By Lawrence Watt-Evans
Arlian had by no means left his domestic village within the Obsidian Mountains. the fairway hills, white peaks, and black glass have been all he had ever identified of lifestyles, and even though he dreamed of shuttle and experience, he knew deep in his middle that he may most likely by no means leave.Until the dragon climate got here. amazing warmth, oppressive humidity, darkish and indignant clouds . . . and dragons. Dragons with out emotions, no empathy, little need for people; dragons who destroyed his whole village and everybody in it. all people, that's, other than Arlian.Orphaned and by myself, Arlian the kid is captured by way of looters and bought as a mining slave. Seven years later Arlian the fellow escapes, fueled by way of years of hatred for the dragons, bandits, and slavers that took his adolescence away--and a private vow to particular retribution from those that have wronged him.As Arlian makes his manner via lifestyles, he's enthusiastic about the concept that of justice, and that obsession informs each activity, each determination. Even Black, the guy he befriends and grows to like as a brother, has little impact opposed to Arlian's obsession. His complete existence has one function, and one function simply: to mete out justice. yet can one righteous guy swap the full global for the higher? Or is he doomed by means of his personal activities to develop into as unjust as these he seeks to break?
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Additional resources for Dragon Weather (The first book in the Obsidian Chronicles series)
He had seen how just retribution would bring together the miners—except perhaps the criminal against whom the retribution was taken—content that justice had been done. He had joined the others in restraining Rat’s worst swindles by stealing back extorted belongings, in keeping Fist from beating miners whose only crime was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he had seen that life was better because these wrongs were prevented or avenged. Even Rat, well after the fact, usually acknowledged as much.
Or perhaps when the backlog of ore was gone—every cart in the mine was filled to overflowing, and more ore was piled at the rock face, since there had been no way to haul it up the shaft. Maybe when that was gone he’d be forgiven his act of misplaced mercy. He wasn’t counting on it, though; the bag of mementos was still securely tied in place on his belt, and would stay there. He didn’t trust anyone at this point. He glimpsed something moving and ducked as a shovelful of ore flew past his ear. “Sorry,” Bitter said, his tone utterly insincere.
Maybe, he thought as he shoveled, this would mark the end of his harassment. With the hopper back in operation and the spilled ore gone, with Bloody Hand back on the job, perhaps things would return to normal. Or perhaps when the backlog of ore was gone—every cart in the mine was filled to overflowing, and more ore was piled at the rock face, since there had been no way to haul it up the shaft. Maybe when that was gone he’d be forgiven his act of misplaced mercy. He wasn’t counting on it, though; the bag of mementos was still securely tied in place on his belt, and would stay there.