The Broken God by Gareth Hanrahan

Author:Gareth Hanrahan [Hanrahan, Gareth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Orbit
Published: 2021-05-18T00:00:00+00:00

Artolo stumbles down the stairs, ears ringing. Vorz’s lab is afire, flames leaping purple and green and blue from the shelves of burning alchemical materials. There’s a gaping hole in one wall where the shoreside window used to be – and no signs of Carillon Thay.

The witch lies slumped in a corner, her armour scorched by the explosion. Artolo darts over to her, but she holds up a hand. She doesn’t speak – jerkily, she points to her helmet, indicating that some mechanism has been damaged.

“Where is she?” roars Artolo.

The witch rises, unsteady on her feet, and points down at the shore below, a stone’s throw from the refinery. There’s a covered motorboat down there, one of the smaller skiffs used to patrol the ruins – and as Artolo watches, it takes off. Moving jerkily, as if the pilot is unfamiliar with the controls.

“Contain the fires!” Vorz shouts from the top of the stairs, unwilling to leave the comparative safety of the roof and enter the growing blaze that used to be his laboratory.

To hell with that. Thay will not escape him again! Artolo climbs out of the ruined window, clambers and slides down the outer wall of the refinery, clinging to pipes and vents until he lands heavily on the muddy ground at the foot of the wall. The boat’s already moving, its engine suddenly roaring as it rushes away. He charges down towards the water. She’s taunting him, waiting until he’s almost in reach and then dancing away. The boat’s pilot finds the throttle and opens up, the little motorboat shooting like a reckless rocket over the waves, racing south over the drowned streets of Ilbarin City.

Massive wings cover the sky as Great-Uncle swoops down from the refinery roof to land in the surf. He lowers his neck for Artolo to climb on board, and Artolo does so joyously, his face breaking into a wild, incredulous grin. He’s Chosen again, exalted again, flying again! Oh, the thunder of the wings! The rush of air! The thrilling leap as the dragon takes to the air, the lurching glory of the downsweep, the steel-cord strength of Great-Uncle’s muscles between his thighs. Artolo’s ghost-fingers cannot grab the ridged scales of the dragon’s neck – the magic of the witch’s spells pales in comparison to the divine vitality of the dragon – but he doesn’t need to. His hooked boots find the catch-scales instantly, leaving his hands free to wield a gun or spyglass.

Each stroke of Great-Uncle’s wings lifts his heart. One wing beat, and he forgets his failure at Guerdon. He couldn’t find the words to win forgiveness from the dragon, but what are words compared to the headlong rush of flight, the sensation of it, the defiance – dragon and rider, defying sky above and earth below, hunting, devouring, burning as they choose.

Another, and he forgets his maimed hands, his whole mind afire with the joy of flying.

The dragon twists in the air above the boat, and Artolo leaps down, landing cat-like on the aft deck.

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