Of Bone and Thunder E-Book

Chris Evans

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 836

Beschreibung

Channelling the turbulent period of the Vietnam War and its ruthless pitting of ideologies, cultures, generations, and races against each other, military historian and acclaimed fantasy writer Chris Evans takes a daring new approach to the traditional world of sword and sorcery by thrusting it into a maelstrom of racial animus, drug use, rebellion, and a growing war that seems at once unwinnable and with no end in sight. In this thrilling epic, right and wrong, country and honor, freedom and sacrifice are all put to the ultimate test in the heart of a dark, bloody, otherworldly jungle. In this strange, new world deep among the shadows under a triple-canopy jungle and plagued by dangers real and imagined, soldiers strive to fulfill a mission they don't understand and are ill-equipped to carry out. And high above them, the heavy rush of wings slashing through the humid air herald a coming wave of death and destruction, and just possibly, salvation.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Part Two

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Part Three

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Of Bone and ThunderPrint edition ISBN: 9781783297559E-book edition ISBN: 9781783297566

Published by Titan BooksA division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First Titan edition: February 201510 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

Chris Evans asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Copyright © 2015 Chris Evans

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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For all the Vietnam War veterans I’ve had the great fortune to know. You inspired me with your service and honor me with your friendship.

PROLOGUE

ABLACK CONDOR DIPPED her featherless head and flapped her wings, straining for height. Another vulture drifted in front of her, forcing the condor to climb higher in the crowded wheel of circling birds. The condor struggled, her body weak from having little to eat over the past month. The sun had yet to crest the hilly peaks to the east, but already, dozens of bald-headed condors had taken up stations high above the mist-shrouded valley below. The other vultures were hungry, too. The birds flew without calling to each other. Only the sound of their massive wings working laboriously in the humid air marked their passage.

Long-tailed shrikes darted between the condors, refusing to settle in as they twisted and banked among the larger, slower birds. When this sport became dull, a shrike ventured down to the roof of the mist, skimming along its rolling surface and kicking up a cottony spray in its wake. It darted to and fro wherever the mist churned and a hole appeared to open, but it was never fast enough to dive through before it closed.

Shadows passed over the condor and she turned her attention from the shrike. The wheel was breaking apart. The reason flew several hundred feet above. Three pairs of green-breasted eagles had been drawn by the waiting flock. The condor tensed. She was significantly larger than the eagles, but the birds of prey were aggressive and unpredictable. Hunger made the condor brave, and she kept to her course. The other condors settled in behind her and the wheel resumed its slow rotation.

When the eagles showed no sign of attacking, the condor allowed herself to look down again and quickly spied the shrike flying inches above the undulating whiteness. A large wave of mist surged upward momentarily before collapsing, pulling down the mist around it and creating a gaping tear in the otherwise uniform surface. The shrike chirped and dived toward the opening. It managed to penetrate several feet before the walls of mist closed in around it. The shrike’s chirps grew frantic as it twisted and tried to fly back out. Its wingtips brushed the mist and were instantly tangled in wispy skeins that stuck to its feathers. The shrike flapped harder but only succeeded in becoming more enmeshed. Its wings were still beating as the mist closed over it and the condor lost sight of it. The condor kept an eye on the spot where the shrike had vanished, but the bird did not reappear.

The sky began to take on a rosy hue. Shadows cast from the eastern peaks drew jagged black teeth across the mist, reaching all the way to touch the peaks running parallel along the western boundary of the valley. Though the birds couldn’t see it, they knew a thick, brown river surged through a fertile plain of lush green vegetation far below them. They could, however, smell the life that teemed in the jungle, but that wasn’t why they had assembled so early.

It was what they heard, still miles away to the south.

It had happened three times before, over a month ago, in valleys to the south and to the east. In each case, holes had been torn in the impenetrable mist that walled them off from the life below, revealing the jungle and all its inhabitants, and beckoning them down. They had only to circle, and wait.

Whup-whup-whup.

It was faint and distant. A soft, rhythmic sound that carried like the coppery tang of fresh blood through the humid air. It was a sound foreign to this land, but one to which the circling birds had quickly adapted.

The condor dipped her right wing, allowing herself to drift beyond the wheel and out over the eastern ridge as she angled toward the distant sound. While the eagles continued to circle, the rest of the flock followed her, forming a descending spiral that eased into a single column as they leveled off above the ridge. The condor began to rise as she caught the heated air roiling up from the sun-warmed side of the ridge, but she ignored her instinct and tacked away from the updraft, continuing to follow the ridgeline toward the end of the valley.

Whup-whup-whup.

It was louder now, echoing off the ridgelines in a growing crescendo. She caught movement out of her right eye and tilted her head. The eagles were finally descending, coming straight down toward the sound instead of hugging the ridgeline.

The condor turned her attention forward. The mist at the very southern end of the valley stirred as seven dark shapes carved along its surface. She shuddered but kept flying.

The eagles screeched, tucked in their wings, and dived, aiming directly for the approaching intruders. Talons and beaks glinted in the sun as the birds of prey called out their challenge at full throat, meeting the interlopers at speed.

The screeching ended abruptly in sprays of red mist.

Brown and green feathers tumbled in the wake of the dragons as they flew on, their wing tips gouging enormous swathes of mist while their tails churned it into froth. Gossamer threads stirred up from the mist found little purchase against the dragons’ scaly hides and did nothing to slow them down.

The condor, with the flock in tow, kept her course as the dragons closed the distance between them, their formation unnaturally precise. It unsettled the condor. Nonetheless, she kept to her path over the ridgeline. She had no concept of what “bravery” was, not that she needed one. Hunger made her fearless. Better to risk being eaten than to feel her insides being gnawed to nothing as her strength faded.

She took a chance and tacked toward the dragons, desperate not to miss the fleeting opportunity that would soon present itself. It was unnerving, but she had no choice. The dragons offered the only safe passage through the mist.

As the dragons came level with her, the closest predator flew only a couple of hundred yards away. The beast turned its head slightly and fixed a large, black eye with a gleaming red pupil on her. The condor’s wingspan would fit inside this dragon many times over. Every part of the creature elicited fear. It was all pointed teeth, stone-hued scales, wings bristling with thorny spikes, and oddly shaped bumps astride the dragon’s shoulders.

