Chapter 207: Picking Bones

It was a nice pyre. Viv had worked together with Arthur to bring all her birth mother’s bones together, then they’d stuck dry mushroom patches under the pile though it was hardly needed with dragonfire being what it was. Fragments of broken shells completed this edifice to a youth that never was. Now, it blazed merrily in the gloom. The two of them stood there, quietly. Arthur hadn’t reacted when Viv had added the bone fragments of her brother, whom Viv had slain for attacking her.

 

It is a nice farewell.

 

This way, even if someone finds this place, they will not misuse the bones for their own ends.

 

Viv didn’t react. She’d used bones for Solfis, so a feeling of guilt filled her, but Arthur didn’t look like she was harboring any grudges. It had been a long time ago, and Arthur had been barely conscious then, her intellect stunted by starvation and neglect.

 

I am glad I got to say goodbye.

 

I don’t think she would have been a very good mother.

 

But that is not the point, yes?

 

“Funerals are for the living,” Viv said. “For you. I’m sure she would be proud of the dragon you have become.”

 

Do not be so certain.

 

Viv gave Arthur a glance. The dragoness had ‘sounded’ very certain. She sighed, the gesture sending puffs of superheated air that warped the light.

 

My mother was one of the last… powerful representatives of the third bloodline.

 

She was very confident.

 

And very arrogant.

 

It was her pride that led her here, to her death.

 

Someone who favors their pride over their spawn would not have a kind fate in store for us.

 

Likely world domination.

 

But without the fun.

 

“I’m not sure if you mentioned the three bloodlines before. Is that like royalty?”

 

No.

 

It is more… an origin.

 

Dragons of the three bloodlines can sire spawn together, with children taking on the attribute of one of the parents.

 

Usually one more than the other.

 

The first bloodline favors strength.

 

Judgment belongs to them.

 

The second bloodline favors fire.

 

A dragon called Mother is the strongest of them all.

 

She can melt silverite with one breath.

 

“Wow, she could turn Solfis into a puddle?” Viv asked, amazed.

 

In a single moment.

 

Although, she is very far, and prefers to watch over her brood.

 

There are currently no single-name dragons of the third bloodline.

 

Which favors magic.

 

My brother and I are members of that one.

 

“He favors magic too?” Viv asked with a dubious voice.

 

Arthur gently pushed her with her tail. Viv lifted her hand to show she meant no insult.

 

I speak of natural aptitude, not accomplishments.

 

And besides, my brother has been doing better.

 

I am almost not embarrassed to call him my sibling anymore.

 

When he doesn’t smell.

 

“It’s true. I’m being harsh with him. I blame it on the fact he was a murderous piece of shit who terrified humans out of laziness.”

 

Mother.

 

You terrify humans.

 

“Not all of them. And I was definitely not lazy.”

 

Your tongue is sharp, mother.

 

I acknowledge your wit.

 

Thank you for being here, as you were there when Solfis said farewell to their master.

 

I think that, as with education and binding humans to your will through their own greed, funerals should be more widespread among dragonkind.

 

Another valid human invention.

 

Though my favorite remains compound interest.

 

“Sometimes I fear what I have created,” Viv whispered to herself.

 

Arthur shook her lithe frame.

 

Enough of this.

 

We should return.

 

I have… what was it your ‘movies’ said?

 

I have a call to make.

 

***

 

It so happened that it was Viv who had a call to make, immediately upon her return. This was not a request. A sheepish Arthur led her to the depth of her bank/cavern/dragon hoard where the cozy earthen walls turned mineral and harsh, and the light was dim. Viv had never visited this specific place. It seemed that the bank extended underground farther than she’d expected.

 

Arthur entered a dragon-sized room with carved stalactites. At the center stood an altar bearing disturbing similarities to the divine-powered items she used for long-range communication. Her daughter conducted a short ritual with voiceless reverence. The nearest hint of a large presence touched her mind. It was like opening an oven while standing just a bit too close — not quite hurtful but distinctly uncomfortable.

 

It occurred to Viv that she’d never asked about dragon gods. Did dragons even need gods? They were not exactly the devoted kind. Then it occurred to Viv that it didn’t matter. A dragon would never stop to wonder if its kind needed a god. It would just become.

 

As the presence receded, it was replaced by another, no less terrifying.

 

GREETINGS.

 

“Hello Judgment, it has been a while.”

 

IT PLEASES ME THAT YOU HAVE NOT STRAYED FROM YOUR PATH, YOUNG ASCENDER.

 

YOUR KIND EVER LOVES TO USE SHORTCUTS.

