The Sleeping Dragon: Book One of The Guardians of the Flame by Joel Rosenberg

Author:Joel Rosenberg [Rosenberg, Joel]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Spectrum Literary Agency, Inc.
Published: 2016-06-07T04:00:00+00:00

An easterly wind brought a stink to Karl’s nostrils, as the three of them walked along a quiet cobblestone street. It was a stench of dung, and sweat, and fear. He was about to pick up the pace, to urge the others along, when Walter plucked at Karl’s sleeve.

“I think there’s a slave market over that way—I can just barely hear an auction. You two want to go look?” The thief shrugged. “I know we can’t spend any serious money right now, but it might be worth our while to find out how much some bearers cost. Could be cheaper—” He was interrupted by the crack of a distant whip, immediately followed by a scream of pain. Walter winced. “… than buying horses and such.”

Karl shook his head. “We won’t own people. It’s wrong.”

Doria frowned at Walter. “How could you even think of such a thing? That’s—”

“Thinking it through. Which you two aren’t. Look, what would we do with a bunch of slaves, after we reach the Gate? We’ll let them go, no? In effect, it’d be more like a temporary indenture than real chattel slavery; they’d trade a bit of service for their freedom.”

“No.” Karl clutched his sword more tightly. “That’s out. Just forget about it. One of the few virtues our world has is—”

“Don’t be silly. In our world, it’s been the norm for most of history. Even in our time, chattel slavery isn’t unknown. It’s still legal in half a dozen places I can think of—Saudi Arabia, f’rinstance. You—”

“I won’t stand for it.” You don’t own people. It’s wrong.

Doria interposed herself between the two of them. “Just let it be. We’re supposed to be seeing the sights, no?”

“Fine.”

The street sloped gradually downward as it narrowed, the one-and two-story stone houses that lined it becoming progressively more ill-kept. Through latticed windows, Karl could see an occasional head, peering out at him, ducking aside when he returned the occupant’s gaze. Idly, he let his free hand rest on the hilt of his sword, loosening it in its scabbard. Probably that was an unnecessary precaution, but that was the trouble with precautions: You couldn’t know which one was necessary until it was too late.

Ahead of them, where the now narrow street opened into some sort of plaza, there was a distant roaring, as though of a fire.

Fire? Karl sniffed the air. No good; the wind was at his back. “You two hear that?”

Doria and Walter nodded, stepping up their pace to keep abreast of him. “Sounds like a fire,” Doria said. “A fire? This whole place is built out of stone. There can’t be a fire.”

“Bets?”

They reached the end of the street. What had seemed to be a plaza was more of a large, railed balcony, overlooking a vast pit, easily two thousand feet across, a hundred feet deep at its center.

And in the center of the pit, chained by the neck to a massive boulder, was an only slightly less massive dragon.

It was a huge brown beast, easily twice Karl’s height at its front shoulder, only slightly shorter at the hips.

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