-1-
Acestius wiped droplets of mist off his face as he glanced through the small window in the firebox door. The coal fire was still burning brightly; no reason to shovel in more fuel or temper the salamandra coiled inside, its radiant hide glowing golden-red.
The engine swayed and he threw out a hand. The moisture on his heavy leather glove hissed as he touched the side of the boiler. He snatched his hand away and took an unsteady step backward, checking the palm of his glove. A little seared. It wasn’t the first scorch mark the leather had suffered.
“So, how often you been burnt doing that?” Marcius asked, grinning as he shouted over the pounding clatter of the vehiculum vaporem’s copper-bound wheels.
“Once is enough.” Acestius pulled his thick cloak closer around his shoulders. The engine was the only carrus to have a roof overhead, and the giant boiler backhead radiated heat, but with windows cut into its wooden walls and its back open to the tender, it was barely warmer than the open cars.
Three months on Carwion’s shores hadn’t yet acclimated the young elementalist to its constant, clammy chill.
He looked out the window at the damp landscape. Carwion was gorgeous; he had to give it that. As damp as the River of the Dead and about as lively, but its vivid green foliage and tall, chalk-white cliffs still delighted his eyes, even on his third run from Portus Albinian to Arx Carbonis.
He had been raised and educated in the Imperial capital, far to the south on another continent, where untamed land had given way to sprawling cities and fresh air to choking clouds of coal smoke. In contrast to Caputmundi’s soot-covered stone streets, Carwion glittered like an emerald set in silver.
If only it weren’t such a desolate backwater. Even Portus Albinian had little to offer an ambitious young man. Acestius had come to welcome his monthly trip to the mines and back.
The car jerked. Marcius swore.
“It’s this damn weather,” the engineer explained. “We laid the tracks in nice, straight cuts, just as pretty as you please, but the rain and cold….” He shrugged. “We gotta send teams up and down the lines every season, checking for rotten rails and rusting spikes. It almost ain’t worth the effort of running the line.”
“Of course it’s worth the effort,” Acestius retorted, patting the firebox in case any of the vehiculum’s guardian spirits had taken offense. “The Empire is starving for coal … you wouldn’t believe how much the demand has grown, back home. It seems like new lines are being laid every month, and the engines are being improved each year. We can move troops and supplies by rail almost anywhere on the continent now.”
“I wish I could go back and see it.” Marcius sighed. “Two years in this wet hell-hole already, and one more before I can request a transfer. Gods, I’ll never get this chill out of my bones.”
“You’ll get back soon enough. The Empire needs skilled engineers like you.” Acestius had no objection to flattering the older man. The empire ran on favors and patronage, and even though both of them were secluded in this miserable, cold frontier now, someday they’d be back in the heart of civilization, where influence could make a difference. “Besides, it’s likely they’ll expand the lines here. I understand there’s rich coal country farther east, along the Wall. With all the iron and coal in this country, Portus Albinius might even start its own engine fabricatorium someday.”
“Pfah. Between the weather and the natives….”
“The Carwioneth are peaceful enough.”
“That’s what we tell the emperor, anyway. We’ve just been lucky. So far the locals still think the vehiculum runs on witchcraft and bad luck.” Marcius spat, leaning out the window. “Wait until they figure out how fast they can bugger us by yanking up the rails. There’s plenty of half-naked, sheep-stuffing barbarians out here who want us gone.”
Acestius frowned. Vandalism had occurred in other countries during the pacification stages, of course. In troubled areas, the Empire sent outriders ahead as a matter of course, to monitor the tracks and warn the driver if any rails were blocked or broken. But by now most of the continental colonies were stable, linked together by the wooden–sometimes even iron–rails that were the keystone to Imperial military and economic power.
Carwion, though … the coasts had long since been brought under Imperial control, but the interior was still overrun by barbarian clans. The oak track for the vehiculum vaporem had only been laid a year ago, to carry coal from Aryx Carbonis back to Portus Albinius and its eagerly awaiting Imperial trade ships. That the empire placed a high value on its northermost mines had been apparent by how quickly it has posted Acestius to Carwion after the vehiculum’s previous magus had died from a coughing disease.
Carwion was a typical first post for a young elementalist — uncomfortable and isolated, a place to put in a few years of drudgery before moving on to a more prestigious assignment. He couldn’t complain. The land lacked the amusements and amenities of the empire, but it offered its own attractions.
