The Rise and Fall of a Dragonking - By Lynn Abbey Page 0,37

yellow mud. Dumbstruck farmers stepped across their crumbling thresholds into ankle-deep streams of frigid, mountain water. With their newly planted fields endangered by an almost inconceivable threat—too much water—the farmers had turned to the priests of earth and water who, in turn, eighteen days ago, had led an anxious procession through the city walls, to the very gates of Hamanu’s palace.

Hamanu had been waiting for them—he could see farther from his palace rooftop than any priest in his temple. He’d known the water was still rising, and after a dramatic hesitation, he’d called a second levy of Urik’s able-bodied men, another one from every remaining five. Then, as he rarely did, the Lion-King explained his intentions: The second levy wouldn’t march south to drill with the first. It would march north, beyond the established fields, and, digging with picks and shovels, pointed sticks and muddy hands, make new channels to spread Guthay’s bounty across the barrens. The newly planted fields would be spared.

The crowd erupted with a spontaneous cheer for their Lion-King—an infrequent event, though not as infrequent as the floods that inspired it. By the next sunrise, a thousand men stood at the north gate. They’d come peacefully, the registrators said—another infrequent event—and fully half of them were volunteers, which was unprecedented. Fear and worship could sustain a living god, but nothing compared to the pride Hamanu had felt with them and for them as they marched north to save the fields from drowning.

The second levy dug for twelve days. A moat of dark mud grew beyond Urik’s fields, saving the crops, but water still churned out of the distant mountains. Beneath Urik, the vast cavern lake that slaked the city’s thirst had become a roaring maelstrom. It had already flooded its stony shores and rose steadily against walls that had not been wet since the Lion of Urik was a mortal man.

Hamanu released the second levy to Javed’s mercy and called up a third. One in five of men and women, both, and every age, would be levied. Five days ago, four thousand Urikites assembled in the palace forecourt. While the throng watched, the mighty Lion-King had taken a hammer to the doors of one of Urik’s ten sealed granaries, then he’d sent the third levy into the second levy’s mud, sacks of seed slung over their shoulders.

The third levy continued its labor in the flooded field; Hamanu could see hundreds of dark dots moving slowly across the mud. Pavek was out there, planting seeds with his toes while knee-deep in muck. His gold medallion was thrown carelessly over one shoulder. Twenty Quraiters worked alongside him. The hidden village had sent more than its share of farmers—of druids, too, though they strove to conceal their subtle renewals of the land.

It was a gamble as old as agriculture: if the granary seed they planted sprouted and throve until it ripened, they’d harvest four sacks for every one they’d risked, a respectable yield for land that hadn’t been cultivated in ages. There’d be grain to sell to less-fortunate neighbors, conquering them with trade rather than warfare. There might even be enough to justify laying the foundation for an eleventh granary. If the grain throve—

And if the bonus crop failed, if war came to Urik, or some other disaster intervened, there were still nine sealed granaries, each with enough grain to feed Urik for a year. Hamanu didn’t make blind gambles with his city’s well-being.

“Omniscience, the orators have composed a new encomium.” Enver was still reading from his notes. “They name you Hamanu Water-Wealth, Maker of Oceans. They wish to include the encomium in tomorrow’s harangue. I have the whole text here, Omniscience; I’ll read it, if you wish. It’s quite good—a bit too florid for my taste—but I’m sure the people will find it stirring.”

“Maker of Oceans,” the Lion-King repeated, bringing his attention back to the palace roof.

Ocean was a word his scholars had found in the archives, nothing more. The Lion of Urik doubted there was anything alive that had seen an ocean—except Rajaat, of course, if Rajaat were alive in his Hollow prison. Hamanu had glimpsed the memory of an ocean once in Rajaat’s crystal visions: blue water rippling from horizon to horizon, foaming waves that crashed one after the other on sand that never dried. The steamy moat girdling Urik wasn’t an ocean, wasn’t even the promise of an ocean. All it promised—all a living god dared hope that it promised—was a green field and an unexpected