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

“I’ll report to you later, sir,” says Rasce, smirking at the “sir”. Both the major and Rasce know that this is all an absurdity, a wolf pretending to solemnly consult with a sheep. “Maybe tomorrow. Or the next day.” He dumps his damaged helmet in Estavo’s arms and follows Great-Uncle out.

There’s business to attend to first.

Long ago, the priests say, the people of Lyrix were wicked and sinful. They were greedy and gluttonous, lustful and wrathful. They lied and cheated, blasphemed and murdered. The gods grew angry, and they took the sins of the people, and from those sins were born the dragons – creatures made to be divine scourges, to turn sin into redemptive suffering. But instead, the dragons went to the worst of the worst, the criminals and pirates of the Ghierdana islands, and said, “Are we not alike? We are both hateful in the eyes of others. Let us be one, and show those bastards.”

And in their way, the dragons did scourge the people of Lyrix, and reminded them of their sins, and drove them into the loving arms of the gods. But they made a profit while doing so.

The street outside is too narrow for Great-Uncle to pass easily. His wingtips cut grooves in the walls on either side. Children run after the dragon, picking up pebbles dislodged by his wings for good luck. Great-Uncle grunts in amusement, and deliberately leans into one wall, sending a cascade of plaster tumbling down for them to collect.

Rasce ducks under Great-Uncle’s foreleg and jogs along by the dragon’s head so the two can converse.

“Estavo will want us to fly south again within the week. How long will this business take?”

“That, nephew, depends on you. There is work that needs doing, here in the city. But wait until we are in private.” Great-Uncle has claimed part of the New City as his temporary residence while in Guerdon; everyone in that compound is Ghierdana or Eshdana, sworn to the service of Great-Uncle or one of the other dragon families. There are three other dragons in Guerdon – no, two, now that Viridasa has gone south – but none of them are half so glorious or mighty as Great-Uncle.

“We should press the advantage, while the Ishmerians are in disarray.” Ever since the death of the Ishmerian goddess of war, the once-mighty Sacred Empire of Ishmere has faltered. Lyrixian forces have pushed back on many fronts. Rasce doesn’t give much of a damn about the fortunes of those Lyrixian forces – if pressed, he’d admit to a mild preference that Lyrix triumph over its rivals, that the gods of his homeland cast down the temples of Ishmere and all the rest, but that’s more a preference for familiar food, familiar devils. Lyrix can go to hell with the rest; it’s the fortunes of the Ghierdana that matters. Victory opens up new ways to grow the dragons’ hoard.

And it’s glorious to be up there, on dragon-back, to have the strength and the fire at his command. To point at a temple, or a fortified guard tower, or a formation of infantry on the ground, and to know that he could destroy them all with a snap of his fingers. Who cares who the enemy is when you wield that much power?

It’s glorious to be Chosen of the Dragon.

“In my way, nephew,” says Great-Uncle. “And in a time of my choosing. But now, I must speak with Doctor Vorz.”

Vorz. The Dentist, some call him. As Great-Uncle’s physician, he’s responsible for removing a tooth from the dragon’s maw whenever a new member of the family comes of age and wins their knife. More than that, though, he’s Great-Uncle’s counsellor – the one member of the inner circle who’s not a member of the family. He’s only Eshdana, bound by oath instead of blood. He can never be Chosen of the Dragon. Maybe that allows him to speak more honestly to Great-Uncle; maybe it’s the knowledge that he’s reached the zenith of his possible ambition and can never rise higher.

There’s always a counsellor, whispering in Great-Uncle’s ear. When Rasce was a young boy, it was a former pirate queen from the Hordinger coast, tattooed and savage. She ate seal blubber, and grease dripped from her lips as she talked to the dragon. The family hated her, and she slipped from a clifftop and died when Rasce was five. After the Hordinger came Marko – no, after the Hordinger was that old priestess, the one who knitted burial shawls, and after her was Marko, everyone’s friend with his easy grin, making deals and slapping backs, mopping his flushed forehead in the summer heat of the island. Always someone useful to Great-Uncle, some skill or connection that the family could not provide.

And then one day Marko was gone, and in his place was Vorz. The Dentist, with his leather bag of physician’s instruments, his collection of potions and philtres. A renegade alchemist, it’s said, exiled from Guerdon’s alchemists’ guild for unspeakable experiments. Grub-pale skin, face like an undertaker. Never raises his voice above a whisper or a hiss. He dresses all in black like a priest and walks as if moving too quickly he would tear his ill-made body apart. Rasce’s seen that sort of play-acting before, beggars and con men affecting divine stigmata or the ravages of sorcery, hinting they’ve paid some terrible physical price for ultimate power. Most of the time, it’s just an act, a way to suggest they’ve got access to supernatural abilities while also getting out of actually having to do anything.

Most of the time. The way Great-Uncle uses Vorz suggests the man has some genuine power.

And even if Vorz is just a man, Great-Uncle demands privacy. Rasce slaps Great-Uncle’s scaly shoulder and peels off. Conversations with Vorz are tiresome, anyway – like talking to an accounts ledger. The man’s got no fire in his soul.

The crowds do not part for Rasce.

Back home, no one would