He squinted into the grey mist, spotting one of its riches overhead. A dark, winged shape circled high against the heavy clouds. He cupped his gloved hands around his eyes to protect them from the wind created by their passage.
“That large, it’ll be a buzzard,” Marcius said, noticing his interest.
“No … look at the wings,” Acestius objected. They were misshapen, and the creature’s body long and lacking a fanned tail.
He abruptly scrambled on top of his low wooden bench and thrust his head out the window. Marcius yelped and reached out to steady him.
Acestius squinted skyward, intent on the silhouette that was drawing closer. Closer–but not as close as he’d first supposed.
That beast was no buzzard. Acestius recognized its lineaments from woodcuts. The batlike wings, the long body, the legs folded up close beneath its smooth belly —
“Draco,” he murmured, thrilled. Had anyone else seen the beast before? Had it been described yet? Named? “Draco … Carwionis?”
“A dragon?” Marcius’s grip loosened as he craned his own neck to see. Acestius nearly tumbled from his perch as the vehiculum’s wheels hit another rough spot on the rails. Above them both, the narrow altar shelf holding the clay statues of the train’s lares–including the mandatory figure of Hero of Alexandria, inventor of the aeolipile — rattled. “Gods save us. Is it dangerous?”
“I have no idea,” Acestius confessed, lost in wonderment. The dragon — for what else could it be?–didn’t look much like the illustrations from the east that he’d studied, but that wasn’t uncommon. Many creatures varied from land to land.
He cursed the mist, which prevented him from making out the details of the creature’s physiognomy. His fingers twitched for ink and vellum, and he murmured his observations out loud to himself, seeking to lock them into his memory. Had anyone ever recorded such a creature before? Could he be the first?
Draco Carwionis. No — better. Draco Acestius. Did he dare?
“Long head, looks like narrow horns on either side of it–regular dark diamond pattern along its sides — how long is it?” he demanded. “A passus? Two? Marcius, what do you think?”
“Can’t tell,” Marcius said, with less excitement. “Dragons eat meat, don’t they?”
“I imagine they must.” Acestius wondered if he dared summon an anemoi to bear him aloft to study the creature at closer range. No. Too dangerous, for both himself and the vehiculum vaporem. “I didn’t know there were any dragons living around here. Did you?”
“No.” Marcius shuddered. “Now, would you mind pulling your head back inside the car? We cut down most of the trees growing by the tracks, but you’re still giving me the creeps.”
“Oh–oh, I suppose.” Acestius dropped to the floor of the wooden car, still watching the magnificent creature as it circled one last time, then flew ahead of them. He’d have to send a message ahead to alert the prefect of Arx Carbonis. “Dragons! Who would have imagined?”
-2-
Orban lay stretched out on his back, inspecting the axle of the massive turntable that would re-direct the engine when it reached Arx Carbonis, the northern terminus of the track. The misty weather could warp boards and posts and make the turntable impossible for even the strongest men to move. Although it was possible to run the locomotivus backward to its southern destination, it seemed unwise. The engineer would have a harder time stopping if there were damage to the tracks.
Or sheep on them.
Or stones.
He’d decided to do the inspection himself after seeing one too many dark looks on his walk to the roundhouse. The neighboring tribes weren’t the only ones unhappy with the invaders. And the last thing Arx Carbonis could afford was vandalism to the locomotivus or its facilities.
When the anemoi came up and blew in his ear, relaying a message, Orban sat up, knocking his head against the spoke of the turntable. He scowled at its dissolving form, certain it had giggled, even though Acestius insisted it was only a mimic. Glenys told a different story about what she called afryde sidgh. Orban supposed he ought to trust the teachings of a man with a civilized education over that of a woman who could barely read and write, though.
Irritated, he wormed out from beneath the wooden structure. The only problem was, he needed Glenys to explain Acestius’ cryptic message.
His Imperial guards took their familiar positions at his side as he stood. Schooling his expression into neutrality, Orban dusted clumps of moist dirt from his shirt and trews.
Galen looked at him steadily from across the turntable, his massive hands locked around the braking mechanism. Orban had been very careful when he’d chosen the big blond native to hold the heavy turntable while he squirmed beneath it. Galen was known to be as steady as his name and had been fascinated by the locomotivus and its operation ever since he was a small child. More important, he had no blood relationship to young Keefe, whose family was none too happy with the mining outpost’s Imperial prefect.
“It’s in good shape,” Orban said.
Galen released the post. The turntable rocked back and forth as it settled.
“Have you seen Glenys?” he continued.
