Reawakening (3 page)

He could feel from here the great heaving aura of countless human souls, despair layered over joy over yearning over rage over curiosity, until they smeared into one great cloud of hunger and misery. How could they live like this, with so little order and elegance?

Taking a deep breath, he reminded himself that he had to pass this way to reach the desert he desired, and plunged downhill to join the growing crowd of travelers heading for the gates of the city. As he moved farther downhill, the crowd thickened, and he began to lose sight of the hills beyond the bulk of the city. The walls were high and dust browned, with tattered banners flapping off the overhanging walkways. He thought they were battle trophies at first glance but had time, as he picked his way through the crowd, to decipher the symbols on them as lettering:
Bellona’s Tavern, Good Food and Clean Girls
;
Sage and Samphire Sorcerer’s Emporium
;
Slash and Slice Authentic Armory
.

It wasn’t until he was almost at the gate that he realized the reason for the slow speed of the crowd. A wagon had overturned, its shafts wrenched off and its load spilled. One horse had clearly gone down with it but was standing again, tensed as its handler murmured into its mane. The other was skittish, loose on the road but never going too far from its fellow.

Everyone was trying to detour around the accident, veering away from the skittish horse without straying into the low reedbeds beside the road, and movement had slowed to a crawl.

The dragon paused, puzzled. The wagoner and his boy were standing guard over the spilled cargo, long bales of cloth that had rolled across the center of the road, arguing in low fierce voices. The horses were under the watchful eye of their handler, a stocky woman with cropped hair who clearly could not leave them in such a state of panic.

There was no way they could right the wagon and move on without leaving the cargo vulnerable to passing thieves. Yet, although many of the passing travelers shouted or cursed, not one of them stopped to help.

The dragon pushed through the crowd. It parted before him, with many eyeing the sword on his back or his set jaw before they moved hurriedly.

“No, we can’t bloody move them,” the woman snapped, lifting her chin, as he drew close. “We’re waiting for the wainwright to make it out here with a hoist. So you can take that antique cleaver and punt yourself down the stinking ditch with it. I’m
shai-dhakni
, and in a fucking awful mood, so don’t waste your time.”

The dragon smiled at her, showing his teeth, which seemed to startle her into silence. She reminded him of the women who had fought below the walls of Eyr—tough-minded and vicious as they followed their queen into glory. He’d always enjoyed his humans with a bit of an attitude. To make his point, he crossed to the wagon’s side.

Its planks were broad and rough under his hand, but there was enough to get a grip on. A man could not have moved it. His form, however, was but a disguise, and he still had the strength of his kind. He flexed his shoulders and lifted.

The wagon creaked and groaned dangerously, but it shifted enough that he could get his hand below it. From there it took just one long slow push to lift it, and it swung over hard, thumping down onto its wheels.

The shafts were still crooked, but he could see how a bit of rope would pull them back in long enough to last one more mile. Shrugging, he turned round to address the woman.

The crowd had gone still around him, and quiet. He could hear the wind, for the first time all day. Uncertain of how to respond to the attention, he shrugged and said, “Now you need not wait for the wainwright to attend his business.”

“Unless you’ve cracked the axle with that stunt,” she said tartly. “Where in the world did you come from?”

“High Amel,” he said.

“Straight from the halls of the dragon king, I suppose,” she shot back. “Spit on the other foot, boyo, it’s waterproof. You not got a better story than that old one?”

“Let him be, Ia,” the carter said. “Can you truss the horses back in place?”

She shrugged sourly. “I can try. You and the boy going to shift your asses and get the cloth loaded?”

The crowd was starting to move around them again, the low hum of conversation rising as they lost interest. The carter scowled at the woman, his eyes darting back to the spilled cloth anxiously. “Gam spit on it, Ia, remember who pays your wages, and keep a more civil tongue in your head.”

“Civil is as civil does,” she returned and swung to face the dragon. “I’m desperate for a piss and a drink, and this waste of space won’t sully his hands by lifting a finger, even to shove it up his fat ass. So you, brute, want to earn a shilling of his cash by loading this crap up?”

“You can’t promise my money, Ianthe!”