The four lead dragons, smaller and more agile, suddenly slammed their wings hard on the downward stroke, vaulting them high above the mist. Even at this distance, the condor was buffeted by the move. The dragons arced gracefully in the air until their momentum burned off and they hung motionless at their flight’s apogee. As one, they flicked their tails hard left, pointed their heads toward the mist, and shot their right wings out in a sudden flare.

Grace became violent force.

The dragons snap-rolled onto their backs and plummeted toward the mist, each one tucking its wings in tight alongside its body. Their tails elongated as two small fins at the tip took on a rakish angle, imparting a rotation to the hurtling dragons. The wind whistled through their teeth and thrummed across the membranes of their wings.

When they were still fifty yards above the mist, the four dragons opened their maws and breathed fire.

The condor squawked and turned away as the heat washed over her. Shit and piss and feathers flew through the air as the flock broke up in wild panic. The mist crackled and sparked.

She turned back in time to see the dragons plunge through the smoking hole in the mist and disappear. A moment later, the remaining dragons, much larger than the lead four and sporting many more of the odd bumps along their backs, lumbered down through the hole.

The condor banked and flew after them, hurtling through the gap in the mist, which was already starting to close. Though the opening was polluted with the caustic odor of the dragons’ fire, the blood of the eagles hung in the air and she opened her beak out of reflex. This was why she risked everything. Wherever the dragons appeared, death followed, and that meant food.

Turbulence buffeted the condor as she flew downward, but she splayed her pin feathers and kept herself away from the rolling walls of mist. She pumped her wings faster, determined not to become trapped.

She was still accelerating when she exited the hole and the entire valley stretched out before her like a vast, green sea. The wet, thick air with all its earthy smells filled her nostrils as if she’d dunked her head underwater. For a moment, the pangs in her stomach vanished. Below, the dragons were hundreds of yards away and angling toward the ground.

The condor splayed her wings and slowed her descent. She could easily track the dragons from here as they flew toward the valley floor. She began to circle well below the layer of mist, comforted as other birds came through and fell in behind her. The waiting began again and she became aware once more of the hunger pangs in her stomach. That pain would not last much longer. Already, a new scent was rising in the air. The condor opened her beak in response.

Deep in the jungle below, blood was spilling.

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

“SON OF A POXY witch.”

Crossbowman Carnan Qillibrin craned his neck to watch a rag race over the treetops and disappear behind the other side of the mountain. He made out crouched figures on the rag’s back, but he couldn’t see if any were hit by arrows. A billowing stream of gray smoke marked the rag’s passage as a second barrage of arrows arced into the sky. The arrows’ flight grew erratic as they passed through the disturbed air in the rag’s wake.

It was the third rag flight over the mountain today, although only the first to be shot at. Carny thought those were decent odds, but he doubted the higher-ups would agree. With more and more flights coming into Luitox from the Kingdom every day, Red Shield, like all the other shields that made up the second of three javelins in Seventh Phalanx, were being marched ragged trying to find the elusive archers.

With the sun already beginning to fall, all Carny wanted was to get back to the relative safety and comfort of their camp down among the dunes. Being that close to the water and the big sailing ships constantly arriving with more supplies and reinforcements gave him a sense of security completely absent when they went out on patrol.

Tired, thirsty, hungry, and bored, Carny wanted this day to be done. He lifted up the rim of his metal helm and said a silent prayer, hoping they didn’t have to go back up. So a few natives shot a few arrows at a rag. The crafty bastards wouldn’t be there if they went back up. They never were.

Silence reigned as Red Shield waited, strung out a third of the way down the mountain along the main dirt path. It was the one and only way the shield climbed and descended the mountain as the rest of it was a dense green tangle of palm fronds, vines, trees, and leafy plants.

“They’re going to make us go back up, I fucking know it,” Crossbowman Yustace Vooford said from farther up the mountain, spitting the words out. The lanky baker’s assistant-turned-soldier carried a chip on his shoulder as big as one of his bragged-about loaves.

“Keep it down,” Carny said, waving at Voof to lower his voice. “It was a few arrows at most.”

“A few arrows?” Big Hog said, using his crossbow to point up at the mountain. “You might be about the only one of us that can read, but as sure as my crotch itches like a witch’s in a ditch full of thistles, you can’t count.” The pig farmer—large, beefy, and forever red-faced and sweating—shook his head, rattling the chain mail curtain that hung from the back of his helm.

Carny tried and failed to get the image of the itchy witch out of his head. “Fine, more than a few,” he said, lowering his voice in the hope that Big Hog would take the hint. “Still, the rag flew on, so we’re good. Right?” He pushed his helm higher onto his head to allow the air to get at his scalp. The liner slid back, releasing a stream of sweat. Carny wiped his brow with the back of his bare forearm. I might as well be wearing a damn forge on my head.

Sighing, Carny bent over and wiped his arm against his dun-colored trouser leg and wished they could take the heavy linen things off. Trousers were too hot for this weather, and the cloth kept getting bunched up underneath the bronze greaves protecting his shins. An oozing rash now covered him from knees to ankles, the yellowy-pink liquid pooling in the bottom of his ankle-high leather boots. That in turn made his feet slip in his boots, spawning blisters on top of blisters.

“We ain’t been good since before we got here,” Voof said. “I didn’t ask to come here and fight in this war. None of us did, but here we are. And why? I’ll tell you—”

“For fuck’s sake, Voof, leave it for one afternoon, would you?” the Weasel said, emerging from the side of the path while pulling up his trousers. Thin with sharp features and a sharper tongue, Crossbowman Alminga Meerz was the one soldier guaranteed to find the wrong thing to say at the exact wrong time to Voof.

“They’d fucking like that,” Voof said, staring hard at the Weasel. “Mark my words, it’s what they’ve always wanted.”

Everyone in Red Shield and the Second of the Seventh knew Voof’s views on the Kingdom’s war in Luitox and the conscription of men into the army. The thing of it was, Voof’s views were shared by most, but his seething rage made it difficult to agree with him at the best of times.