The big man jerked his head to the north, toward the coal mine. Orban had expected as much. The fforia spent most of her time either out on the fen or watching over the men in the mine. He stopped to pull on his heavy black Imperial cloak, with its insignia of rank, and stepped out of the roundhouse into the foggy afternoon.
Arx Carbonis was a small gathering of sod-built thatched houses constructed around a stone hill fort, Dunis. It took Orban less than five minutes to cross from the south end to the north. He greeted everyone he passed with a short nod. He’d known many of them since childhood, but too often his courtesy received no response, or resentful murmurs that faded behind him.
Glenys was never easy to spot; her ragged clothing blended into the plants and hills, and her sunset-colored hair, tangled with clay and grey-green clart, resembled the branches of a low-growing shrub. Combine those two things with her tendency to sit very still and–
“Mind your footfalls, Braith.”
Orban jumped backward and stopped, looking down. Glenys was kneeling in a patch of dirt. She wasn’t looking at him. Nor, for a wonder, was she looking toward the mine entrance. Her sharp blue eyes were narrowed at the southern heavens; for just a moment he saw her not as a grown woman, but as the girl who’d teased him without mercy years ago, before he’d taken up his father’s mantle.
“Spring blessings on your clan,” he said.
Her gaze fell on him for just a moment, then returned to the sky.
“Fall blessings on yours,” she answered. “What do you want?”
“A message was sent from the locomotivus to the south,” he said. “I want to know what it means.”
“Sit.”
He squatted next to her, staying out of her line of sight. His guards fell back a few paces, but their hands hovered above their gladii. The governor in Portus Albinius treated Aryx Carbonis as a punishment post for Imperial guards who’d displeased him. The guards didn’t trust the Carwioneth and were none too thrilled with Orban, either.
“Carried by afryde sidgh?” she asked.
“Yes.”
A cool breeze stirred their clothes and hair and set miniature spouts spinning in the mists.
“Frustrating creatures. What did it say?”
He relayed the Imperial magister’s message, grateful that he had taught Glenys their language, despite his father’s disapproval. Glenys smiled at him.
“It means they saw a dragon.”
“And what does that mean?” he asked, trying to be patient.
“Other than the great beasties haven’t died out?” She laughed. “Bad news for the Imperials, Braith. Good news for Carwioneth.”
Orban grimaced, glancing over his shoulder to the north. Just past the mines was the Imperial wall, Murus Terminus; beyond it were other, less civilized Carwioneth clans. Although Glenys’ clan fathers had chosen to work with the Imperials, other clans had gone to ground, picking at the invading forces like a raven picking at a corpse. He’d heard talk from the station crew that suggested there was still trade between the natives living in Arx Carbonis and the less cooperative tribes in the wilds. Just that morning he had received word from the curator overseeing the mines that over half their work-force had slipped away in the last seven days.
His guards and the handful of other Imperials stationed out here at the ass-end of civilization thought he should do something about the defectors. Orban had grown up in Aryx Carbonis, though, and he wasn’t fool enough to think he could find a Carwioneth who’d gone to ground.
“Is it dangerous?” he wondered, aloud. He wondered the same thing about the young men leaving Arx Carbonis. Yet, he understood their choice. If his family hadn’t been posted here for three generations, if he weren’t the prefect by birthright and Imperial decree, he might have slipped away, himself.
Whether to Caputmundi or the rebellious clans, he still couldn’t say.
“Depends,” Glenys answered, after a thoughtful pause. “Dangerous to man, only if he gets in its way. Dangerous to the mine’s output, definitely. Its ancestors lived here; it’ll likely return.”
“Glenys….”
“Remember, the original name of this land was Caer Draig. The man who built Fort Dunis drove a dragon out of your mine long before either of us was born. You know the tale as well as I do.”
“Yes, but that was a —”
“Long time ago?” she finished for him. “Would your Imperial ffori waste energy to warn you of ancient history? The dragon is returning. It is a good sign for us.”
He followed her gaze into the sky, still frowning. Foreigners. Us. And which was he, born to an Imperial family in Carwion?
She let the silence linger just long enough before asking, “Have you decided what you’re going to do about Keefe?”
“You know what I’m going to do,” he answered. “My hands are tied.”
Now he had her full attention.
“He is a boy, behaving like a boy.”
“He could have derailed the locomotivus, Glenys. I can’t ignore that just because he’s young and a fool.”
She scowled.