“Man just saved you the wainwright’s fee,” she pointed out. “You can spare a shilling.”

“Fine,” the carter said, and stalked back to stand over his cargo.

Ia turned back to the dragon. “So, what are you waiting for?”

“No brute, I,” he told her, with a shrug. “A spellsword, rather.”

“Bright Lady save us, what bard’s tale are you living in? It’s easy money, man. Take it or leave it.”

It wouldn’t hurt, he decided. He needed cash, and these three obviously knew the road. Perhaps one of them could point him toward work on the desert route. Without another word, he set to tossing the bales onto the back of the cart. It was easy enough, and the cloth was pleasantly warm and soft below his hands, even where it was marked with road dust.

He watched the woman as he worked, saw how her sharp words belied her gentleness with the horses. She fixed the shafts with quick efficiency and coaxed the geldings in calmly.

When they were both done, she turned to him with a quick nod of approval. “Nicely done. You want a ride into town?”

“Gladly,” the dragon said and swung up onto the seat beside her as the carter and his boy climbed on the back. She clicked the horses forward, and they began to move, jolting over the rough cobbles.

“Can’t wait to get done with this,” she muttered at him. “I can’t believe I thought it was a good idea to work my way down the road. Serves me right for being a tight purse. I should have just hired a post horse and come straight through from Reth Stela.”

“You do not work this route?”

She spat into the road. “No. I’ve got a job waiting in Hirah—an old friend needs someone to head up his guards, and he tempted me back out of retirement. Had a plushy job playing bodyguard to a banker’s daughter in Stela, but an old
shai-dhakni
soldier can only put up with twittering ninnies for so long. I fancied a last shot at the road through the Alagard, and the job with Sethan’s crew has always been mine for the asking.”

“Aye,” he said, studying the thick walls as they passed through the city gate. Beyond the walls, the stink of the city hit him hard, human waste, rotting food, and the stench of too many beasts and men in too small a place. It smelled like an army after the first battle, but there was no war that he could see here.

“Chatty one, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. He could understand the quick patter of the modern trade tongue well enough now, but he could only speak it slowly, with the words sometimes out of place.

“You got a name, strongman?”

His true name was a rush of winter storms and wildfire, impossible to shape with human tongues. His human armies, however, had called him by the name of his dominion, and Killan had shortened it with affection. He would use that, and remember. “Tarn.”

“Tarn, out of Amel? Going to claim you’re descended from the lost Drake clan next, are you?”

“I am descended from nobody,” the dragon said, honestly enough.

“Nor I,” she said. “Mutt of all colors, me. My mam was a temple sword dancer before she got me off some wandering merc. Lucky I got her skill with a blade, because all he left me were his looks, and they weren’t worth much.”

The dragon shrugged. “Strength in your sword arm. What more matters?”

“Not a ladies’ man, are you, Tarn?”

“No,” he said, making himself embrace the name again. It felt strange to hear it on the open air, with none of the soft affection with which Killan had spoken it. He caught her amused glance and, remembering how fragile human egos could be, added, “I respect the mothers of men and the battlemaids. I have no taste for women’s beauty, now.” Because she was still smirking maliciously, he tried to amend that. “Women’s beauty, I do not dislike. I am not—”

“Not what?” she inquired, widening her eyes in mock curiosity.

“Women…,” he started and faltered, “they are not—I do not—” How much had the world changed? He had always encouraged his hoard to love as they wished, but he had heard that the lords of men were crueler to those who did not follow their small and petty laws.

She patted his arm. “Spit it out, man. Unless you’re one of the ones who swallows, that is. You appreciate my sword arm, and I’ll enjoy the beautiful women for you. Now, since we’ve covered the more important things, you can call me Ia.”

“Ia,” he repeated, tasting the name.

“Ianthe Battlewitch, of the Tassaki sept. Only fools and employers use all that, though.”

“I am neither,” Tarn agreed. “Battlewitch means spellsword, aye?”

“If you’re a cheap bard, maybe. Spellsword!” She snorted and spat a little. “At least you know your history, Spellsword Tarn of Amel. You’ll claim next that pretty bit of steel on your shoulder is dragon forged.”