 

AND THEY FORGET ABOUT THE CONSEQUENCES.

 

SOMETHING, THOUGH I SUSPECT IT IS SOMEONE, HAS FORGOTTEN THE RULES AGAIN.

 

“Are you referring to the desecration of your kin’s remains?”

 

PRECISELY.

 

I WILL NOT DENY A GREAT HUNTER THEIR TROPHY.

 

REANIMATION IS NOT THAT.

 

IT MAKES A MOCKERY OF LIFE ITSELF, AND OF OUR NATURE.

 

UNFORTUNATELY, I AM CURRENTLY ON ANOTHER CONTINENT.

 

“Aw.”

 

It would have simplified everything. Just toss a giant, millennial-old dragon at problems and watch from the sidelines with a mojito and a lot of sun cream. Alas.

 

I HAVE ORDERED MY KIN TO ASSIST YOU.

 

THREE OF THEM SHALL ARRIVE IN TIME TO ANSWER THE CALL.

 

OTHERS WILL COME AS WELL, SHOULD YOU FAIL.

 

I HOPE YOU DO NOT.

 

“I won’t. I assume Arthur is one?”

 

THE OTHER TWO SHOULD ARRIVE AS WE SPEAK.

 

GO NOW, AND PUNISH THE GUILTY.

 

WITH MY BLESSING.

 

“Alright.”

 

The altar’s power faded, plunging the room in a darkness that Viv hadn’t noticed. She was eager to see who was arriving, though, and also vaguely concerned about dragons on her territory. She expected Gale to be one of them. Who was the third?

 

“Let’s get out.”

 

I feel them approaching my territory.

 

Arthur let out a low growl. She sinuously trotted back through the various corridors in a weird mix between a lizard and a stalking cat. As soon as they were out in the afternoon sun, Arthur stood on her hind legs and took a dominant pose, arms stretched wide.

 

A white dragon landed nearby. Viv recognized the familiar shape of Gale. He was wise enough not to answer her provocation.

 

The second dragon landed with a very loud thud. He was larger than both siblings combined, green, and powerfully built. Viv recognized him instantly. They’d met before, in the Deadshield Woods.

 

“Wait… I recognize you! You’re, hmm… Cold-Gale-Over-Spring-Meadow?”

 

Damn that made two gales. Maybe the dragons just liked wind? She’d just think of him as Meadow.

 

The adult dragon just stared at Arthur, who was still very, very far from being of threatening size to him. His thoughts were much purer and simpler than Arthur’s. Hers were like bolts of lightning striking Viv’s mind with crackling energy. His were stone of simple patterns, more direct.

 

Not this shit again.

 

“Arthur, be nice. He’s here to help.”

 

This is my den!

 

“Stop challenging him for dominance. This is an alliance. He’s not here to take over, ok?”

 

Meadow sniffed in the wind. He didn’t look very comfortable.

 

I miss the forest.

 

Is there food?

 

Arthur sat back on her haunches. She huffed, head turning away.

 

You are right.

 

He will not be taking over my banking empire.

 

Viv returned a reproachful glance.

 

“Thanks for joining, Cold-Gale-Over-Spring-Meadow. Listen, I think I have an idea. Can you carry very heavy stuff? Like something as large as a boulder?”

 

Why carry a boulder?

 

“I have a plan.”

 

***

 

The Baranese ambassador was an experienced man. He had served abroad in Enoria, in Helock, in Mornyr, and led missions to half a dozen northern cities. It was his doing that led to the first diplomatic agreement with Zesthanet, the southernmost city on the continent past the wild lands. He had even crossed the sea twice to faraway Vizim, sampled spiced wines in their bazaar and watched the elementals-ravaged deserts that stretched out into the unknown. Many times, he had pushed aside the hand of war, and twice he had been the one to declare it. Kazar was a place he had never visited before, but he had read reports from twenty years prior, back when a daring northern lady had become the mayor. She had turned what was a glorified outpost into a flourishing Free City. He thought he knew what to expect. He had been completely wrong.

 

“This cannot be the work of five years,” he grumbled in his beard. “That is impossible.”

 

The city expanded beyond its original walls and the benevolent shadow of its massive purple tree. The air smelled better than in most cities he’d visited, with built sewers, yet the narrow streets still spoke of a near past when they’d been wide enough to suit the city’s purposes. Now, it was crowded and so busy, even his own elaborate carriage could not cleave through the mass of humanity barring the way. Soldiers, travelers, laborers, merchants, heralds, all came and went in a great cacophony of languages, with the bleating of cornudons and occasional swear words providing a lively counterpoint. The city was bustling. It was also missing two things he expected from every city: vagrants, and shit. The place was suspiciously devoid of thieves. He checked a few alleyways, places where that ilk liked to loiter while they searched for easy marks. There was no one there. Only crates and the occasional barrel.

