Or shock. Tharuks had been especially vicious today, whipping and beating slaves. More than one had died. The overseers had barked at the crew leaders to drive their slaves harder, even though people were dropping around them. 568 had even whipped littlings.
Now the tharuks were standing in a group, grumbling.
“Zens got bad news,” said 568. “That’s why overseers whip.”
“Kill more slaves. They will speed up,” reasoned Droopy Eye.
“Zens can chop their hands off,” snorted another and they all guffawed.
As if that would help anyone dig faster.
Tomaaz blanched and slipped a clear-mind berry into his gruel, scoffing it down, just in case. He checked his nails. After this morning’s dragon scale, they were gray again. Three mind-numbing days in this place and he hadn’t found a trace of Ma. He couldn’t give up. Last night, Pa had looked worse. Frustration welled inside him, then sputtered and died. It took too much energy. He slurped his gruel, then picked up his shovel.
“Hey, you!” 568’s whip flicked Tomaaz’s calf, stinging. “Take that stinking corpse. To the pile.” The tharuk gestured at Half Hand, who’d lain there for two days.
Dead, while Tomaaz wore his shirt. Flies buzzed around the body, flitting into Tomaaz’s face as he picked up the boy. He huffed, trying to blow them away without tharuks noticing.
“Take your shovel,” yelled 568. “Feed that beast. Or see Zens.”
The way 568 said see made Tomaaz’s back prickle.
Half Hand was all poky bones and saggy skin, but Tomaaz still staggered under his weight. His head spun. Their meager rations would make anyone weak.
568 hadn’t requested a tharuk escort, so Tomaaz shambled off on his own.
Along the gully, he passed slaves, eyes empty and slack-faced, returning from depositing the dead. When he got to the flesh pile, bile rose in his throat at the stench of decomposing bodies. A little girl lay on the heap—she’d been two canals over, whipped, for stopping to pee. The second lash had done her in. The hand of a tiny littling peeked out from under a man’s corpse. It wriggled. Gods, was the littling still alive?
Sharp teeth and a twitching nose poked out from under the hand, followed by a rat’s body and long tail. No, the littling was dead, now a rodent’s feasting ground. A crow cawed, landing on a body and pecking at its eyes. Tomaaz hissed and waved his hands, but it just hopped over to another body. Nauseous, he averted his eyes, carrying the boy to the edge of the heap.
“I’m sorry,” Tomaaz murmured. “Sorry you had to die here, so far from family and fresh air.” He lay the boy on the earth, to the side of the pile, refusing to toss him on a heap, like a discarded vegetable scrap. Did this boy have family? Had they died too? Or were they at home where the earth was fertile and green, while he’d wasted away in this land of dust, dirt and death?
His eyes stung.
He was the only one not drugged, among thousands. It was hopeless, searching for Ma.
The stench of death clawed at his nostrils, forcing its way down his throat, making him gag. He fought it, then gave in, retching until his guts were empty.
Wiping his hand on the back of his sleeve, Tomaaz rose, and turned to take one last look at the boy.
His breath caught. Oh, Gods. It couldn’t be.
Under a man’s body at the top of the pile, sticking out at eye level, was a boot bearing the mark of the Lush Valley cobbler. A boot just like his.
“No!” Tomaaz whispered.
He scrambled up the bodies and rolled the man away. Glassy turquoise eyes stared lifelessly from a pale face, framed by dark hair congealed with blood.
He’d found Ma.
Hope Awakened
Hans was over the Great Spanglewood Forest, only a day’s flight from Dragons’ Hold, but it felt like years away. He clung to the saddle, arms and hands spasming. His legs had the tremors. An anvil was pressing on his chest, making him gasp sips of air. Another shudder ran through his body. The breeze pricked his sweaty skin.
He had to face it: he was dying. Tharuk poison was killing him from the inside out.
He scrabbled in his pocket with cramping hands and pulled out a calling stone. The angular one—Marlies’ one. He rubbed it. The stone flared, then crumbled into ash in his fingers. So Marlies’ calling stone had been destroyed. By Zens? Tharuks? Or had it been an accident? He shoved his fingers at his pocket, missing. Then tried again, more slowly. On the third attempt, he extracted Tomaaz’s calling stone and rubbed it … nothing. He tried again … nothing. Afraid he’d drop it in midair and have no means of communicating with his son, he shoved it back into his pocket.
Gods, he wasn’t going to make it.
“Hang on, Hans,” Handel melded. “We’re not too far away.”
“Too far for me,” Hans said. “You’ll be returning on your own. Give Ezaara my love. Tell her to get Tomaaz and Marlies.” Shards, how awful. He’d never see his family again. A spasm seized his chest, making his whole torso convulse. Hans gritted his teeth until it passed.
“Think,” said Handel, beating his mighty wings. “Think, Hans, there must be something we can do.”
A vision shot through Hans’ head, of him riding Handel into battle with Ezaara at his side on Zaarusha.
“No, Handel, it’s not possible.” He gritted his teeth as another spasm hit him. “That’s not prophecy, just wishful thinking.”
But it felt like prophecy. That same sense of mystique washed over Hans, as it always did when he saw the future.
“Think back over your life, Hans. There must be some way we can save you. A different remedy? A place we can go … I’m not giving up