Carny didn’t bother responding. Voof would rant until he ran out of breath or someone put a fist down his throat. Carny reseated his helm on his head by dropping his chin to his chest and letting the helm fall back into place. Anything that saved a few precious drops of energy was worth its weight in silver. He grabbed the front of his dark green aketon and pulled it away from his skin as he sucked down lungfuls of hot air.

The aketon was more agonizing than listening to Voof. The jacket’s thick quilting filled with horsehair provided exceptional warmth, which in this land was like wearing a blanket of coals. Defying the army’s dress code, the entire Second Javelin had cut the sleeves from the garment. It was either that or keep passing out from sun vapors. What remained, however, were the eighteen two-inch-by-two-inch steel armor plates woven into the linen casings, which were sewn into the aketon to protect chest and back. It was an additional twenty pounds that Carny would have just as soon done without, but high command would turn a blind eye to only so much defiance.

“Look!”

A single arrow wobbled into the sky from the top of the mountain, trailing a wisp of red smoke. Carny had seen it before.

“The slyts are ghosting,” Big Hog said. “Ten to one says half of them will be back down at the beach by nightfall at their little stands selling us that piss beer and dog on a stick.”

Carny reached for his neck. Slyt sounded like slit, which always made him picture a thin razor against his throat. Carny figured their nickname came from their greeting I ga slyt, which was really just “hello.” Every slyt he’d met always started with I ga slyt. He called them slyts now, too. It was better than trying to learn their fucked-up names.

Carny took it as a cue and turned and started walking down the mountain. As the enemy had so kindly announced their intent to leave it seemed only fair that Red Shield do the same. Other soldiers started to move with him.

“Shield will remain in place!” Red Shield leader Wallseck Sinte shouted, bellowing like they were on a parade square.

“Fucking told you,” Voof said.

Carny halted. The smell of the sunbaked jungle washed over him and he gagged. It was like breathing in hot dung. You didn’t just smell it—you absorbed it. The heat of Luitox did something to the air so that every odor stuck to your skin like putrid honey. He breathed through his mouth and did his best to stand perfectly still.

Salvation, in the form of base camp with its white, sandy beaches; cool ocean waves; and all those eager, lithe whores camped just outside it was only fifteen hundred more yards down this path. Fifteen hundred precious yards.

Carny turned and watched as Sinte came to a halt. Sinte stood upright without leaning against the angle of the mountain. It looked unnatural and it bothered Carny. The rest of Red Shield’s twenty-four soldiers, just one of six patrols from the Second Javelin combing the mountain for slyts, were sensibly hunched over as they descended toward the beach, but not Sinte. He wouldn’t give the jungle the satisfaction. It was as if he feared one flaw, one deviation, would cause his whole world to crumble. He shaved his square jaw twice a day and his head once. From his polished bronze greaves to the gleaming steel shield marking his authority strapped to his back, he shone like a beacon announcing that wherever he stood, that dirt belonged to the Kingdom. And the Kingdom bowed to no one and nothing.

“Listowk, what the hell was that?” Sinte asked. He was six feet tall and muscled like a wild boar, and his voice reverberated off the foliage and set brightly colored birds to flight.

The second-in-command of Red Shield, Lead Crossbowman Ugen Listowk, shorter, wider, and quieter than their leader, shouldered his crossbow and ambled back up the path toward Sinte. He winked as he passed Carny. Carny offered him a weak smile. Where Sinte shined, Listowk absorbed. Leaves and other bits of foliage somehow always got stuck to the LC’s helm and straps while dirt dulled his greaves and bare arms whenever they went on patrol. The man, ancient at forty-one and still only a lead crossbowman, was a slow, plodding bush. The joke around the shield was that if he ever stayed in one place for more than a few candles, he’d take root.

Listowk came to a stop a few feet below Sinte and saluted, or possibly scratched his head under his helm. Sinte stared at him, his eyes darting between the many different bits of flora.

“It was clear, SL, not a slyt in sight,” Listowk said, leavening his voice with the exhaustion they all felt. “We scoured that mountaintop for a good quarter candle. We looked under logs, up in the branches, and peered through the bushes, but didn’t find a thing.”

Sinte used his crossbow to point back up to where the rag had flown over. The sun made the oiled ash wood shimmer. “Then where did all those fucking slyt archers come from? They flying them in on invisible rags?”

Listowk spit in the dirt and appeared to think before responding. He made it look painful. His nose scrunched up, his eyes squinted, and the mustache covering his upper lip curled like a furry caterpillar being roasted on a fire. “Well, I’ve heard tell them slyts way inland have some strong thaumics. That’s deep, dark green out there. What I hear, army ain’t ventured there ‘cept for a few rag hops, so no telling what they got.”

Sinte stomped his boot on the ground. “Druid’s balls, Listowk, don’t give me that mystic-slyt shit! They’re nothing but savages that are a damned sight better at hiding than you are at finding!”

Listowk shrugged. “The slyts are crafty. You ask the boys, they’ll tell you. We didn’t see a damn thing,” he said, pointing toward the eight men of the shield who had searched the mountaintop while the rest, with Sinte, patrolled just below it looking for new paths. “Carny, you see any sign of the little bastards when we was up there?”

Don’t get me in the middle of this, Carny silently pleaded. Yes, they’d climbed to the top of the mountain as ordered, and yes, they’d looked around, mostly for snakes and spiders. Going up this damn mountain day after day had become one big grind. They’d been up it fifteen times in the past three weeks alone to clear of it slyts. The first few times, they’d actually spent a half candle hacking and crawling their way through the undergrowth in search of the bastards. They had to be hiding up there somewhere, but all the patrol came away with were bug bites and a growing sense of pointlessness.

“Couple of frayed bowstrings, a piece of arrow shaft, but not a slyt to be seen,” Carny said, hoping that would be the end of it and knowing it wouldn’t. “Even kicked around in the dirt looking for ash from cook fires, but didn’t find any.”

“Then you’re as fucking blind as Listowk,” Sinte said.