 

No, there was a dark figure with a mask. A smiling mask. It was a woman. She lifted a gloved hand to her painted lips and gave off a hush sound. No, the mask was winking, not smiling. No, there was no one there.

 

No one.

 

It was just a figment of his imagination. Perhaps he was tired from all that traveling. As for the lack of excrement, he opened the window to ask his coachman, a Baranese.

 

“I notice that this city is suspiciously clean, especially for a frontier city. With all those immigrants, I was expecting more chaos and more filth.”

 

“It’s that empress, with her weird rules. Up in Sinur’s Gate, visitors gotta wash before they visit the palace! Well, there are public baths but… imagine! And here, those who litter can get publicly shamed. Can’t piss in a side street without some of those hooded freaks pinching your ass so you drench your shoes. Beg your pardon.”

 

The ambassador cast a suspicious glance towards the man’s shoes. They didn’t look very clean.

 

“T’was another pair, melord. That empress, she tosses people out the window for spitting on the ground.”

 

“In the throne room? On the carpet?” the ambassador asked.

 

“Well… yeah.”

 

There might be some Harrakan rules he would love to see implemented back home after all. Without further comment, the ambassador returned to his observations. Churches were out in strength when they approached the main square, even now packed with people. Priests of Sardanal blessed seeds purchased by new arrivals while the clergy of Efestar blessed those who came here for another chance. Neriad’s knights watched over the processions, offering advice on revenant disposal to the burliest men and women. For all of the seeming chaos, he recognized a fluid, well-oiled wheel that crushed the coarse grains of humanity into new citizens, armed and equipped for a new life. It must be costly, yet from the money changing hand, it had to be a profitable endeavor. And he had no doubt the commoners would love the empress for it.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

 

Give them a year’s worth of earnings to tax them for generations. Quite a feat.

 

“Stop here and buy those wraps, one for each of us,” he ordered his man a bit later.

 

It was going to be a long journey and he had no intention of stopping on the way. The wrap lacked salt, but it was otherwise quite fresh, always a nice surprise. A tangy aftertaste spoke of high black mana. Those would keep well too.

 

Outside of Kazar, the fields had receded in favor of temporary barracks under the protective aegis of a massive statue depicting the cloaked and hooded God of Redemption. The carriage and its escort picked up speed then. They stopped for water at a designated spot since the precious liquid was apparently in short supply farther down the deadlands. There might be an opportunity there.

 

They rode past a boundary stone a bit later. Flowers decorated its surface.

 

“What is it?”

 

“It used to be where the deadlands started, me’lord. Back before the witch put all those stones out there to suck up the mana, aye?”

 

Beyond it, farmland extended to the distant stone cliffs of the capital. Green fields, orchards, grazing grounds dotted with the cave entrances that led to mushroom farms formed a pleasant tapestry of abundance. Some dry patches between estates still showed the arid desert that this place used to be, but now the afternoon light shone brightly. The ambassador knew Harrak’s triumph was, or would be, to the detriment of Baran, but right now he could not stop a seed of pride and hope from taking root in his heart. This was where the earth had died, a land no one believed could ever be reclaimed, and here it was flowering again. There was much to say about the witch. In this regard, she had done well.

 

“Here’s the knight compound, me’lord!”

 

For a moment, the ambassador thought he might be back in the Baranese heartland. A sprawling manor stood over an elegant garden decorated with statues and stellae bearing words that were too far for him to read. Fields of hauntingly beautiful roses enshrined them in the middle of this pastoral scenery in a completely incongruous mix. Here were Enorian hovels, southern huts, Northern flat-top houses among fields and there was the demesne of a duke. How could this be?

 

“They say the knights are, well, they’re good warriors I’ll tell you that,” the coachman rambled.

 

“Mighty and all in their black and blue armor, aye. It’s just that some of those statues, well. And the poetries on those stellae. A bit scandalous if you ask me, haha. Could give a man ideas. And quite a few lasses as well, they like reading those, they do.”

 

“What sort of subversive opinions?” the man replied with a frown. “Rebellion? A penchant for democracy?”

 

“No me’lord, a penchant for… manflesh.”

 

The ambassador frowned, shocked to his core. Really?

 

Cannibalism?

 

“They’re gay, your lordship.”

 

“Ah. Well, it happens. Many knightly orders have forbidden romances…”

 

He had made a few noble houses bend the knee with salacious secrets, back in the day.

