Read Online The Ventifact Colossus (The Heroes of Spira Book 1) by Dorian Hart - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Dorian Hart
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didn’t bother closing the door behind him, and prowled the streets in a snarling funk. He had a half a mind to rob someone, but his heart wasn’t in it. A few times over the years he’d barely escaped following botched petty thefts attempted without a clear mind and full concentration. “Never pick a pocket if either of you is drunk,” he once told Berthel. “One of you will be swaying too much.”
He had lied to Grey Wolf. He had kept a handful of coins for himself, though it was much less than the typical take for a professional fence. After an hour of wandering, he bought himself a mug of beer and a bowl of hearty stew at a dockside tavern. Sitting at a corner table and nursing his drink, he thought about Abernathy’s visit to his room the previous night.
Dranko hadn’t taken much convincing to sign on. The Greenhouse was a palace, the bed was vermin-free, a magic box made magic food, and he had a patron who could turn his enemies into frogs in a pinch. But Abernathy’s pitch had gone beyond that. The old wizard must be able to see right down into his private dreams. He had zeroed in on the thing in life Dranko desired most. Which reminded him, it had been a while since he had thrown his last bottle.
With the extra cash, Dranko had another ale or three and drank away the afternoon, belching defiance at anyone who approached. Sometime after sunset he lurched to his feet, leered at the barmaid, and stumbled out the door. Rain began to drip from a quilt of low gray clouds as Dranko sulked his uneven way through the busy nighttime streets of Tal Hae. He tried and failed to banish the image of Morningstar’s face from his mind.
You’re so Gods-damned good at poking people. You’ve been doing it for so long, I think you’re addicted to it. That’s what you do. You pick at scabs, you get under peoples’ skins. And then they get rid of you. Praska always told you to tone it down, and you always ignored her warnings.
Dranko stopped. He had arrived at his tenement on Fishwife Row. Quietly as he could, he crept up the creaky stairs to his little apartment, hoping Berthel would leave him alone for once. Inside he went first to a sealed jar full of paper scraps and pulled one out, then groped behind his beat-up dresser until his fingers closed upon a half-drained bottle of cheap wine.
By the time he emerged back on the street, it was entirely drained. Drunken and angry—at the world, at Morningstar, at himself, at Abernathy—he made his way up a scrubby hill to a familiar cliff-top path above the sea. To his left was the harbor, with lanterns winking at him from dozens of ships as they bobbed and creaked. He turned right. Half a mile later he had rounded a wide headland and now stood above the Middle Sea, where the currents swept around the coast and out into the wide blue. The sea wasn’t blue now—it was a moonlit black—and Dranko gazed out over the murmuring water, listening to the slow song of its chop.
He fished the paper scrap from his pocket. Three words were scrawled upon it: Dranko was here. He uncorked the bottle, stuffed the note inside, and replaced the cork.
From the earliest days of his memory, Dranko had wanted to be famous. His grandmother told him stories of Cencerra the Bold, a mighty warrior maid who slew dragons by the dozen, and while the dragon parts scared him, he loved how at the end of the tales Cencerra’s name was shouted by throngs of grateful peasants, or the king proclaimed her a Dame of the Realm and showered her with gifts. He dreamt of someday doing great deeds, such that crowds would cheer and statues would be raised. What deeds those would be, he was never quite sure. That was less important. But in the little circle of his aggrieved childhood, his own name had been known and despised, and that filled him with shame and a burning dream of redemption. One day his name wouldn’t be spoken with a curse and a glob of spit. One day he’d make a difference, and Mokad would
He had lied to Grey Wolf. He had kept a handful of coins for himself, though it was much less than the typical take for a professional fence. After an hour of wandering, he bought himself a mug of beer and a bowl of hearty stew at a dockside tavern. Sitting at a corner table and nursing his drink, he thought about Abernathy’s visit to his room the previous night.
Dranko hadn’t taken much convincing to sign on. The Greenhouse was a palace, the bed was vermin-free, a magic box made magic food, and he had a patron who could turn his enemies into frogs in a pinch. But Abernathy’s pitch had gone beyond that. The old wizard must be able to see right down into his private dreams. He had zeroed in on the thing in life Dranko desired most. Which reminded him, it had been a while since he had thrown his last bottle.
With the extra cash, Dranko had another ale or three and drank away the afternoon, belching defiance at anyone who approached. Sometime after sunset he lurched to his feet, leered at the barmaid, and stumbled out the door. Rain began to drip from a quilt of low gray clouds as Dranko sulked his uneven way through the busy nighttime streets of Tal Hae. He tried and failed to banish the image of Morningstar’s face from his mind.
You’re so Gods-damned good at poking people. You’ve been doing it for so long, I think you’re addicted to it. That’s what you do. You pick at scabs, you get under peoples’ skins. And then they get rid of you. Praska always told you to tone it down, and you always ignored her warnings.
Dranko stopped. He had arrived at his tenement on Fishwife Row. Quietly as he could, he crept up the creaky stairs to his little apartment, hoping Berthel would leave him alone for once. Inside he went first to a sealed jar full of paper scraps and pulled one out, then groped behind his beat-up dresser until his fingers closed upon a half-drained bottle of cheap wine.
By the time he emerged back on the street, it was entirely drained. Drunken and angry—at the world, at Morningstar, at himself, at Abernathy—he made his way up a scrubby hill to a familiar cliff-top path above the sea. To his left was the harbor, with lanterns winking at him from dozens of ships as they bobbed and creaked. He turned right. Half a mile later he had rounded a wide headland and now stood above the Middle Sea, where the currents swept around the coast and out into the wide blue. The sea wasn’t blue now—it was a moonlit black—and Dranko gazed out over the murmuring water, listening to the slow song of its chop.
He fished the paper scrap from his pocket. Three words were scrawled upon it: Dranko was here. He uncorked the bottle, stuffed the note inside, and replaced the cork.
From the earliest days of his memory, Dranko had wanted to be famous. His grandmother told him stories of Cencerra the Bold, a mighty warrior maid who slew dragons by the dozen, and while the dragon parts scared him, he loved how at the end of the tales Cencerra’s name was shouted by throngs of grateful peasants, or the king proclaimed her a Dame of the Realm and showered her with gifts. He dreamt of someday doing great deeds, such that crowds would cheer and statues would be raised. What deeds those would be, he was never quite sure. That was less important. But in the little circle of his aggrieved childhood, his own name had been known and despised, and that filled him with shame and a burning dream of redemption. One day his name wouldn’t be spoken with a curse and a glob of spit. One day he’d make a difference, and Mokad would
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