“The Imperials’ great wooden beast can be run off the rail by so simple a thing as a small stone? It’s more vulnerable than they wish us to think, then.”
“It was a stone the size of my fist. Not small. You know the damage a stone that size could do to a mere cart wheel.” Orban rubbed his temples. “I didn’t come to argue about Keefe. I have to do my duty, as you do yours. Thank you for telling me more about the dragon.”
She was still frowning at him. He stood and headed back to Arx Carbonis.
Dragons! As though he needed more trouble.
-3-
Several hours after noon, Acestius detected a restlessness in the engine’s salamandra. He checked the steam gauge; too much pressure was building up.
“How soon can we make camp?” he asked, easing open the safety valve to vent the excess steam.
Marcius glanced out the cutout window, checking the sun.
“Now, if you want. It’s too late in the day to bother stopping and starting again.” The engineer began braking. “We’ll still reach Arx Carbonis by tomorrow afternoon.”
The loud, shuddering, sparking process that slowed the train set Acestius’ teeth on edge. That’ll scare any hungry dragons away, he thought, half-amused, half-regretful. He opened the vent wider to let out more exhaust and cool the engine, settling the salamandra back down into a safer state of torpor.
At last the vehiculum squeaked and groaned and trembled to a halt. Marcius hopped out to stretch his legs and look around. The rest of the milites and plebes riding in the wooden cars behind them followed suit, putting blocks around the wheels and pulling out tents and shovels.
Acestius waited until all the steam had vented, then checked to make sure the tiny elemental had enough fuel for the night. Once he was satisfied with its rate of burn, he closed the firebox.
“Ho! Look, up there!” a soldier shouted.
The young mage’s head whipped up as a shadow passed over the train. It was the dragon again, flying lower this time. Around him, the milites grabbed their pilums or scrambled for their bows.
Acestius stood frozen, a ridiculous grin of delight on his face, as the creature swept around in a low circle. By the gods, he thought, it’s gorgeous! This close, he could see that the creature’s body was a pale gray-brown with darker diamond patterns extending up onto its back and wings. Its tail was long and slender. How did it fly? Did it have some natural draconic magic of its own, or was it as light as a bird, hollow-boned and deep-lunged? Acestius wished he could examine it up close.
Its body was narrow. Ridges of muscle banded the dragon’s chest and wings, but the rest of it was streamlined and feral-looking. He’d overestimated its length earlier; it was only a little longer than the vehicle’s engine. About the length of three men.
An arrow shot into the sky, missing it by an actus.
“Marcius! Tell them to stop shooting. It’s not going to attack.”
“Are you sure?”
“If it were hunting us, it would flush us and attack like a falcon. I think it’s just curious. It’s trying to figure out whether we’re a threat or not.”
“Well, we damn well will be a threat, if it tries anything,” Marcius growled, waving to the men to relax. Behind them, the soldiers lowered their weapons but loudly speculated over whether dragons were good to eat.
“Have you ever heard of a dragon in this country?” Acestius asked, moving closer to the engineer. “Do the Carwioneth talk about it?”
“How would I know? I don’t talk to barbarians.” Marcius shrugged. “But nobody told me about any dragons. If they had, I would have demanded a higher salary.”
“I think the governor would like to hear about this.” Acestius’ mind was busy ticking off the possibilities of such a discovery. “A dragon. This could make Portus Albinius famous, Marcius. Natural philosophers will come from all over the empire to study it….”
“Its skull would make a good hunting ornament,” Marcius agreed. “And don’t dragons eat jewels?”
Acestius struggled to mask his impatience.
“I’ve heard it said,” he agreed, speaking in measured tones. “But this dragon’s much more valuable to us alive than dead, at least until we find out whether there are more of them. If you kill it, the emperor will tell us to send him its skull, and that will be the end of it. But if it’s living here, in the wild, people will have to come to Portus Albinius to see it. And the more who come, the more money they’ll bring, and the more famous the dragon will make our port–“
“Oh, I get it.” Marcius clapped Acestius on the back. “And seeing as how we’re the ones who discovered it, we’ll get our share of all that money and fame.”
“Exactly,” Acestius agreed, rubbing his shoulder. “Your vehiculum could soon be carrying more curiosity-seekers than it does coal.”
“You’re a bright lad, Acestius. I’ll go tell the boys to keep their spears under their tunics.” Marcius strode off, grinning.
Acestius shook his head and headed off to the water car. He’d be glad when they arrived in Arx Carbonis. He was eager to talk to the prefect, Orban, to ensure that he was, indeed, the first to discover and name the beast.