Carny looked at his shield leader and shrugged. Sinte knew everything. It didn’t matter if it was what was in the stew or which slyt whore had the liveliest tongue—his pronouncements were always made with such conviction that everyone just agreed.

“Yeah, maybe,” Carny said, turning his head to look at the beach and the water down below. So damn close.

“Fucking useless, the lot of you,” Sinte proclaimed. “Do you know what kind of shit I’m going to hear when we go back down there and report that all we found was a couple of bowstrings?”

Carny smiled, then quickly frowned lest Sinte see it. Sinte said when, not if! Glory on high, they were not going to go back up.

“There’s another rag!”

Carny turned. At first, he couldn’t see a thing. Then he noticed a dark smudge low over the ocean.

“It’s a seabird,” he said, hoping against hope he was right.

“Naw, it’s a rag,” Listowk said. “Low and slow, but it’s a rag.”

Carny looked down at the beach before looking back out to sea. The dark smudge was bigger than before. Fuck.

“Any bets on what happens if this rag gets shot at?” Voof asked.

No one answered. Carny slammed his crossbow against his thigh and hung his head. So damn close.

CHAPTER TWO

‘LOOKY, YAH? WE GOTS some rolly blues up yonder! Gone git mad-jiggin’ afore we hits Loot-ox!” the rag’s co-driver shouted over his shoulder. He raised and lowered his three-fingered right hand in the air for extra emphasis.

Jawn Rathim lifted his head and was immediately buffeted by a rushing wind laced with heat and sulfur. Strands of his long brown hair, no longer carefully combed and tied in the back, fluttered freely. He sneezed and squinted, looking around to see if anyone else understood the man’s colorful patois. It was a wasted effort.

Two rows of military officers and crown representatives rode single file on either side of the rag’s spine. They sat on saddles—really just leather-padded wooden planks affixed to the rag’s scales with finger-sized spikes. Facing forward, all had their heads down to keep them out of the wind. In one amazing case, an officer appeared to be fast asleep.

“Choke ’em straps up an in, yah?” the co-driver said, waving his abbreviated hand around for emphasis.

Hope he flies better than he talks, Jawn thought. An assumption that at least the rag’s driver would be of more refined material was wrecked on that man’s fist-sized wad of chewing tobacco crammed into his right cheek. It was, as the driver had so eloquently informed Jawn before takeoff, so he could “enjoy ma vittles side by each wit’ ma chaw.”

The rag’s wings began beating faster. Jawn instinctively flinched as the wings rose up like two sea behemoths breaching on either side of him before rumbling back down. The wind rushed past his head like heavy, invisible waves eroding him bit by bit. A not-so-gentle force began to push Jawn down into his saddle as the rag started climbing higher into the sky, her long torso undulating with the strain. She coughed, spewing out a shower of sparks that stung Jawn’s face. That was followed by a billowing cloud of inky black smoke that temporarily obscured everything from view. Jawn closed his eyes and held his breath for a few moments. When he opened them again and inhaled, the air was clear save for the ever-present heat and smell of sulfur. The rag was coughing more frequently now. The scales beneath his ankle-high leather boots were getting hotter, too, but he couldn’t tell if that was from the broiling sun high above his left shoulder or the rag’s guts heating up from the inside.

Jawn craned his head around to check the position of the sun. He calculated they’d been in the air almost two full candles since taking off from Swassi Island on the second leg of their cross-ocean flight from the Kingdom to Luitox. Though it was correctly pronounced “Lew-tow,” not “Loot-ox,” as the co-driver kept calling it, Jawn was keeping his mouth shut. The crew might have been a pair of bumpkins from some deep, dark forest province where the sunshine had to be carried in by buckets, but they apparently knew how to control and fly a tenton rag. That earned them his respect.

Jawn winced as the rag dipped and then jerked back up. He clenched his fists as a searing pain lit his lower back muscles on fire. He’d debated staying on Swassi for a few days to rest and get used to the heat. The half day he’d spent on a different rag just getting that far had been painful enough. Besides, his orders to report to the Seventh Phalanx gave him another week to get there. Wandering around Swassi for a candle, however, had changed his mind and he’d taken the next rag out.

Barely rising above the waves, Swassi was a long brown smear across the ocean. Its features could be counted on one hand: wind-bent palm trees, a rambling series of huts making up the naval way station, a hastily constructed canvas-tent sanatorium filled with sick and wounded soldiers evacuated from Luitox, and a huge burn pit behind the sanatorium that gave off a greasy, thick smoke the entire time he was there.

And I volunteered for this. It had been a rash decision but one he didn’t regret. Life in the Kingdom for his kind wasn’t what it had once been. The change had happened virtually overnight with the Bastard Revelation. A royal historian—no-good muckraker, as Jawn’s mother put it—found proof that King Wynnthorpe and the two monarchs before him were descended from the pairing of Queen Arbara and the royal huntsman Kofery Dar Minkon. Every king and prince who followed was illegitimate. Instead of a monarch, chaos now reigned. In one fell swoop, the very notion of the royalty was called into question. “Rightful heirs” popped out of the woodwork like so many noxious bubbles from a witch’s boiling cauldron and were just as appealing. In the span of a fortnight, five distinct High Councils emerged laying claim to leadership of the Kingdom and its many farflung protectorates, arguing that until a true heir was found—if one ever was—they, in their wisdom and sense of duty, should rule in his or her stead.

There were no riots in the streets and no one was calling for a storming of the palace—yet—but in ways Jawn thought far more worrisome, society was changing. Town criers, until recently solely the mouthpieces of the king, were now paid men—and, shockingly, occasionally women—in the employ of the High Councils and an increasing number of concerned citizens and merchant guilds. Where there had been one official report of happenings in the Kingdom and beyond, now there were dozens. It was madness.

Jawn coughed, spitting out some black phlegm into his hand. He looked at the mess before wiping it on his trousers. Everything he’d believed to be solid and stable now had sand under its base. If the king wasn’t the king, then what other lies were waiting to be revealed? He shifted in his saddle and groaned. One lie he knew he’d never believe again was that riding a rag across the sky was glamorous. All feeling in his buttocks was gone, while the pain in his lower back grew. This was no longer a flight; it was a feat of endurance.

