Hush (Dragon Apocalypse) by James Maxey Read Free Book Online

I’ve heard that on the island of Podredumbre, the natives dig up the skeletons of their ancestors on the winter solstice and bring them back into their homes for a feast in their honor. Perhaps one day that ritual would catch on here. In fact, winter solstice was only a few days away, though in the eternal summer of the Isle of Fire I doubt many of the residents of Commonground would even notice.
    There was a moment of morbid curiosity where I contemplated thrusting my head underground. I’d discovered while exploring the pygmy tunnels as a ghost that, in pitch darkness, I could see the faint aura given off by all material objects. Given that mirrors weren’t any use to me now, it might be interesting to see my face once more.
    Instead, I clenched my fists of fog and turned away, floating upward. Some things are best left unseen. Above me, the boldest stars were starting to glow in the darkening sky. I drifted on the sultry wind that flowed down from the jungle slopes, the moist air redolent with a thousand species of orchids. I rose nearly a mile before I spotted Commonground, roughly twenty miles away. Even at this distance, the city was aglow with the lanterns of countless ships. The beaches around the bay blazed with funeral pyres. It had been weeks since Greatshadow attacked the city, but new corpses washed ashore with each tide.
    I set off for Commonground at a leisurely pace, lost in thought, wondering if Infidel had done the right thing by sparing the dragon. I was shaken from my reverie by a faint high-pitched wail. I scanned the horizon. Was it some sort of bird? It sounded almost human, and it was definitely getting louder.
    Then I spotted what looked like a man flashing toward me against the darkening sky. At first glance, it looked like Battle Ox, tumbling head over heels through the firmament. But the flying figure hurtled closer, and I made out a heavyset man dressed in a bearskin vest and wearing a horned helmet. His thick sinewy hands were clamped tightly to a two-handed axe. As he tumbled past, I saw that his beard was flecked with vomit, and he shrieked at a much higher pitch than one would expect from such a bruiser. In his wake, he left a strong odor of piss. I had the distinct impression that his flight was neither voluntary nor welcome.
    I could have given chase, but I was more interested in who had launched the man into the atmosphere rather than where he was going to fall back to earth. Ordinarily, if there were bodies flying this sort of distance, Infidel was involved.
    Though Commonground was thick with ships, it didn’t take long to spot the Freewind . The vessel was a long, square-rigged clipper with three masts, with a distinctive burgundy hull. I’ve heard that the boards were soaked in red wine before it was assembled. This isn’t a standard building practice among the Wanderers, and I have no idea what advantage it might have given the ship, but I must admit it helps the boat stand out in a crowded harbor.
    To my utter lack of surprise, the Freewind was under attack. While Commonground was a sanctuary city among the Wanderers, meaning that even the Freewind wouldn’t be molested while at port, the attackers plainly weren’t from around here and probably didn’t understand the rules. Two long ships with figureheads carved to look like angry dragons had pinned the Freewind against the docks, rendering the ship’s legendary speed moot. The attacking boats had hulls wrapped in what looked to be oily hides. At least a hundred burly men wearing bearskin vests and horned helmets swarmed from the boats, running along boarding planks or climbing the numerous grappling ropes that now draped the Freewind. They were roaring deafening battle cries at a much more dignified and manly pitch than the shrieker who’d passed me seconds before. While I didn’t understand the language, the raiders matched the description of a race of warriors from lands north of the Silver Isles who called themselves