Ricardo Pinto - The Third God

Watching the men work, Carnelian grew aware of a sound like distant drumming. Aurum must have arrived even earlier than they had feared. In alarm he sought the direction from which the drumming was coming. Then he realized it was only the beating of the dragon’s heart.

Figures were hunched round fires lit directly on the cobbles of the marumaga barracks. From their slimness, and the ash coating their skin, Carnelian knew they were Oracles. His escort brought him to a door before which a curtain of myrrh smoke was rising. Passing through it, he found a gold-faced apparition waiting for him. Wrapped in linen, it made Carnelian recall the term the Plainsmen used for the Masters. The apparition unmasked to reveal Osidian’s face, his eyes seeming murky emeralds. He must have misunderstood Carnelian’s hesitation for he said: ‘These chambers have been ritually cleansed, my Lord.’

Carnelian removed his mask and stripped down to his second skin of bandages. Osidian indicated a mat upon which lay some dishes of food. Realizing how hungry he was, Carnelian sat down and began eating.

Osidian was watching him. ‘Tomorrow I shall leave with the Marula to seek signs of the Lord Aurum.’

Carnelian frowned. ‘Have you reason to expect him to be close?’

‘I would like you to remain behind.’

Osidian’s face was as unreadable as a mask, but Carnelian sensed he was up to something. ‘Will you take all the Marula, my Lord?’

‘I shall leave you some; though I do not think it likely you will have problems with the marumaga. You will be the only Chosen here.’

Carnelian thought that strange. ‘My Lord is taking all the commanders with him?’

Osidian made a sign of affirmation.

‘The Legate too?’

‘He is no longer that but, yes, he will come with me.’

Carnelian returned to his meal. Perhaps Osidian intended nothing more than to humble the Lesser Chosen. Forcing them to endure the discomfort of riding aquar in the world beyond the city could only serve, as in the case of the Marula warriors, to reinforce Osidian’s dominion over them. Something occurred to him. ‘And Morunasa?’

‘He shall remain here as your lieutenant.’

‘To keep an eye on me?’

Osidian did not reply, but sat down to eat.

Before the outer gates of the cothon were fully open, Osidian and the Lesser Chosen commanders sped through the gap, their black cloaks fluttering like wings. Watching the Marula pour after them Carnelian frowned, remembering other Chosen riders in black cloaks, with other Marula. When all were through, the gates slowly closed. He turned back to the cothon. With their masts and rigging, the dragon towers had a look of the barans in the Tower in the Sea. Seeking distraction, he set off across the cobbles towards Heart-of-Thunder.

The piers dwarfed the pack huimur, each under a pitched frame studded with sacs. These sacs, once unhitched from the frames, were being lugged towards Heart-of-Thunder. As each arrived under the prow of his beak, a keeper would tear it open with his billhook, snag the sac, then raise it to tip the render into the dragon’s maw.

When he tired of watching this feeding, Carnelian wandered down the monster’s flank, staying in his shadow, curious to find out what the other keepers were up to, whom he could see prodding mushroom-headed poles into the dragon’s hide. He deduced they must be testing the strength of the monster’s massive muscles. When the beastmaster came, he pronounced himself satisfied. Heart-of-Thunder’s lower horns were roped to yokes. Keepers pricked his legs as teams of men pulled on the ropes. With a shudder, the monster came to life. One massive leg rose, swung forward, then dropped to the ground with an impact that shook Carnelian’s bones. More quakes followed as the monster moved from the first set of piers towards the second, finally slipping beneath the beams that held aloft the pyramid-shaped upper half of a dragon tower.

After Heart-of-Thunder had been tethered in place by his horns, more huimur approached bearing sacs. Carnelian wondered if the keepers were going to resume feeding the dragon, but this time the sacs were being lugged to the piers, then hoisted to their summits. These new sacs were being carried with some care. Also, they were not brown, but black. Curiosity drew Carnelian to investigate.

As he emerged from the shadows, everyone within sight fell to their knees. He peered at one of the black sacs. His ranga would not allow him to reach down to it. ‘Hold it up to me.’

As a keeper lifted it, Carnelian could smell its reek even through the nosepads of his mask. ‘Naphtha.’

He let the men resume their work and stood where he could watch them ferrying the sacs over to the tower base roped to the dragon’s back. After a while a reek of naphtha began wafting down from the tower base and he realized they must be filling its tanks.

The empty sacs were piled on the cothon floor away from the dragons. No doubt as a precaution against accidental fire. Near sunset the legionaries began clearing the cothon. Carnelian had been watching the mobilization for so long, his legs had begun to ache. A lone legionary dared approach to tell him that the gates would soon be locked. Carnelian followed the man across the cothon. The rest of his comrades were already beginning to huddle around fires they had lit upon the cobbles away from the dragons. As Carnelian passed through the gate it was locked behind him.

Alone in the marumaga barracks, Carnelian could hear the murmur of the Marula in the courtyard outside. How he longed to go and join them round their campfires. Twice now he had summoned someone to attend him but, when they had knelt before him, he had stood silent. What communication could there be between them? All they could see was a Master. He had had to be content with asking them to bring food and water.

He lay on the floor without a blanket, wanting the stone to spread its coldness up to numb his heart. What would he not have given for a glimpse of Fern or Poppy or Krow, or even just to hear their voices?

Beneath one of Heart-of-Thunder’s piers, Carnelian was waiting for the Quartermaster. Though, by waking, he had escaped his nightmares, his mind was still stained with dread. The cothon and its activity no longer held a promise of power, but only of destruction. This great mechanism, so nearly wound up to readiness, was a weapon he knew Osidian would not hesitate to use. His heart told him they were close to the point of no return if, indeed, they had not already passed it. The immediate consequences of the events they were about to set in motion he could barely see; the ultimate consequences he could not see at all; but, though he was blind to the future, his heart was populating it with vague, terrible shapes.

‘My Master, you summoned me?’

It was like being shocked awake. The Quartermaster was there, kneeling. Carnelian gestured him to rise. ‘What remains to be done?’

‘Some of the dragons have not yet recovered their strength, Master, and this is causing us delays. We dare not burden them until they’re ready.’

Instinctively, Carnelian reached out to reassure the man, but let his hand fall when he saw him flinch. ‘I’m not accusing you, but seek only your best estimate of when the legion will be ready.’

‘Before nightfall most of the tanks should be full, Master.’

‘And then?’

‘For those dragons strong enough, we can attempt to seal their towers.’

Carnelian glanced at Heart-of-Thunder. ‘Is he strong enough?’

‘He is, Master.’

‘What happens after his tower is sealed?’

‘We shall connect up the pipes.’

‘The flame-pipes?’

‘Just so, Master.’ The man raised a hand to point towards the centre of the cothon.