“I did the right thing,” Jawn muttered, hoping to convince himself that it was true. The Kingdom was at war abroad and tearing itself apart at home. The place for a young man was at the point of the spear, and that was out here. It’s what men did, what they always did. They went to war because there was one. There was no better way to prove to yourself and everyone around you what you were made of. Jawn knew it in his heart even if his brain had had second thoughts.

All thoughts of glory had been put to the test early, however, during training. Everything the army did seemed tailor-made to numb the mind and weary the body. For all that, he’d ultimately come to enjoy it. Even the questionable food. It was amazing how good even the grayest hunk of boiled beef tasted after working up a real appetite. And outdoors, no less.

The physical demands had pushed him beyond any exertion he had ever attempted. He’d always been considered gangly due to his tall, thin frame, but now, instead of protruding collarbones and a washboard rib cage, he had muscles, actual muscles! He was in the best shape of his twenty-four years. Not only could he throw a punch, he could take one.

The rag lurched sideways, wrenching Jawn’s attention back to his current situation. The agonizing monotony of the flight vanished in a series of erratic jerks and bumps, as if the rag were having a seizure. Jawn would have thought that very thing, but the co-driver’s warning, however colloquial, finally made sense. “Rolly blues” must have something to do with rough air currents. Knowing the cause of the rag’s distress did nothing to make him feel any better as she dropped vertically, leaving Jawn’s stomach somewhere up around his ears. Men and women screamed all around him. The beat of the rag’s wings increased, the huge leathery sails chopping the wind like two massive axe blades. Her entire body shook with the effort as she struggled to stabilize. She dropped again, then vaulted skyward as if a giant hand had scooped her up and tossed her like a ball.

As she reached the top of her climb, the rag flicked over onto her right side and began to roll upside down. Jawn experienced the sensation of hollowness as he floated in the air, his butt coming off of the simple leather saddle. The leather belts buckled around his thighs and calves bit deep through his canvas trousers and into his flesh but kept him from plummeting to the ocean some three thousand yards below. He risked looking down and saw more water than animal beneath him.

He chanced a look behind to where their baggage was strapped down. Happily, the crew knew their knots as the passengers’ belongings appeared well and truly secured.

The rag twisted its body into a crescent shape and began falling back toward the water. Soot flaked off its scales as they slid over one another, revealing patches of the dull brown color beneath.

“Makes you wonder if two weeks in a ship’s hold would have been better than this!” the passenger opposite Jawn shouted—although currently above was more accurate than opposite. The crowny had his arms wrapped tightly around one of the rag’s triangular dorsal plates, which ran down the length of its spine from the top of its head to the tip of its tail, like a row of shark teeth. “At least you can see waves on the water. I don’t know how those buggers see these rolly blues up here!”

Someone near the front of the rag wailed in obvious terror. The driver and co-driver, sitting strapped in forward of the rag’s wing shoulders on a wooden yoke with their feet dangling in thin air, traded shouts. Jawn still couldn’t understand what was being said. A moment later, the air carried the ringing crack of iron bar against scale. More shouts and more cracks followed. The co-driver was half out of his saddle and twisted around to face backward, swinging a four-foot wrought-iron bar up against the underside of the rag’s right wing where it met the huge shoulder joint.

“Gone up, ya licey stoof!” he shouted, then looked back at Jawn and smiled. “’Tain’t but a li’l tweekin’ laek, yah? Ter rag done feel a ting!”

He went back to hitting the rag, each blow timed on the wing’s upstroke. The rag began to pump her appendage a little harder in response. Droplets of steaming blood and small flakes of scale began flying off the leading edge of the wing.

The rag turned her head around toward the co-driver, but the driver sawed on the chains bolted to the cast-iron bit in her mouth and snapped her back. The speed of the wind increased as the angle of the rag grew steeper. I can’t die like this, Jawn thought. Back in the Kingdom, criers had begun relaying tales of courageous acts in battle that often included the story of the fallen soldier who had died in its commission. Jawn Rathim, twenty-six, fell out of the sky from the back of a decrepit dragon driven by two yokels just didn’t kiss the ear.

They’ll get this sorted, he hoped, avoiding prayer because no matter how dire his situation, he wasn’t about to call for a help he didn’t believe in. Independence wasn’t something you gave up the first time things got a little sticky. He chose to think of something pleasant.

Milouette. The smell of strawberries and the blush of excitement coloring her neck. Milouette of the small, perky breasts; freckled nose; and long, colt-like legs that wrapped firmly around his waist. Images of his mother’s handmaiden brought a smile to his face. She’d been seventeen, he barely fifteen. The first stirrings of an erection caught him by surprise.

The rag lurched back to level flight, slamming him down into his saddle and ending all thoughts of Milouette. Lightning lanced his member as a sledgehammer drove his balls deep into his stomach.

“High Druid beyond!” Jawn yelped. His eyes watered and he gulped in a lungful of the foul air. He gritted his teeth until his temples throbbed and slowly counted to twenty until the pain began to subside.

Jawn took a few more breaths, then eased himself over to lean out and look down past the side of the rag. The whitecaps still looked small. Way too far to fall and survive.

“Done gone o’er the hills I reckon! Jus’ li’l uns, yah?” the co-driver shouted. He sounded amused.

Any temptation to yell back at the man vanished as the caustic stench of vomit stung Jawn’s nostrils. He ducked, feeling the wet splatter in his hair and on the back of his neck. He now had a new source of irritation.

“Hey! Quit puking!” Jawn shouted, sitting up and shaking his head in the wind. He unwound his right hand from the leather thong looped into the heavy iron chain running down the right side of the rag’s spine. Reaching forward, he jabbed the man in front of him in the thigh with the knuckles of his fist. “Do that again and I’ll heave you over the side!”

The officer twisted around to look over his shoulder at Jawn. The front of the man’s uniform was a crusted mess of vomit; wet strings of the stuff hung from the corners of his mouth. One detached in the wind and flew back at Jawn, catching him in the cheek. The officer whimpered, “We’re all going to die!”

