until just a few short minutes before, had been the butcher.

It was going to be a very, very long day.

Was it just his imagination, or had he heard a voice shout, far off in the distance, as he’d turned?

For the dragon!

Slashing

The boy didn’t know if he’d been born with a name. If he had, he certainly had never learned what it was. At the moment, he was calling himself Tom, and that was plenty good enough for him. It was a good name—a strong name. It made him think of rosy-cheeked, jolly young men picking apples in an orchard, although he couldn’t have explained why. It just did, and Tom had never been much of a one for asking the why of anything.

In a month or two, if he thought of a better name, he’d change it. He was always changing names. It was good to keep becoming someone else anyway, because sometimes, people remembered your name, even when they’d forgotten everything else. He’d helped one man load bales of hay three times and given him a different name every time. The man, who was old and kindly, had never even looked at him twice. People didn’t pay attention to him, and mostly, he liked it that way.

Tom sat on the roof of a barn, munching an apple he’d nicked, just like one of those rosy-cheeked Toms, as he stared at the shadowy mountain peaks to the west as the sun rose behind him. He thought, not for the first time, that they looked like the great teeth of some horrible monster, maybe even a dragon. Of course, he’d never have said such a thing aloud. Saying such a thing would get him remembered and likely hanged in the town square for all to see in the bargain. No, such thoughts were definitely best kept to oneself.

But still, he was free inside his own head, wasn’t he? And he could imagine; he could even imagine dragons if he wanted to. He was good at imagining. Sometimes, on winter nights, as he lay shivering in the dark, he’d imagine a great warm fire in a huge stone hearth, and sometimes that worked just well enough for him to fall asleep.

A few days ago, although he’d lost count of just how many somewhere along the line, there’d been a whole lot of smoke billowing up from those mountains. People had started getting worried. He’d heard whispered talk like devils comin’ too close and we’ve kept to ourselves all these years, they’d best do the same.

Tom didn’t know if anyone believed the old stories; he wasn’t sure if he did himself. Sometimes he did, but most times, he thought they were a whole lot of rubbish.

Still, something had to have made all that smoke. Maybe one of those mountains was a volcano! Now that would be grand! What if one of them was a great big volcano and it erupted and sent lava pouring down on them and petrified the whole town, like in those pictures in that old book! That would really be something!

Idly, he wondered what it would feel like to be petrified. All hot at first, he supposed, and then all cold.

He tossed his apple core over his shoulder and began wiping his hands on his torn and grubby jeans. There was a metallic thud as it hit the little dish that whirred and spun on the roof of the barn, its lone finger pointed up into the sky.

It was time for him to go before the family who owned this barn came out and found him perched on the roof. It’d been a safe enough place to spend the night away from stray dogs and other critters that would be attracted by the food in his pockets, but now that morning had come, it was time to seek other quarters.

He crawled to the edge of the roof, caught hold of the pipe that was intended to carry runoff when it rained down to the ground, and slid down it himself.

He landed silently on his bare feet and stretched, his small, lithe body possessed of an unconscious grace that was the sole providence of feline creatures and small children. He was small for his age, his clothes little more than tatters, and his hair was long, red, and caked with mud. He washed it sometimes in the river, but that was mostly because he liked the color of it. That was something else, though, that was best kept to himself. More often, it was better to let his hair stay dirty. There were fewer dark looks that way.

Yawning, he made his way around the barn to the dirt road that curved out of sight in either direction.

Which way to go? he asked himself. To his left, the road ran deeper into the countryside. There would be lots of good places to hide but fewer places for him to find some work. He looked to his right. That way lay the city, with more opportunities to earn a few coppers, but more potential for trouble, too.

He stood conflicted for a moment, then stooped and picked up a likely-looking pebble from the roadside at his feet. It was smooth and rounded at one end, jagged and pointed at the other.

He cupped it in his hand for a moment, shaking it as if it were a pair of dice he was about to roll for the big win, and then he tossed it as hard and as high as he could over his head.

He watched the little black rock carefully as it reached the apex of its trajectory and then began its tumble, end over end, back to earth.

It hit the ground a few feet in front of him, bounced, skidded another foot or two, then came to rest in the dust. He walked out to it, crouching to get a good look. There was no question; the pointed end was definitely indicating the stretch of empty road to his right. Good enough, then.

Tom stood, stretched again, and turned to head toward town, contented with the decision. One way was as good as another, he knew. Every day was an adventure, full of new experiences, sometimes wondrous, usually miserable, but in the end, each ended the same as the last. He expected they would continue that way, stretching out to some unimaginably distant future where he’d ripened from a rosy-cheeked young man to a rosy-cheeked old one, sitting serenely atop some stranger’s barn, munching an apple he nicked from some place or another.

As he walked, he began to whistle. It was a haunting, beautiful melody of his own devising, but it seemed entirely out of keeping with the bright, late summer’s morning. Birds fell still as he approached, seemingly transfixed by his song. Above, the sun rose higher, promising a monstrously hot afternoon. The air was full of late-summer smells—hay, grass, rosemary, sage, manure, and a thousand others. It was his favorite time of year. Soon, he knew, autumn would come, and the struggle to keep warm through the long, cold nights would begin once again.

But for now, he was content to walk this bit of road, breathe the clean, warm air, and whistle his song.

In time, he crossed into the outskirts of town and checked his whistling. There was no one about yet this far out, but already he could sense the bustle and roar of the city rousing itself from slumber. He could hear the rumble of traffic, the muffled shouts of pedestrians, and the low groan of old machinery.

As he passed the first row of tiny shops, still dark and shuttered on the deserted street, he caught sight of a pair of garbage bins that had been overturned between two buildings across from him.

Dogs, he thought, had probably gotten into them during the night, which meant there had been, in all likelihood, something tasty in there somewhere. He wondered if there was any left. There was food in his pockets, but only enough to get him through to noonday. He should at least go look and see if there was anything left.

He crossed the street and squeezed past the upended bins, afraid that if he tried to move them, someone would hear and come to chase him off.

The contents of the bins were strewn helter-skelter along the length of the narrow alley. It looked as though the strays had been trying to see just how big a mess they could possibly make in the confined space.

Slowly, Tom picked his way through the mess, searching for anything worth taking. Hunks of bread, black with mold, and decaying fruit caked with ants or flies were too repulsive, even for him, and he’d known plenty of hungry nights in his life. Most of the rubbish consisted of old newspapers, colorful wrappers, and broken glass.

He reached the end of the alley and turned to his right, intending to follow the trail of refuse.

Tom froze midstep and nearly fell.

Propped against the back wall of the shop was a mostly naked woman. Her head lay drunkenly on one bare shoulder, and her eyes stared sightlessly up at him, the sunlight reflecting weirdly in the whites beneath half-closed and purpling lids.

She was half sitting, half lying in a pool of her own blood. A perfectly symmetrical X had been carved in the flesh of her belly, and most of her insides lay coiled in a congealed red heap on the ground beside her left hip.

Above