Chapter 6: Al-Anyra

  Al-Anyra dwarfed Rasshun, staring down at him with a broken and scattered face of gloom. Towers crowned the mountainside like giant horns atop a mighty dragon, rising and curving toward each other, giving it a menacing silhouette. All along the way up, dozens of winged creatures dove in and out of holes, heralding a cacophony of scents that made Rasshun reel.

  Rasshun returned the stone’s glare, his claws grinding the dirt.

  Just have to get to the top. She will be waiting for me.

  Rasshun dug his claws into the stone.

  One step at a time, he ascended, keeping balance with his tail, and making sure to always keep three holds on the wall. The wind grew colder, frigid, and his scales instinctively flattened to absorb the heat of the sun. He shivered. Once he pulled himself up a hundred strides, he glanced down.

  Just a tenth of the way up.

  Biting back his frustration, Rasshun kept going.

  His claws chipped the stone, creating the footholds he needed. His muscles drifted, the burning pain melting away into bliss. He pushed on, plunging his claws deeper until pain registered again. He just had to keep going. Elara would be waiting for him, risking herself. If he didn’t…

  A bird blew into his face, exploding into a cloud of white feathers. Rasshun’s grip faltered. His claws slipped and he dropped. In panic, he stabbed into the stone, screeching to a stop. Stones and rocks pattered along his back, beating him. A flat piece slammed between his eyes, leaving a ringing sound in the air. All settled. He breathed again.

  Birds. He snorted the feathers away and went on.

  Once he reached the shadow of the first tower, he stopped.

  A sandstone tower jutted out from the rocks, roaring with the laughter of men. Carefully, he crawled up the side, avoiding openings and windows.

  The tower fell silent. Rasshun froze, then peered inside.

  A group of Fire Wheel soldiers huddled around a granite table. Two men sat in their center, facing each other from across the table. Blood dripped from their forearms, pooling on a tin pan on the floor.

  On the left sat a young man, fire behind his eyes. Long in the face, short in muscle. A grin crept up the side of his mouth. He smelled of mead, a sharp tang, and Rasshun recognized him as the soldier from the Wastes.

  Fasha. Not a curse, but a name, Rasshun realized. He drew back.

  The Opponent sat on the right. His face was weathered and hardened, but he was hardly any older than Fasha. Long dark hair covered the back of his neck like a mane, and short, orderly stubble ornamented his face. Black Ironglass chest pieces linked together to give his muscles more weight, protecting him from all forms of attack. He gave no heed to the blood soaking his scarred arm.

  “Had enough yet, Fasha?” one bystander asked.

  Fasha shook his head. His breathing became heavy, but he maintained a smile.

  The Opponent brought up Fasha’s arm delicately and drew his knife up. In a swift flash, the Iron-wearer slashed Fasha’s arm, sending blood across the floor.

  Fasha groaned, losing his grin. He beat his fist into the table to avoid crying out. Like lightning, he grabbed his knife and slashed his Opponent. Blood flew in a spray. Soldiers fell back.

  The Opponent grinned.

  “Painful, isn’t it?” the Opponent asked, “Can you take another?”

  Fasha stared at him, pain set behind his eyes. His fingers twitched, itching to nurture his wound. The coppery smell of blood overwhelmed Rasshun’s nostrils.

  The Opponent stood, taking his knife and putting it to his own arm. “Let me make it easier for you.” He drew the blade back, blood pouring over the steel, and slashed.

  Slice, slice, slice.

  One. Two. Three. Six. Eight. Ten.

  Blood flew from the cuts, rushing down his arm like a cascading waterfall. The Opponent slashed himself like a machine. Orderly, unfazed, unharmed. His grunts were not from pain, but from the channeling of his adrenaline. Fasha’s eyes widened. The younger soldiers fell back. The older soldiers watched in wonder, but they stayed stoic. They had seen this before.

  Rasshun shuddered. Who was this man?

  The Opponent halted at twelve. He lowered the crimson blade and stretched it out toward Fasha.

  “Your turn,” the Opponent said.

  Fasha shook his head and pushed it away. “You win.”

  The Opponent grinned, sheathing the knife. Steady applause grew from the soldiers, though Fasha didn’t join in. He wrapped his wounds and ducked away into a smaller group of five men, who all laughed him to scorn.

  Rasshun dropped from the window as the Opponent’s confident gaze past him. What kind of man was he, to survive so many slashes without a flinch, without a groan, without a cry? Who could withstand so much while standing up to men much taller and stronger?

  Why did Rasshun recognize his scent?

  Rasshun looked again. The man was gone. Had he spotted him?

  “See here, boys,” one of the older men said, “You can challenge anyone here to Slash. But never test Captain Ysevri—unless you want to lose, that is.”

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  They laughed, throwing hands on Fasha’s back and ignoring his cries.

  Ysevri. The Iron Wraith.

  Rasshun sped off, his heart speeding.

  Memories flashed through his eyes, mixing with reality:

  -

  Danger.

  Rasshun huddled behind a rock formation. An army of thirty men marched over the dunes, heading for the cave. They wielded nets and spears and long bows—perfect for dragon hunting. If Father were here, he would have killed them all before they took another step, but he was nowhere to be seen. Inside, Mother would not even know what was going on. Everyone would die.

  Rasshun had to climb.

  Like lightning, he rounded the crags, heading to the same place Father usually returned from. He planted his claws into the rocks and pulled himself up. Stone scraped against his scales, grinding, scratching. But he ignored the pain.