“Fucking idiot officers,” came the reply from the crowny on the other side of the dorsal plate.

Jawn wiped his cheek and came away with a hand covered in wet, black soot. Sighing, he rubbed it against his filth-covered tunic and turned to look at the man beside him. They’d barely talked the entire flight, not that the crowny hadn’t tried to strike up a conversation more than once.

“He might be right,” Jawn said, hiding his annoyance at the other man’s use of obscenities.

“Aw, don’t listen to him,” the crowny said, wedging his upper half between two dorsal plates. He looked like he was bellying up to the local bar. “This old rag might be a clapped-out carcass not long for the rendering vat, but she’ll get us down in one piece. Rags were built to fly.”

“It’s a long flight for one this size though, isn’t it?” Jawn asked, reluctantly leaning to the left and grabbing the edge of the nearest dorsal so their conversation could continue at something less than a full-throated shout. “She’s not exactly making this look easy.”

The crowny smiled. He had the look of a jovial talker, one of those pudgy-faced, grubby bar patrons whose friendly smile hid a desperate need to talk when all a person wanted to do was to be left in peace.

“Not her fault. See the notches on her tail fin?” he said, pointing with his thumb toward the back of the rag. “They mark it every time a rag makes a long haul like this. One this size is supposed to be good for two hundred trips before they switch them over to shorter routes. Something about the muscles pulling away from the bones and their internal workings getting too hot.”

Jawn turned his head and watched the rag’s tail as it swayed back and forth. Her vertical tail fin looked as tall as him. As it swept far to the right and then back he did a quick count of the notches. His eyes widened.

“That looks closer to four hundred.” He noticed the heat again emanating from the scales beneath him. It was more than the sun. The rag was definitely getting hotter.

The crowny’s smile got bigger. “Yeah, ain’t that a newt in the cauldron. Between the upheaval back home and the overthrow of the governing tribal council in Western Luitox by the Forest Collective, the Treasury’s vault is more cobwebs than coins. And we haven’t been there four years yet. So old girls like her are having to take the strain and fly farther and longer.”

His pronunciation of Luitox was spot-on. It even had the slight hard click on the start of the second syllable that Jawn had only heard used by long-serving diplomats. Maybe he could have an intelligent conversation with this man.

“You jest. The war can’t be costing all that much,” Jawn said.

“It’s bleeding us dry, is what it’s doing,” the crowny said. “Do you know what the single most unproductive use of a man’s time and energy is? Fighting wars. You destroy the fields, maim the livestock, kill the farmers, and leave the women barren.”

Jawn had never considered that, nor did he want to. “You’re completely ignoring the moral imperative to wage war. We don’t fight to fill our coffers—we fight for what’s just. We defend the weak and vanquish evil.” He didn’t bother adding that they fought because it was an adventure beyond all others. Jawn could tell this fellow wouldn’t understand that. “It’s our duty to crush the Forest Collective and return Western Luitox to the peace-loving peoples that live there. If we don’t stop them now, what next? We—”

“You’re serious?! High Druid’s balls!” the man said, his eyes wide. “We absolutely fight war to fill our coffers. Problem is, it’s a terrible way to do it. Always ends up costing more than what we get. Hang my words from the highest branch: Luitox will not pay off.”

“Perhaps they don’t keep you up-to-date in the Crown Service with what’s going on military-wise,” Jawn said, not bothering to hide the disdain in his voice. “The army is confident that the fighting in Western Luitox will be over before the first autumn leaves fall. The Forest Collective are disgruntled peasants, not a well-trained army like ours.”

Instead of being duly humbled as he should have been, the crowny grinned, his smile full of butter-colored teeth. “I didn’t realize you were so up-to-date on things. But first, where are my manners? Name’s Rande Cornalli Ketts, field inspector, Commerce and Taxation.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “Most know me as R. C. Ketts, but you can call me Rickets.” He raised his eyebrows as he pronounced his nickname.

Cute. Jawn obligingly nodded. He took the man’s outstretched hand and shook it. It was surprisingly rough for a paper-and-quill jockey. “Jawn Rathim. I’ve been assigned to the Seventh Phalanx, Command Group.” He hesitated to say more.

“Genuine pleasure to meet you, Jawn Rathim,” Rickets said, still shaking Jawn’s hand. “It’s rare I find an officer who can hold a conversation on anything of substance. Not really the most enlightened, no offense.”

“Why would I be offended? I’m educated,” Jawn said, immediately regretting it. The last thing he wanted to explain to Rickets was who he really was.

“Of course you are,” Rickets said, nodding seriously. “That’s why I’m talking with you and not the rest of this luggage,” he said, motioning toward the other passengers. “All the independent thought of a flock of pigeons. Not their fault though; most of them probably don’t have much more learning than basic numbers and the alphabet. Not like us though. We’ve been schooled.”

Jawn didn’t like where the conversation was heading. He particularly didn’t like the man’s use of the word us. They shared nothing in common.

“So, back to the furtherance of my education,” Rickets said, easily changing horses. “Why, pray tell, if we’re so close to putting down these—what did you call them?—disgruntled peasants, did the king declare martial law? Why would he need to threaten con dodgers with prison and even execution for not reporting for service?”

Jawn was ready for this. “It was a momentary and necessary step to ensure calm and order.”

“‘Momentary and necessary,’ I like that,” Rickets said. “I’ll have to remember that the next time I do something especially egregious. So, everything is sunshine and flowers in the Kingdom? That is heartening to hear, because where we’re heading, it’s raining shit.”

Jawn lowered his head and massaged his temples with the thumb and middle finger of his right hand. “As this is my first trip to Luitox, I can’t speak to the weather,” he said, deftly twisting the man’s words in hopes of ending the conversation. “What I can say, and any loyal subject would agree, is that the Kingdom will prevail.”

“How?”

Jawn lowered his hand and looked up. “What do you mean, how? We’re the Kingdom! Luitox is a dust mote. Our military might will crush this Forest Collective like a bug beneath our boot.”

“Then why haven’t we?”