 

“They’re aggressively gay, your lordship. They sing very daring songs before battle, speak poetry from towers with sound enchantments that make them very loud. It is said the enemy is perturbed.”

 

“What sort of dastardly tactics do those Harrakans use!”

 

“Well there is also the fire wasps.”

 

The man shook his head. He had been too preoccupied by those heavies and the machines to really pay attention to the rest. All reports said the Harrakan knight order was in its infancy, and no match for the might of Baran. Perhaps he should still learn more.

 

As the convoy progressed, the ambassador saw more signs of the architectural chaos that seemed to define this part of the world. Building styles from every corner of Param coexisted in peace. There were even some of the brutal stone edifices that had marked the Old Empire right before its fall. He noted quite a few large carved stones inscribed with — as far as he could tell — children’s tales. The coachman’s comment was even more puzzling.

 

“It was made by one of the golems to teach people how to read. She, beg your pardon, it looks like a woman, she is always making books and writing stuff everywhere.”

 

“And where are those golems?”

 

“They’re all at the front, me’lord. With the army.”

 

Ah, yes, the cause of this whole meeting. The witch had stirred the hornet’s nest, no doubt about it.

 

The ambassador found nothing of note while climbing towards the city of Sinur’s Gate, beyond the fact it would be an absolute nightmare to besiege. The gates themselves were fortified and manned by city guards with truncheons, not exactly a glorious sight. Inside, a pleasant view awaited him: the old spires of this reclaimed city. Sinur’s Gate was built vertically to conserve space. The many towers must have been the houses of aristocrats back in the day, but now they were populated by commoners who hung their laundry from their august bridges. There was something vulgar and uncomfortable to having the lower classes glance down from above, but such should be expected from the witch. If she had any regard for proper hierarchy, this land would still belong to Enoria. The numerous manors had been reclaimed as workshops though, and the smoke that emerged from its many chimneys spoke of dense activity.

 

“Is this the industrial heart of Harrak?” he asked his coachman.

 

The man replied in a lower voice. This city was much more quiet, the mood subdued and focused. The ambassador could even hear the pleasant gurgles of nearby fountains, so quiet the place was.

 

“No sir, that would be far north near the Min Goles mines. This place is for finer work. The tools and weapons, well, they’re made by and near the owl folks. Industrious buggers, you know? They got them big factories with lines of people doing things and a lot of metal comes from one end while full armor sets and boxes of stuff come out of the other. All in one place. Ingenious, that.”

 

Something about the man’s casual tone ticked the ambassador. Armor sets and tools were not made in the same place, that didn’t make sense. You had artisan guilds and people making the rounds around family workshops to collect what was made. It was common sense. Was this some sort of Outlander balderdash?

 

“We’re here sir.”

 

There was barely a tiny place to stop the carriage before the palace’s gates. It was, much like the city, narrow and tall with a beautiful dome and the broadest, highest tower around. Men and women in heavy armor stood by the entrance. Those were not city guards, this time. He inspected one of them.

 

[Harrakan heavy (Hightree Company): third step, one who follows the path of Harrakan heavy infantry. Close quarter specialist. Versatile warrior. Undead bane. Human slayer…

 

The description went on, though he ignored the more individual achievements. Versatile warrior was for those who performed just as well in formation as out of it. Now, he noticed that the guards also wore an assortment of weapons on their backs or hanging from sheaths by their side. How very peculiar, he thought! Elite soldiers ought to keep a pleasing uniformity, else what was the point. Ah, but those must be the veterans the reports mentioned. The witch had gathered a massive number of maimed footmen — and even knights — by regrowing their limbs. Traitors, the lot of them. To abandon one’s nation for the promise of healing. How easily some people forfeited their previous allegiances.

 

He frowned. Would it not be easier to return home afterward, rather than stay in this forsaken land? What made them stick around, he wondered. Surely, the witch couldn’t pay well. Just another puzzling aspect of the issue. Shaking his head, the ambassador walked into a cramped lobby crowded with messengers and harried civil servants. He was let through without a fuss, led deeper in by a stern-looking young woman.

 

“You did not request to see my pass,” he remarked. “Do you trust the words of every visitor who enters here? I find the lack of truth finders concerning. How can my security be guaranteed?”

 

“You were identified long before you came in, Your Grace,” she replied without looking at him. “By a hadal. If you had been an impostor, you would not have been allowed through the door.”

 

This time she turned, and her smile was not kind.

 

“Of course, Her Majesty sometimes lets them in so we can have a little show, but Solfis is busy today.”