  He reached for the ledge above him.

  -

  Rasshun pulled himself onto the broken tiles of a roof. The gate rose ahead, just beyond the chaotic city around him. He slithered across the threshold, staying under the shadows of chimneys and slipping between hiding places. He went off into a run…

  The rooftops fell into a bustling road. Rasshun stumbled and tipped forward. The streets rumbled, hundreds of people packed together, pushing each other around to get ahead, while merchants screamed into the dusty air. Their scents swarmed his mind, attacking his thoughts. He scrambled against the tiles and fell back, short of breath.

  Keep going. The gate stood ahead, the street only another obstacle.

  Carefully, Rasshun descended to street-level.

  Hiding amongst the shadows, Rasshun made his way down the street. Humans of all kinds walked about, trading sweet smelling spices and Ironglass jewelry. Dwarves sold glass vases and other light-reflecting pieces, and men shouted on the corners, carrying trinkets of pewter and steel. Rasshun forced himself past, grinding his claws against the street to hold him back from all the wonderful smells.

  He darted through the chaos, keeping his tail close. A forest of legs rumbled down the street, preventing him from crossing. He searched for an opening, a cart or a vendor that he could sneak through, but the crowd pushed on, filling any space that appeared.

  He needed a distraction.

  In the shadows, he waited, clamping his nostrils shut and trying to use his other senses instead...

  “Make way for the High Priest of the Sun!” a gruff voice shouted down the street, catching his ear.

  A long carriage rumbled down the street, white as pearl and drawn by four midnight horses. Fire Wheel soldiers guarded each corner of the carriage, armed with spears. The people on the street parted, letting them through.

  A fire built in Rasshun. A way through…

  Swiftly, Rasshun slipped under the wheels, his breath catching as he waited for someone to spot him. The guards pushed back the enamored crowds of people, who were all focused on the man atop the carriage. The man wore white robes, holding a ball of gold in one hand and a driving whip in the other. The crowds lifted their hands toward him in a cupped, circular shape.

  “May the Sun shine on our labor!” they shouted, “Praise the Brothers of the Sun!”

  -

  “Praise the Sun!”

  The men made one long cheer, then they marched into the valley, following their captain: A tall, rugged man, armed with unparalleled will, a sword hanging on his belt, and protect by Ironglass armor on his shoulders. Sharp and young in the face but worn and determined.

  Ready to kill.

  Rasshun moved faster.

  -

  Rasshun’s heart pounded in his ears as he leaped from rooftop to rooftop, drowning out the noise below. The scents of hundreds of people wafted up from the streets, filling Rasshun’s nostrils and mind. Silk, furs, pepper, salt, and Ironglass…

  He shook his head and picked up speed, the world passing in a blur.

  -

  Close.

  Rasshun crawled around the ledge, the entrance just above.

  -

  The gate stood above Rasshun, a beacon of triumph in the orange, evening sun. It waited for him just beyond a bridge of twenty Fire Wheel guards.

  Rasshun huddled in an alley, watching the bridge. Shadows ran up the walls, across the stone road toward the gate. They leaked over the edge and the ornate railing, melding with the darkness under the bridge.

  Under the bridge. Rasshun’s ears lifted.

  Rasshun climbed down to the underside of the bridge and dug his claws into the stone, trekking upside-down. Below, a deep canyon fell into a chasm, smoke billowing from its depths, burning Rasshun’s eyes. Fire clawed at his throat. He stifled a cough, hoping no one would hear.

  Finally, he made it to the end of the bridge.

  -

  Rasshun hoisted himself up onto the ledge, scanning the floor for any men.

  There were none.

  Cautiously, he crept forward.

  -

  The men patrolled the end of the bridge, laughing over something. If Rasshun made it to the gate fast enough, no one would see him.

  -

  Rasshun slipped toward the entrance, keeping low to the floor until he reached the shadows. Silence filled the cavern. The men had not gotten inside yet.

  Mother was alive. But she still needed warned.

  -

  The iron plated door awaited Rasshun, black as an abyss. A large steel bar held the door together, hanging from three chains to allow it to be lifted. Rasshun sniffed at the door once, then lifted his claws and tapped against it three times.

  He waited, the sound reverberating through the metal.

  “Elara,” he whispered.

  He knocked again, louder this time.

  “Elara…”

  “I expected better from a dragon,” the Iron Wraith’s voice boomed.

  -

  A roar shook the crags, rattling Rasshun’s bones. He stumbled away from the ledge of the flight-entrance, blood pooling from his broken scales. The rumble shook him to the core. Loose rocks plunged from the ceiling, landing all around him. He leapt for the light with a cry.

  Boulders crashed behind him. They rolled and tumbled, turning up a fog of dust. Then the rumble faded. Silence remained. The dust settled, and Rasshun stood up. Rocks piled at the entrance, completely blocking it off, and his heart sank into his chest. He listened for a moment, hoping to the Saanrí itself that it wasn’t true, but the cheering and celebrating in the air proved that hope meaningless.

  Mother was dead.

  An emptiness built in him, gutting his heart and mind. Blood. Coppery blood filled the air. The blood of Mother, his sisters—even Father, wherever he was now. The celebration of death rang in his head, tearing his scales off one-by-one.

  Over the ledge, deep in the crags’ darkest holes, Tasshun lay, broken and twisted by the fall he had earned himself. Scattered across the stone, he still breathed.

  Rasshun growled. His blood boiled.

  Traitor.