Jawn opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. The man was aggravating. “We have… I mean, we will. These things take time.”

“To crush a bug?”

“It’s not as simple as that,” Jawn said, now wondering why it hadn’t turned out to be as simple as that so far. His army instructors had seemed certain enough. In their robust vernacular, it was just a matter of putting your boot on your enemy’s throat until his eyes rolled back and his tongue turned blue. And then stabbing out his eyes and pissing in his skull for good measure. Jawn thought the military took these analogies a bit far—at least, he hoped they were analogies. Then again, many recruits came from the peasantry and seemed to appreciate the more colorful renderings of Kingdom foreign policy. “There are other factors at work.”

“Do tell,” Rickets said. He rested his chin on a fist and looked up at Jawn with rapt attention.

Just smile and leave it at that. The more you talk with this horse’s arse, the more aggravated you get. Smile, say something polite, and turn away.

Jawn drew in a breath, gagging on the hot, sulfurous taint of the air, and decided instead to wipe that smug look off of Rickets’s face.

CHAPTER THREE

JAWN RAN HIS FINGERS through his hair and squared his I shoulders. “I just don’t think you’re seeing the oak for the pine here. Tough times, my dear Rickets, don’t last. Tough people—tough nations like the Kingdom—do.”

The crowny’s left eyebrow arched. “Armed with platitudes instead of reason, I see.”

Jawn ground his knuckles into his thigh. The man was impossible. “I can see there’s no point discussing this. You’re not taking it seriously.”

The crowny’s grin vanished and he sat up straight. “This will be my third crusade in Luitox. I’ve been places you’ve only seen paintings of. I assure you,” he said, leaning closer to Jawn, “I take this very fucking seriously.”

Jawn knew his mouth was open and quickly closed it. “Your third crusade? But it’s a hardship posting. A friend of our family is in the Crown Service. He said after one crusade in Luitox, he was exempt from returning.”

“Guess I didn’t get that scroll,” the crowny said, slapping a dorsal plate. Bits of plate flaked off and were carried away by the wind. “Just like with this old rag, the Kingdom’s having to squeeze a little more blood out of the acorn these days. Crownies don’t grow on trees. We need training up just like you military types. It might surprise you, but when a fellow like me gets killed, it takes time and treasure to put a new one in my place.”

Jawn squinted, looking at Rickets with practiced skepticism. “Killed? What are you talking about? They don’t put crown reps in battle.”

Rickets nodded. “They don’t have to. The battle finds us just fine on its own. You didn’t think the only fighting was in Western Luitox, did you? It’s everywhere. The Forest Collective is everywhere. They blend right in. You can’t tell a disgruntled peasant from a gruntled one until he’s swinging a hoe at your head.”

Jawn rolled his eyes. “Oh come on, you’re exaggerating.”

“Do you remember when it all started?” Rickets asked. “A quick little crusade and done. That was more than three years ago.”

Jawn huffed. “That still doesn’t change the final outcome. We just need to apply a little more pressure.”

“Right,” he said, giving Jawn a wink. “One final charge up that hill and before you know it, the natives will be back on their farms squeezing out litters of fruit pickers.”

“Nice,” Jawn said. “Look, a few more legions shipped over to Luitox and our army will be unstoppable.”

Rickets’s eyes widened. “Do you have any idea what that costs? Training that many soldiers means you need more barracks. Equipping that many soldiers means more cloth, leather, iron, bronze, and wood. And they have to eat, too. Every day. And don’t forget the horses, either, not to mention these beasts,” he said, giving the rag’s dorsal plate a solid smack.

The rag shuddered and dropped twenty feet. Jawn reached for a dorsal plate and gripped it tightly. He held on, waiting for another lurch, but nothing else happened. Jawn slowly pried his hands from the plate and wiped his brow.

“That’s not the only cost,” Rickets said, continuing as if nothing had happened.

Jawn nodded, adopting a solemn tone. “I know. Soldiers die. Crownies, too. It’s unfortunate, but it happens.” He wasn’t really that callous, but something about this particular crowny was bringing out the worst in him.

“I’m glad you at least acknowledge it’s unfortunate, but that wasn’t what I was referring to. Do you know what it takes to cobble together legions of conscripts? Cobblers for one. And farmers, grocers, potters, miners, clerks, smithies, carpenters, tanners, millers, masons, weavers, butchers, bakers, candlestick makers, and even young, educated fellows like you.” He paused to catch his breath before continuing. “Every last one taken away from his village, his home, his family, and his job. Still think it’s the best use of the Treasury? Who’s plowing the fields and bringing in the crops? Who’s building the bridges and filling in the wagon ruts? Who’s paying taxes and tolls?”

Jawn sat silently, aware again of the slow, rhythmic flapping of the rag’s wings and accompanying creaks and groans from her scales. As the son of a prosperous shipbuilder and an alchemist, he’d never had to worry about how things were paid for. Despite the obvious jokes that his mother simply made precious metals in her laboratory, from Jawn’s perspective she might as well have. He’d never wanted for material things. That there were potentially troubling ramifications to the Kingdom’s military intervention had never crossed his mind, either.

Very well, he conceded, war isn’t cheap, but this man’s worried about who’s going to bake the bread in some sleepy little village.

“You make it sound dire,” Jawn said, unable to come up with a better response. “Luitox is small, and this Forest Collective smaller still.”

“I can see why it would look that way to some,” Rickets agreed before tossing a new wrinkle at Jawn. “But even if that were true, what of all those tribes in the Western Wilds? Don’t you think they’ll have something to say about that big army of ours showing up on their doorstep?”

The Western Wilds. Jawn’s favorite stories as a child were tales of adventures in that fabled place. Top among those were of the intrepid exploring duo Sir Wyse Morpaldo Oxlington and his faithful companion, Herm Crinkell. They climbed mountains, braved raging rivers, traversed gorges, and triumphed over every savage tribe they encountered.

“What of them?” Jawn asked. “The tribes of the Western Wilds stay hidden deep in the interior. If Ox and Crink could outwit them, I don’t think the army will have much trouble.”

“You ever meet them, these brave explorers of legend?” Rickets asked.