-4-
Orban had just finished confirming with the mine overseer that the output would be adequate despite their defecting workers when Galen intercepted him. The man was out of breath. He gave Orban’s companion a short nod of acknowledgment before speaking.
“Cucharal and his clan are up from the east,” he gasped. “Devlin an’ his, from the west. Want to see you.”
Orban’s stomach sought residence in the toes of his boots.
“They’re at Dunis?”
“Aye.”
Orban turned on his heel and headed back into the small knot of buildings.
Cucharal and Devlin were so-called warrior-kings. They wouldn’t have come to Arx Carbonis just to protest the lawful flogging of the boy Keefe, would they? They had to realize that Orban had no choice. If he were given his own head on the matter, the boy would get a scolding and perhaps time in the mine, if he seemed unrepentant. But as prefect, it wasn’t Orban’s call. Flogging was the most lenient of the Imperial punishments meted out for vandalism to the tracks.
And if he failed in his duty to the governor of Portus Albinus, to the Imperial elite, he would find himself replaced by someone who hadn’t grown up among the Carwioneth.
Orban shuddered at the thought of a foreigner trying to run Aryx Carbonis. The entire population would be gone within a hebdomas, leaving only prisoners and slaves to work the mine.
The group of men and women who met him at the entrance to the hill fort did nothing to settle the queasy feeling in his stomach. Many were carrying spears or Imperial knives they’d obtained in exchange for furs and fine-carded wool. All of them had fresh grey-green fen clart daubed on their skin, many of the new patterns serpentine rather than in the usual glyphs and spirals. Their clothing, though more ragged than those of the clans living in Arx Carbonis, was of a heavier weave, and their bodies were wiry knots of muscle. Their expressions were grim.
Shorter, older, dark-haired Cucharal glanced at Devlin and nodded. The red-haired young warrior-king stepped up to Orban.
“Spring blessings on your clan.”
“Fall blessings on yours,” Orban responded, automatically.
“We have come to give you fair warning,” Devlin said. “The dragon tells us we have spent enough time under the Imperial yoke. We go to bring down their great wooden beast, as it calls us to do.”
Orban caught sight of Glenys leaning against the sod wall of the nearest outbuilding, watching the conclave.
“It’s impossible,” he replied. “I told you, and my father told your fathers. The beas– the vehiculum vaporum,” he corrected himself, using the locomotivus’ proper name, “is protected by magic and by soldiers with better weapons than yours.”
“The draig hunts it,” Devlin said. “And so shall we.”
Orban hesitated.
“How did you hear about the dragon?” His eyes flickered to Glenys, though it was impossible that she could have left Arx Carbonis, found both clans, and returned with them in one night.
“We, too, have those who can read the signs. And long-sighted Angarwaen,” Devlin pointed to a rangy woman in Cucharal’s band of warriors, “saw it herself, when she was watching the wooden beast travel on its oak path. Our minds are not to be changed on this. We stopped to give you fair warning and to offer Braith the chance to come with us.”
Years of discipline were the only thing that stopped Orban from starting at the use of his nickname, which Glenys had given to them when they’d been children. As it was, he blinked, once, under the warriors’ steady regard, and then took a step back.
“My place is here. Not joining you on a fool’s errand provoked by a nearly forgotten beast.”
A low grumble rose from those around him, and he tensed, although he kept his hand away from his gladius. His Imperial guards were not so diplomatic, and he waved them back.
“I do not wish harm to come to any of you. Watch for your dragon if you must, but don’t attack the Imperials.”
The crowd around him melted away, their low murmurs bespeaking their displeasure, until only Cucharal remained before him.
Orban waited. Cucharal’s piercing blue eyes seemed to nail him to the earth.
“She named you right,” Cucharal said, at last. “Braith, the speckled one. Lucky and unlucky, beloved of the sidgh and hated by them. Like Brenath’s cattle, you try to be too many things at once and become nothing.” He hawked and spat to the side. “It is no way for a man to live.”
Orban watched the warrior walk off, the older man’s spine stiff beneath the battle scar that ran from the point of one shoulder to his waist. He couldn’t meet Glenys’ gaze, although he felt the pressure of her eyes on his face before she, too, turned to follow the band of warriors.
-5-
“Acestius, look!”
The elementalist leaned out the engine’s cutout window, feeling rain spatter across his face. All morning they’d been catching glimpses, through the drizzle, of native riders; a sure sign that they were close to Arx Carbonis.
