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A hard winter can lift rocks as well as old bones, shoving allthat is loose up through the most stubborn earth. Thensnowmelt and flash floods will sweep across the ground,wiping away the gravel and clay. And later, when a manwith good vision and exceptional luck rides past, all of theworld might suddenly change.
"Would you look at that," the man said to himself in afirm, deep voice. "A claw, isn't it? From a mature dragon,isn't it? Good Lord, Mr. Barrow. And there's two moreclaws set beside that treasure!"
Barrow was a giant fellow with a narrow face and aheavy cap of black hair that grew from his scalp and theback of his neck and between the blades of his strong shoulders.Born on one of the Northern Isles, he had left hishomeland as a young man to escape one war, coming to thisnew country just in time to be thrown into a massive andprolonged civil conflict. Ten thousand miseries had abusedhim over the next years. But he survived the fighting, andupon his discharge from the Army of the Center, a gratefulnation had given him both his citizenship and a bonus ofgold coins. Barrow purchased a one-way ticket on theWestern railroad, aiming to find his fortune in the wilderness.His journey ended in one of the new prairie towns—aplace famous for hyrax herds and dragon bones. There hehad purchased a pair of quality camels, ample supplies forsix months of solitude, and with shovels enough to move ahillside, he had set out into the washlands.
Sliding off the lead camel, he said, "Hold."
The beast gave a low snort, adjusting its hooves to findthe most comfortable pose.
Barrow knelt, carefully touching the dragon's middle claw. Ancient as this artifact was, he knew from painful experiencethat even the most weathered claw was sharpenough to slash. Just as the fossil teeth could puncture thethickest leather gloves, and the edges of the great scaleswere nastier than any saw blade sharpened on the hardestwhetstone.
The claw was a vivid deep purple color—a sure sign ofgood preservation. With his favorite little pick, Barrowworked loose the mudstone beneath it, exposing its fulllength and the place where it joined into the front paw. Hewasn't an educated man, but Barrow knew his trade: thishad been a flying dragon, one of the monsters who once patrolledthe skies above a vanished seacoast. The giant pawwas meant for gripping. Presumably the dragons used theirfour feet much as a coon-rascal does, holding their prey andfor other simple manipulations. These finger claws were alwaysvaluable, but the thick thumb claw—the Claw ofGod—would be worth even more to buyers. As night fell,Barrow dug by the smoky light of a little fire, picking awayat the mudstone until the paw was revealed—a palm-downhand large enough to stand upon and, after ages of being entombed,still displaying the dull red color made by the interlockingscales.
The man didn't sleep ten blinks. Then with first light hefollowed a hunch, walking half a dozen long strides up thegully and thrusting a shovel into what looked like a moundof ordinary clay.
The shovel was good steel, but a dull thunk announcedthat something beneath was harder by a long ways.
Barrow used the shovel and a big pickax, working fastand sloppy, investing the morning to uncover a long pieceof the dragon's back—several daggerlike spines rising fromperhaps thirty big plates of ruddy armor.
Exhaustion forced him to take a break, eating his fill anddrinking the last of his water. Then, because they were hungryand a little thirsty, he led both of his loyal camels downthe gully, finding a flat plain where sagebrush grew andseepage too foul for a man to drink stood in a shallow alkalinepond.
The happy camels drank and grazed, wandering as far astheir long leashes allowed.
Barrow returned to his treasure. Twice he dug into freshground, and twice he guessed wrong, finding nothing. Themonster's head was almost surely missing. Heads almost alwayswere. But he tried a third time, and his luck held. Notonly was the skull entombed along with the rest of the carcass,it was still attached to the body, the long muscularneck having twisted hard to the left as the creature passedfrom the living.
It had been a quick death, he was certain.
There were larger specimens, but the head was magnifi-cent. What Barrow could see was as long as he was tall, narrowand elegant, a little reminiscent of a pelican's head, butprettier, the giant mouth bristling with a forest of teeth,each tooth bigger than his thumb. The giant dragon eyeshad vanished, but the large sockets remained, filled withmudstone and aimed forward like a hawk's eyes. And behindthe eyes lay a braincase several times bigger than anyman's.
"How did you die?" he asked his new friend.
Back in town, an educated fellow had explained to Barrowwhat science knew today and what it was guessing.Sometimes the dragons had been buried in mud, on land orunderwater, and the mud protected the corpse from its hungrycousins and gnawing rats. If there were no oxygen, thenthere couldn't be any rot. And that was the best of circumstances.Without rot, and buried inside a stable deep grave,an entire dragon could be kept intact, waiting for theblessed man to ride by on his happy camel.
Barrow was thirsty enough to moan, but he couldn't affordto stop now ...Year's Best Fantasy 5. Copyright © by David Hartwell. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
Excerpted from Year's Best Fantasy
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