It was, but Tarn wasn’t going to tell her that. Instead he said, “The hiring fair is…?”

“Not far from our delivery. Help with the unloading, and I’ll see you there.” Her gaze went shrewd. “What are you looking for?”

“To take the road to Alagard,” he said, thinking wistfully of the warm sand and the deep, cheerful sense of joy that sang through the desert. “I can swing my sword, and fire answers my call.”

“You guild certified?”

He blinked at her. “I know not what you mean.”

“If not, it means you don’t get paid guild rates, and bonded caravans will hire your sword but not your sorcery.” She sucked through her teeth. “Mind you, if I’m hiring, you’re on the contract for your sword, but if trouble comes at us, call a flame and we’ll just mark it down as a bonus for going beyond the call of duty.”

“Are you hiring?”

“Not until I see you swing that thing, strongman. Brute strength doesn’t win you much with me. Can you take orders?”

“I can give them,” Tarn said, narrowing his eyes. He wasn’t going to shout his identity to the skies, not when the whole conversation was so bewildering, but he had his pride.

“I give the orders,” Ia said flatly.

He scowled. “A good soldier honors his commander. A good commander knows her soldiers’ strengths.”

“Quoting the
Book of the Dragon
at me now, eh?” She grinned. “Might be nice to have someone who knows a bit of history along. I miss intelligent conversation when I’m out of the cloister house.”

“A scholar?” Tarn said, surprised.

She rolled her eyes at him. “
Shai-dhakni
, I told you.”

“I do not know the word,” Tarn told her.

“What, you don’t have the Daughters of Myrtilis up in the mountains?”

“Myrtilis,” he repeated, remembering. He had known a Myrtilis once, a queen of battlemaids, a bright wand in battle.

“Aye, you would know that name.” The cynicism fell from her face suddenly. “I wish I could have seen her once, the mother of our Order. We are all in her shadow.”

“Battle Queen Myrtilis?” he asked.

“The very one. They say she was just in judgment, wise in lore, and beyond any man’s sword in the battle line. We honor her and live in her image.” Then she quirked her head, the sincerity hidden again. “I could have sworn there was a cloister up Tarramos way, on the Silk Road.”

Tarn shrugged. “From the highest mountains, am I. No towns.”

“And what do you kill with that cleaver, up in the highest mountains?”

“Bad things,” he told her and grinned. He probably showed too many teeth for human manners, because Ia blinked and something in her expression shifted and went speculative. Then she shook herself and said, “Nearly at this fool’s warehouse. Help me with the unloading, and I’ll give you a sword trial, if you think you can handle the long road through the desert.”

“I like long roads,” he said calmly and thought of the defensive little desert spirit again. How surprised it would be to find him ensconced in the very heart of its domain.

Chapter 4: Hiring

H
E
PASSED
Ia’s test with the sword, well enough to make her pant and swear as she held him off. When she lowered her sword, he nodded and stepped back, then bowed.

“No need for company manners,” she rasped, wiping the sweat off her brow with her sleeve. “What’s your second weapon?”

“Fire,” he said, calling a little wisp to dance across his fingertips.

She snorted. “That might light a candle, strongman, but it won’t scare off a raiding party.”

“No,” he agreed, and raised a circle of flame, head-high and a cubit thick, around the sparring ground.

Ia let out a stream of curses that he memorized quickly. He always liked to have some soldiers’ cant at his command.

“Put that out!” she finished, voice spiking.

Tarn sighed. It felt warm and comfortable, like removing your helmet and shaking out your hair after battle. He was sick of keeping all that he was constrained and held in—

He wasn’t expecting the bucket of water over his head.

Snarling, he evaporated it into a cloud of steam and then, recalling himself, dragged his fires back in.

Ia was still spitting fury, the bucket raised in her hands. Everyone else in the yard was looking toward him with either fascination or frightened eyes. What, had they never seen a spellsword raise a flame before?

“Ianthe, dearest,” a weary voice said from the balcony above the yard. “Have you finally stumbled upon an affordable guild mage, and, if so, need I raise our insurance?”