“No, up there.”
He twisted, craning his neck and squinting against the downpour. A dark shape moved against the grey clouds.
“It’s the dragon!”
“Yeah.” Marcius cocked a wary eye at it. “What do you think it wants now?”
Acestius glanced at the firebox and its glass. They had plenty of water, and the fire elemental seemed content. The rain was steady but not serious enough to suspend travel; the drops merely hissed and steamed off the engine in front of them.
“I’m heading back, so I can see it better,” he announced, pulling off his heavy leather gloves.
“Are you insane?” Marcius grabbed his arm. “In the rain? While we’re moving? It’s too dangerous.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Acestius shook him off.
“I’ve already lost one mage this winter. If I lose another, the governor will have my head.”
“He’d have to get out of bed, first. No — they’d have to figure out whose bed he was in, first. And then get him out of it.”
“But….”
“You worry too much, Marcius.” Acestius perched on the rocking edge of the engine carrus and stretched, grabbing the wooden ladder that led up the side of the fuel tender. His fingers closed around the ladder’s stiles and he hopped over, clutching the slippery wood. The cold, wet Carwion breeze slipped under his cloak, toga and tunic.
Maybe those barbarians’ trews have a use, he thought, hurrying to clamber over the ladder before his balls froze off. At first he’d scoffed at the Imperial citizens who’d given up their civilized dress for the rougher but warmer garments of Carwion, but after three months in the country, he was starting to come around to their point of view.
He yanked his wool cloak back around his neck and struggled for a firm footing on the cordwood and sea coal that filled the tender. Holding the wooden car wall with one hand, he searched the skies. Rain splattered against his face.
There — the dragon was descending, ahead of them.
Marcius shouted something, but his words were lost in the clatter and hiss of their passage. Acestius ignored him, protecting his eyes with one hand as he watched the dragon throw out its wings and unfold its hind legs. It landed on a high outjut of chalky rock with the grace as a hunting falcon landing on a branch.
With a leap of his heart, Acestius realized that the tracks were going to carry them within a few passus of the dragon’s perch.
He twisted and saw that the soldiers had noticed, too. They were picking up their spears, despite Marcius’ warnings the night before. Acestius turned and looked back up at the rock formation again.
They’d never reach it, he thought with relief.
Draco Acestius. The name brought a pleased flush to his cheeks. He’d be the first to describe the beast, and it would make him the envy of the Empire’s scholars. No other living scholar had seen a real, live dragon. All the records of dragons from the easternmost reaches of the empire were hundreds of years old.
The dragon seemed to be watching him with as much intensity as he was watching it. Its head was cocked, and as the vehiculum drew closer, it rose up, unfolding its wings and spreading them out on either side of its muscular body.
“Remarkable,” Acestius whispered, seeing the diamond patterns on the dragon’s body replicated on its outstretched wings. The wings were at least as long as the dragon’s body and looked like elongated hands, with small “thumbs” at the top joint. He’d seen wings just like them on the small brown bats that lived in Caputmundi.
Then the dragon drew itself up on its two legs, like a fighting cock getting ready to attack, and lifted a series of narrow spines along its back and head. Acestius stumbled as the cord of damp wood shifted beneath his feet, and he grabbed the side of the car with both hands, staring. Above him, the dragon arched its neck and began shuffling side to side on the rocky outcrop, its tail lashing and its head bobbing.
Was it threatening them? The tracks were carrying them closer, and Acestius was torn between his desire to get as close as possible and his growing fear that he might have misjudged the creature’s interest. What did he know about dragons, anyway?
The creature continued to posture, its spines high, its head and body moving up and down in a jerking, almost mechanical motion.
Its behavior struck the mage as familiar, and he puzzled over it as the vehiculum moved closer and closer to its stony perch.
Then they were whipping past it, and as Acestius turned to keep his eyes fastened on the beast, he realized where he’d seen such a dance before.
The tiny lizards that sunned themselves on the walls at home — he’d watched them posturing the same way during mating season.
His laughter was so loud that the wet, grumbling soldiers in the carrus behind him heard it and looked at each other with disbelief.
-6-
Orban had hoped the two clans would heed his warning, so it was with a sinking heart that he saw Glenys walking up to the mine entrance where he stood in the rain, checking his final tally for the week. She was leading his two horses, the fine grey and the heavier roan. Both were saddled and bridled and looked healthier than the coal- and dirt-covered first-shift men making their exhausted way home.