Jawn shook his head. “I wish. They’re old men now, close to fifty.”

“I met them three years ago, in Luitox actually,” Rickets said. He didn’t sound thrilled by the experience. “They were flown over to provide expert advice on all things Wild. The assumption being we would take a little foray into the Wilds, as dealing with the revolt in Western Luitox wouldn’t take very long.”

Jawn remembered when just a year ago there had still been talk of marching through Western Luitox and civilizing all of the Western Wilds. Over time, however, talk of the Wilds had died away. He had never thought to wonder why until now.

“So what are you saying?” Jawn asked.

“Not to disparage ol’ Ox and Crink,” Rickets said, “but their tales of simple tribes didn’t comport entirely with what our advance scouts found. We call it the Western Wilds, but the natives that live there call it home. And they call the Luitoxese brothers, or at least kissing cousins. One day, they might get tired of us camping on their doorstep.”

“Aren’t you worrying over something that’ll never happen?” Jawn asked.

The crowny looked at Jawn for several flicks before responding. “I figure you for an intelligent sort, Jawn Rathim, but merciful High Druid, you hide it well. Five years from now, we’ll be lucky if we aren’t neck-deep in a full-blown war with them. And if that’s the case, we won’t win.”

It was a stunning observation by a crown representative. “You jest, sir, and poorly.”

Rickets shrugged his shoulders. “Us being over here is like putting orphan lads in a monastery. We don’t know it yet, but we’re fucked, and we ain’t going to enjoy it.”

Jawn did his best to ignore the appalling imagery and focused instead on the crowny’s view. “We haven’t lost a war in three hundred years—four hundred if you don’t count the amalgamation of the territories.” Jawn sat up a little straighter, ignoring the pain in his back. “We will win. We always do.”

“Such faith,” Rickets said, his tone mocking.

“I know what I’m talking about. My professors taught me well.” Jawn placed his hand on his chest, his fingers instinctively spreading to match the crescent shape made by the metal runes branded into the skin over his heart.

“Oh, I knew it!” Rickets shouted, startling several of the other passengers around them. He leaned closer to Jawn and lowered his voice. “I thought I smelled a thaum. And no provincial, one-room-school-trained thaum at that. You’re a full-blooded RAT, ain’t you?”

Jawn’s back prickled and he broke out into a cold sweat. He flung his hand from his chest. He’d given it away. He’d never been prouder than when he was accepted into the Royal Academy of Thaumology. His pleasurable if pointless existence until that moment had suddenly taken on a transcendent meaning. The forces of nature could be controlled by men, and he, Jawn Rathim, was such a man.

And then the very fabric of society began to unravel. Thaums, extremely rare and seldom seen—by design—were the very embodiment of power. Even now, each High Council and the King’s Advisory Council had several thaums as members. But the people of the Kingdom, so long dormant, gave voice to concerns about the thaums. Why, they asked, as the realization struck that their ruler was a fraud, should so few hold so much power? “Because they can” no longer seemed a sufficient answer.

“Anyone can make that gesture,” Jawn said, looking around to see if anyone else was listening. None appeared to be, but he leaned closer to Rickets so that he could keep his voice low. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Rickets winked at Jawn. “You’d fool most folks, I’ve no doubt of that, but you got that aura about you.”

“That’s just the rag,” Jawn said, fighting to remain calm.

“So tell me I’m wrong then,” Rickets said. “Tell me you’re not a RAT.”

Jawn could tell there’d be no convincing Rickets. The man was far sharper than he appeared.

“Fine, but I’d rather no one know,” Jawn said, staring hard at Rickets with the faint hope that the man could be discreet.

“Not to fear. Your secret is safe with me. I’m a locked box wrapped in a sack and chucked into a hole. So tell me,” Rickets said, lowering his voice, “what did you do to get put in the army? You’re far too young to have completed the full circle,” he said, pointing at Jawn’s chest.

The crowny spoke truth. Each rune, shaped in the form of its symbol on the thaumic conductivity chart, took years to earn. Most thaums never completed it. Getting to silver, the most conductive natural element known to man for initiating a thaumic process, was rarely achieved, and not without taking insane risks.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Jawn said.

“Aha. What happened? Get kicked out for turning one of your professors into a frog?”

Dolt! “For all the… thaumology is a key pillar of the natural sciences. It conforms to and amplifies the laws of nature. There’s nothing mystical or miraculous about it.”

Rickets shrugged his shoulders. “I thought thaumology by definition had to do with druids and miracles. Gray-bearded fellows in long robes calling down lightning from the heavens, turning water into mead and the like.”

Jawn rolled his eyes. “Yes, but that’s because people didn’t understand what was happening, and so that’s why it was called thaumology. They really did believe gods and angels were involved,” Jawn huffed.

“So, you weren’t kicked out for turning your professor into a frog?” Rickets asked.

Jawn flung his hands in the air, then quickly reached down to grab on to the harness chain. “No! That’s the purview of witchcraft and wizardry,” Jawn said, wrinkling his nose as he said it. “Just a whole lot of potions, elixirs, dried newts, and cackling.”

“You still didn’t answer my question,” Rickets said.

Jawn ground his teeth. The man was relentless. “If you must know… I left of my own accord and volunteered for the army. I felt this was the right thing to do. Our country’s at war and I wasn’t going to let my privileged position keep me from serving.”

“Mmm. How very noble of you,” Rickets said, his voice thin like a stiletto.

Jawn swung around to stare Rickets down. “Mock me all you want, crowny, but I have nothing to be ashamed of.” I don’t have to justify anything to him.

Rickets leaned back. “Never said you did. Don’t mind me, I’m a cynic of the first order. Spent my whole life serving a king who it turns out isn’t one at all. What’s a crowny to do? Figure I’ll put in my time, make a little extra silver on the side, and live long enough to collect my pension. But you… well, you’re a patriot, you are.”

Jawn searched Rickets’s face and tone for even a hint of sarcasm, but if it was there, the crowny hid it well. “I don’t know how patriotic I am—I just felt I had to do something,” Jawn said, knowing that was at least part of the truth.