The Broken God by Gareth Hanrahan (most life changing books .txt) 📗

“Fuck you,” she says again. “You stole that power, and you crawled up the dragon’s arsehole. Spar’s worth a hundred of you – you should have listened to him, not Vorz. I fucking understand you, all right. You’re weak.”

“You have no idea of the sacrifices I made. Spar Idgeson had not the strength, so I carried him. I broke Mandel! I broke the alchemists! I beat this city.”

“And all for the dragon.” Cari gingerly touches the bruise on her forehead. “Second fucking time I’ve been hit there,” she mutters to herself. Then, to Rasce: “What do you get out of it? What’s the point?”

“Love.”

“Oh, gods below.”

“Great-Uncle loves me.” He takes a deep breath, drawing on the well of that knowledge. It’s warmer than alkahest. “You think he is like the Black Iron Gods, and that I am a fool for serving him. But what would you know of such things? You were born in a vat, Vorz tells me, bred by cultists for a singular purpose. I am Ghierdana, blood of the dragon. For a hundred generations, the dragon and my family have been one.”

He stands. “Great-Uncle has decreed your fate. First, Doctor Vorz shall bleed you dry, to make more of his potions for me. Then, you shall be traded to the Sacred Realm of Ishmere. The blood of Pesh is on your hands, and the Sacred Realm will pursue you to the ends of the world for that crime.”

“What about Spar?” Cari’s voice is very small and scared. “Send me to Ishmere, but… please. It’s not fucking fair.”

“The gods sent dragons to scourge the living and the dead alike.” He pauses before entombing her once more. “I wish things were otherwise.”

Rasce allows himself a moment of indulgence before visiting the third prisoner. His mind ranges over the New City once more. He sees Great-Uncle up on the plaza, curled up. Rain drums on the stretched membrane of the dragon’s wing – Great-Uncle is in private conference with Doctor Vorz. For a moment, Rasce feels like he’s a child back home on the isles of the Ghierdana, watching older members of the family in similar confessionals. The mantled wing is an ancient symbol of trust and secrecy among the dragon families. Nothing discussed in the shadow of the wing can be discussed without Great-Uncle’s permission, not even with other members of the family. When he was a child, he craved to be admitted into that innermost sanctum, to be initiated into that secret.

Now, he pauses at the threshold. He can see all things, hear all things in the New City – even under the shadow of the wing. Neither Great-Uncle nor Vorz would ever know if he eavesdropped through the stone.

It would be wrong to listen, would it not? But the dragon takes what he desires.

Rasce’s consciousness flickers forward, enters the sanctum.

“… Aethergraphed me this morning,” says Vorz. “The target is the rail junction at Limerock.”

“What about the junction’s air defences?” rumbles Great-Uncle. “I am too old, Vorz, to fly blind into their guns.”

“Master Helmont has supplied a list of the weapons stationed there, and he shall ensure the guns run low on phlogiston before you attack.”

“Very well.” Great-Uncle chuckles. “When this is done, I shall sleep for a century.”

Rasce recalls the rail junction at Limerock. His mind flickers to Major Estavo’s office in the dracodrome, to the map that hangs there. Limerock junction lies to the south-west of Guerdon, a lonely outpost on the edge of the Godswar, where rail lines from Ulbishe and the other cities of the south meet. A return to action, at last! A return to the sky!

He withdraws. His mind moves on, searching and probing, until he finds her. Karla’s sleeping in a shelter in the New City, an almshouse run by an old Brotherhood man called Cafstan. A den of traitors, Great-Uncle would call it. All those names should go on the list. Rasce lingers a moment, looking at Karla’s sleeping features. He could reach out and destroy her now with a thought – Cafstan’s shelter is not so far from Lanthorn Street. He could squeeze with his mind and crush them all. He could open the ground beneath them and swallow them.

Rasce opens his eyes. Returns to his body.

“Baston,” he says softly, and Baston appears. A loyal dog, coming when called.

“I’ve found your sister. She’s at Cafstan’s.”

Baston nods. “What do you want me to do?”

“I spared her at your request. But there has to be a limit to my indulgence. She is well loved, I know, by the people of the New City.” A twisted grin crosses Rasce’s face. “Love bought with the dragon’s gold. My Great-Uncle will wish to make an example of her. She will be permitted to live, Baston, but more than that I cannot promise.”

Baston nods again. He turns and walks out of the door of Lanthorn Street, shoulders hunched against the rain.

The pebble lies on Rasce’s desk.

One last conversation. One last prisoner. One last hiding place.

“Spar, are you there?”

Yes.

“Ha! You have become very, very small, my friend. When I met you, you were a great city, home to many thousands. Now, an ant would find you a cramped house.”

Where’s Cari?

The question irritates Rasce. It’s not merely that so many foes conspire against him, it’s that they are so damnably loyal to one another, even the rogues. Karla, choosing Baston and the Brotherhood over all Rasce could have given her. Spar, still asking after the fate of the street thief when Rasce has defeated her completely.

Even his allies cannot be trusted – Vyr schemed against him. Doctor Vorz uses him. The other dragons mistrust him. He is everywhere and everything in this cursed city, and he is terribly, completely alone.

He’s broken Guerdon, survived every attempt to bring him down, and still he’s alone.

Only Great-Uncle can be trusted. Only the dragon knows the lonely burden of power.

“Still alive,” says Rasce, grudgingly. “But you have failed, all of you. The dragon is invincible. All