No, she had to stop this fussing. Zaarusha’s son and the hundreds of slaves in Death Valley were imprisoned, not her. She’d rather fly across the Flatlands on Liesar than stay in this shrotty wagon, but she hadn’t earned back her right to fly. Manure and pig urine, she could handle. Marlies shifted to stop her belt from digging into her hip, then rummaged in her pack for an apple. She bit into it.
The wagon careened around a corner, then slowed, the horses trotting at a steady pace, hooves echoing off nearby walls. They were in a town. Marlies’ nerves prickled. Perhaps there were mind-benders nearby. She submerged herself, going deep inside, so no one could detect her thoughts. She had to get to Death Valley as fast as possible, yet all she could do was wait.
§
Trickles of sweat ran down Giant John’s back as he drove through Forest Edge. The village was quiet, too quiet. There were no children in the yards, no one on the street, and no livestock in the fields. Forest Edge had been abandoned. A stray chicken pecked at the dirt. A chill breeze rippled through the trees, making a door bang. Where had everyone gone?
Giant John flicked the reins, and the horses galloped out of town. Leaving the village, he spied movement in the trees, then a piggy snout and the glint of armor. A tracker, for sure. It must’ve followed them from Last Stop. He urged the horses along the road through Spanglewood Forest. Birds took to the sky behind them. The tracker was fast.
Giant John bolted along the track, driving the horses hard. They needed to shake the tracker before Waldhaven, so they could hide the wagon in Benji’s barn. Although the tracker couldn’t scent Marlies, it could track him and the horses.
Hours later, at the turnoff for Waldhaven, John relaxed his grip on the reins. He hadn’t seen a sign of the tracker for a while, but they needed rest. Benji owned a small farm on the far side of the village. Straight through the center of town, and he’d be there. Giant John frowned. Everything was silent, just like in Forest Edge. Had everyone fled from here, too?
His wagon rumbled along the deserted street, around a corner. Except the street wasn’t deserted.
Giant John gaped in horror.
People lay dead on the doorsteps. Bodies were scattered along the road. A man was hanging, gutted, from a tree. A littling’s broken body had been flung onto a flower bed, her neck at an odd angle. Nauseous, Giant John pulled the reins, wheeling the wagon around, and made for the forest road. There was no refuge in Waldhaven.
§
Marlies’ nerves jangled like an over-tuned fiddle. Something was wrong. The wagon swerved, throwing her weight into her rucksack. The horses’ hooves thundered as Giant John pushed them into a gallop. The pig squealed. Branches struck the wagon, shudders reverberating through Marlies’ bones.
Abruptly, the wagon halted. Marlies slid forward, her feet crashing into the end of the compartment. Outside, something creaked—a door? Giant John walked the horses forward, then stopped. He flipped the side of the wagon bed down and helped Marlies out.
They were in a barn. He shut the doors, while Marlies rubbed her legs and marched on the spot to get her circulation going.
When he turned back to her, Giant John’s face was ashen. Tears tracked through the dust on his cheeks.
“What happened?”
His hands were trembling.
Marlies led him to a pile of hay. “Here, sit.” She retrieved a waterskin from the wagon and held it out to him. “Have some, you’ll feel better.”
Mutely, he took the skin and drank. His eyes were dark, hollowed out with grief.
“What was it, John?” she asked gently.
“Bodies. No one left alive. Women, littlings, even tiny ones.” He took another swig. “Rotting flesh in the streets and sprawled across doorsteps. All those lives …” His stare was blank—he’d be seeing it all over again, the way she’d seen the dead dragonet for years.
Marlies hugged him, and Giant John sobbed. “Benji, his wife and littlings …”
“Did you see them?”
“No.”
“They may have survived, fled …” Or been taken as Zens’ slaves. That would bring him no comfort. Marlies fixed some food—vegetables, bread and a cup of ale for Giant John. “Only one, mind you,” she said as she passed him the beer. “We need our wits sharp.”
“And our blades,” Giant John replied, anger kindling in his eyes.
Good, better anger than hopelessness.
As they ate, their conversation drifted to other things. “It’s the rift between mages and riders that’s let tharuks get out of hand,” Giant John said.
Marlies coughed on her bread. “What? They’re still quibbling over the world gate?”
“Well, the wizards did let Zens through. It’s their fault,” Giant John said.
“But that was years ago. And no one suspected he was such a horror.” He’d been ugly and misshapen, yet Zens had appeared peaceful.
Giant John took a sip of beer. “When Zens’ hidden army of tharuks started capturing our people as slaves, we should have fought him, not each other.”
“Surely the Council of the Twelve Dragon Masters has forgiven the wizards by now,” Marlies replied. “They can’t hold a grudge forever.”
Giant John shook his head. “Forgiving is one thing, forgetting is another—they’ve done neither.”
The mages had closed the world gate, but not without cost—many were stranded on the other side, locked out of Dragons’ Realm forever. “You’re not serious, are you?”
“As serious as I can be. Mages and riders haven’t fought together since Anakisha’s last battle.” Giant John sipped his beer.
“Shards, those idiots! How can we withstand Zens without wizard power? Without mages, how can we be effective? Who, on the council, supports this?”
“Who doesn’t? The mages are deep in Spanglewood Forest, or down in Naobia.” Giant John gave her
