The Broken God Gareth Hanrahan (all ebook reader TXT) 📖

Moonchild’s met by naval escorts, who race around the armed freighter, their white wakes like a sigil of containment around the strange ship. It’s Ren who makes contact, Ren who goes ashore to negotiate. Refugee vessels were a common sight in these waters before the Armistice, but those days are gone.

So, they wait. Moonchild sits at anchor in the middle of the harbour, a dozen cannons trained on her. The people on board huddle on the deck, staring at the brilliant green fields around the town, so close yet still out of reach. They’ve crossed ocean and Godswar, crossed hundreds of miles, only to be stopped short at the last few hundred yards.

Dol Martaine waits. His rifle’s nearby, and its presence is like a sore tooth. Ren told them to take no hostile action, so they’ve spiked the cannons on Moonchild, surrendered their swords and guns to the city watch, but Martaine’s still got a smuggler’s instincts. The rifle and a few other necessities wait concealed in an air vent.

Right now, he’s in charge, in the absence of Ren and Cari.

Carillon Thay was never good at waiting. She’s already gone.

Ama can’t wait. She squirms, unable to understand why they’re not there already, why they’re not landing at the magical city that Cari told her about, the earthly paradise where they’ll be safe. Martaine tells her to stay below, out of the wind and rain.

He’s slow to see it. It’s only when he spots the Maredon guns hastily turn to track an approaching target that he realises the peril.

The dragon swoops low, flapping lazily over the harbour. It’s not an attack – if the dragon meant to attack, Great-Uncle would come in faster than the wind, a hurricane of fire and scales, striking like a thunderbolt. This is something else – the dragon descends, the beating of its wings whipping up the waves, sending white spray crashing over the deck. Closer and closer the dragon descends, hovering above Moonchild.

The naval escorts that circle Moonchild turn and race away. The harbour guns crank around to aim at the dragon. Fire, you bastards, prays Martaine. Fire before he breathes.

But the guns remain silent. The dragon’s not attacking Maredon, not breaching the terms of the Armistice. They’re alone, without help.

The dragon’s gaze sweeps over the ship. Ama screams in terror and runs to hide; people on deck cower before the dragon, or stare back at Great-Uncle, too tired to flee. The dragon’s gaze falls on Dol Martaine, and the monster’s mouth curls into a smile.

“Where is my yliaster, Dol Martaine?” asks the dragon. The heat from the monster’s maw is so intense it’s like standing in the noonday sun in Ilbarin. Martaine feels the skin on his forehead blister.

“In…” Martaine’s voice comes out a whisper. He swallows. “In the fucking sea.”

“Eshdana…” says the dragon, drawing out the word. “You know your life is forfeit.”

“Aye.” Martaine steps forward, and looks up at those massive jaws. “To hell with it.”

Flames dance in the dragon’s smile. “Not here, Dol Martaine. Not yet.”

And then he’s gone. Great-Uncle twists in the air, his tail cracking like whip, and then he flaps his mighty wings and climbs, rising out of the harbour.

Ama runs up to Martaine, slipping on the wet deck. “Are we safe? Is the dragon gone?”

Martaine looks down at the girl. “No.”

Scratch.

Scratch.

There are ghouls in the cellar, and they trouble Rasce’s sleep.

Not the cellar of Lanthorn Street, of course – though the corpse-stealers would love to break in there, wouldn’t they, a rich bounty of rotten flesh and residuum. No, he can sense the ghouls far, far below, in the tunnels beneath the New City. His attention flickers through the stone, leaving his body far behind, and observes the ghouls in the darkness below. Lots of them, skulking and scraping, like an itch at the base of his skull. Tormenting him. A chorus of yelping and yowling, mocking him.

It’s within his power to crush them. He could bring the tunnel walls smashing down on them, squeezing them like he’d squeeze a fist, but it would cost him. The magic comes dripping slow, miracles distilling from the rot in the cellar as the city slowly digests the souls of the dead. It would be satisfying to crush them, but foolish.

He could tell Baston. Have him send a squad of armed Eshdana down into these tunnels, but the ghouls would be long gone by the time they arrived. No, the sensible thing to do is to ignore them. The wise thing. They haven’t attacked him since they stole the Black Iron Gods, and he still has their Lord Rat trapped. So, ignore them as they scratch.

Scratch. Scratch.

Other voices trickle into his consciousness, unwanted revelations. Plotting against the Ghierdana. Major Estavo broke the initial protests – Rasce heard the crack of the rifles echo off every wall, felt the blood spray splatter over the stones. Watched as a dozen died, and the rest fell. Watched as Vorz’s Eshdana dragged the bodies away to Lanthorn Street.

Wearily, Rasce rolls over in bed – wincing as his stone plates catch – and finds Baston sitting in the chair opposite, looking at him. His expression unreadable.

“What?”

“Someone hit the Gull’s Perch tavern.” Baston hands Rasce a little piece of half-melted metal. Visions flicker into Rasce’s brain, embedding themselves there like hot stones.

“It was Gunnar Tarson. He planted the bomb.” The vision burns in Rasce’s mind, an echo of the flames. “He’s on Horsehead Street.”

Baston nods. “I’ll deal with him. Be ready in an hour.”

“He was your friend—” begins Rasce, and Baston shrugs.

“No one crosses the dragon. That’s how it is, right?”

Rasce watches him walk down the hallway, down the stairs, march across the courtyard outside Lanthorn Street. All the visions tangled now. He can see Gunnar Tarson, too, like he’s watching him through a spyglass from some tall tower. Tarson’s meeting with enemies of the Ghierdana. Plotting revenge for the burning of the towers, whispering about the attack on the tavern.

He