Several of the miners greeted Glenys as she passed. Their words were too low for Orban to hear, although he saw the men glancing back at him with sour faces as they spoke. Glenys nodded and they continued on their way.
Orban straightened his shoulders when she reached him.
“You’ll not say me no.” She handed him the roan’s reins. “We have to go with them.”
“I have to do no such thing.”
She cocked her head.
“Six and forty good clansmen plus their leaders is two score and eight,” she said. “We two make fifty, a nice round number, even if it’s not sacred. You can’t really tell me you’re going to let all those men and women go to their deaths without trying once more to convince them of their folly.”
She set her foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle as though born to it.
“Besides, Braith, and more to the point, you’d never forgive yourself if you didn’t see the dragon with your own eyes.”
Swearing, he mounted his own steed and followed her the long way around the town, closing his ears to the protests of his abandoned guards. She was right, after all.
Glenys finally reined in, allowing him to catch up; it wasn’t lost on him that she’d chosen the faster horse for herself.
“This is insane,” he said, as they rode past the southern border of Arx Carbonis. His teeth ground together against the chill rain that soaked through his hair. Glenys seemed unperturbed by the weather and their mission.
It took them over an hour to cross the distance between the walls of Arx Carbonis and the rough encampment the two clans had set up. The locomotivus must not be far away, Orban thought. Just past the next ridge. The camp was east of the tracks, though he could see the wooden rails cutting their way through the green earth toward the mining town.
Cuchalan and Devlin looked up at them. They had just enough time to exchange ritual greetings when a cry rose from the massed warriors.
Even if he hadn’t grown up speaking the language, Orban would have been able to guess the reason for the cry. Smoke from the approaching locomotivus rose from behind the sheltering cliff face.
-7-
Acestius was making the awkward scramble back over the side of the tender when the dragon lunged off the cliff and began flying toward them.
The elementalist froze, his tunic hiked up, one leg thrown over the tender wall. Splinters from the rough wood poked his inner thigh as the dragon swooped overhead. Its belly, bearing a lighter pattern, descended so close that for a moment Acestius imagined that he could reach up and brush his fingers against its smooth scales.
Then the creature caught the updraft from the smoke stack and rose. Its wings beat harder, propelling it forward.
Acestius winced as the car hit a rough spot on the rails. He hurried to climb the rest of the way over. The cold rain was soaking through his cloak, and the parts of his toga and tunic that the cloak didn’t cover were clammy and uncomfortable. At this rate, I’ll die of the cough, just like my predecessor, he thought with disgust.
But the temptation to watch the dragon was overwhelming. With his feet still on the tender ladder’s rungs, he twisted and squinted into the wind, gazing at the dragon over the top of the engine car.
The beast drew ahead of them, following the tracks as they rose up into the hills that led to Arx Carbonis and the mines beyond. Acestius could make out the dark walls of the mining fort, far ahead, and moving figures — people? — arrayed along the hillside, awaiting the vehiculum’s arrival.
They would make a grand entry today, he thought with a flash of pride. The vehiculum vaporem escorted into Arx Carbonis by a dragon — how could anyone doubt such a sign of favor from the gods? What a story this would make, sent back to Caputmundi! Draco Acestius, the harbinger of Imperial power.
Maybe he wouldn’t mention the rain.
The dragon rose higher, then turned and plunged back down toward the ground.
Acestius stared as the creature landed on the tracks and reared back, its wings unfolding again. Then, to his horror, it raised the spines on its back and resumed its mating dance, less than a mille ahead.
“Stop! Stop!” Heedless of the danger, the young mage threw himself forward into the engine car. His boots slipped on the wet planks and he staggered into Marcius, who was already swearing at the sight of a dragon on the tracks. “Throw the brakes!”
“I am!” Marcius snarled, closing the throttle valve and hauling down on the brake bars, to the violent scream of iron grinding against iron. Sparks flew on either side of the engine as Acestius cut off all the steam. Safety valves whistled as he threw them open, releasing the built-up pressure.
He thrust his head out the window.
“We’re going to hit it!” he howled, as the vehiculum continued to hurtle forward, closing the distance between itself and the dragon all too swiftly.
“Hold on!” Marcius shouted, yanking back on the reversing rod. Acestius jerked his head back inside as the carrus jolted. The clay statues of the vehiculum’s lares tumbled over the rail of their narrow shelf, shattering on the floor, and he was thrown against the boiler backhead. Pain seared through his shoulder and arm as he struck the hot metal. Gasping, he pulled away and grabbed the edges of the window, looking out through tears of pain. The clay shards of gods crunched under his feet.
The train jerked again and Marcius swore, shouting something about wet rails and losing traction.
Acestius kept staring into the rain as they roared toward the beast.
His sign of favor from the gods.
They were going to destroy it.
-8-
The dragon swept down into the clearing, settling on its muscular haunches with one great clawed foot on either side of the rails. Orban’s breath caught in his throat. His first impression was one of sheer size as the creature lifted its wedged head and spread its great black and green-grey wings out to either side.
The natives around him gasped in awe. Even Glenys was silent as spikes the length of Orban’s leg rose from the dragon’s serpentine neck. It flexed the fingers at the joint of its wings and bobbed its head.
It was at once the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen, and the most frightening.
A cry of delight rose from the Carwioneth around him at its display, almost drowning out the hissing of steam and the screech of iron-on-iron. At first, Orban couldn’t place the sound. Then he spurred his horse forward.
“No!” he cried out, his voice adding to the chaos. The dragon cocked its head, its pale grey tongue tasting the air, its black, diamond-marked tail lashing back and forth, uprooting the track behind it. “Stop!”
Somehow, Orban found himself at the head of Glenys’ horse; he grabbed its bridle and pulled back on the reins of his own horse as hard as he could. Glenys was just starting to turn to him in a fury when the locomotivus appeared, sparks flying from its wheels as the driver struggled with the brake. Orban thought he saw the wheels reverse themselves just before impact.
The dragon was starting to push off the ground when the engine smashed into its pelvis, dragging the fine membranes of its wings beneath its wheels. Orban couldn’t tell if the horrible noise was the scream of the dragon, the scream of the people around him, or the sound of the locomotivus as it came off the tracks.
The engine rolled, once, crushing the dragon’s chest and neck before coming apart. Escaping steam flashed out with a piercing cry of its own, releasing a shockwave of heat that sent those Carwioneth still on their feet reeling, many falling to their knees.
The thin wooden planks of the carrus shattered with impact, throwing bodies far and wide. Orban watched in horror as the cars collapsed one after the other, pulverizing those Imperials who had the misfortune to still be aboard. Thousands of wood splinters pierced the air, a second and more deadly rain.
The dragon’s flesh was slashed to shreds, its scales useless against the force of so many projectiles. Its head strained toward the heavens and its shattered wings showed raw red muscle. Blood streaked the tatters of its membranes as the creature struggled to take to the air.
A piece of wood pierced Orban’s shoulder, and his cry of pain joined the others’. He had to release Glenys’ horse, his hands busy keeping his own from bolting.
The silence that fell at last, broken only by the crackling of the flames eating away at the engine, was worse than the preceding cacophony.
Then the moans of the injured and the dying resumed all around him. Orban wasn’t sure where to turn first–to help the Imperials thrown from locomotivus, to help the Carwioneth caught and mauled by flying debris, or to aid the mangled dragon, though what assistance he could offer the dying beast was beyond him.
“No, no, no, no….” Glenys murmured a steady chant of denial, blood and rain mixing on her cheeks where shrapnel had grazed her. Members of both clans stood motionless to either side of them, their mouths agape in rain-, tear-, and blood-streaked faces. Only Orban and Glenys had kept their mounts. Or, rather, he realized, the others who’d been on horseback had been closer to the locomotivus. The screams of their horses mingled with those of the warriors.
The dragon attempted to lift its head, its tail smashing into the ground as it fought to right itself and regain its feet. Yellow bone gleamed beneath rain-smeared blood in too many places along its great body.
It released a piercing cry that seemed to break the shock of the clansmen. Many drew their weapons and started forward.
Orban’s knees tightened on his horse, which shied and whinnied. Several of the clansmen around him turned, their hands white-knuckled on their weapons and their eyes white-rimmed with rage. He glanced at Glenys, who had pulled her horse aside to let the natives ring him. Her face was pale.
Orban looked back at the wreck of the locomotivus. Despite the rain, the fire had caught in earnest and was nearing the remains of the boiler. One of the Imperials, broken and bloody, was trying to open the door. The elementalist, most likely, trying to release the pobiag sidgh inside before it, too, could explode.
Orban looked back at the angry faces around him.
The dragon cried out again, broken but not yet dead.
He wondered if there were any more beyond the wall to take its place.
Orban unfastened the golden clasp on his Imperial cloak and let it fall to the muddy ground.