by James Maxey
Anza sank lower in the water, hiding her lips beneath the surface. “I know more things than I tell Bitterwood,” said Zeeky. “I’m the only one who can hear the whispers that come from my magic ball. The villagers inside tell me things; they don’t always make sense. And half the time, they get stuff wrong. But knowing the future half the time ain’t bad.”
Anza continued to stare. Beneath the surface, her arms traced serpentine paths as she gracefully held her balance.
Zeeky looked around the riverbank, making certain they were alone. She reached into her bag and pulled out the heavy cotton towel she’d taken from the goddess’s abode. She unwrapped it, revealing a sphere of flawless crystal, about the size of a large orange, with a faint rainbow flickering in its center. Gazing into its surface here in the darkness, she once again caught a glimpse of the tiny tornadoes that bubbled into existence around the rainbow then just as quickly vanished. Wormholes, Gabriel had called them. They were shaped like trumpets, tinier than gnats. The angel had explained it was through these trumpets that her relatives trapped in underspace could speak to her. She listened closely, tilting her head as she tried to pull words out of the constant ghostly murmuring.
There was a soft splashing sound as Anza rose from the river and walked up the rocky shore. Zeeky tossed her a white cotton towel. Anza’s skin had looked almost snowy beneath the water, but against the white of the towel it was brown as a pecan shell. Her lips were tinted blue as she drew closer to Zeeky. She stooped to study the crystal ball while she used the towel to dry her hair.
“Listen,” said Zeeky. “Do you hear them?”
Anza leaned closer, holding her breath. A long moment passed before she let the air slide between her lips. She looked disappointed.
“I thought you might hear them,” said Zeeky. “Even though the goddess didn’t change your brain, you’ve changed your brain yourself.”
Anza cast a quizzical gaze at Zeeky.
“The villagers told me I would meet a girl with a stone in her throat. You can’t make the same sounds most people can; you can whistle, make tongue clicks, and some other sounds, right? If you’d wanted to communicate by sound, you could.”
Anza pursed her lips, as if she wasn’t ready to reveal her secrets.
“You also found out at an early age that by not talking, you were better at listening. You hear and see things other people don’t; you can smell and taste and feel things better too. I’m right, aren’t I?”
A hint of a smile flickered across Anza’s lips. She lifted a finger and made a shushing motion.
“Your secret’s safe with me,” said Zeeky. “But I was told something by the villagers before we left the cave. The stone is going to be taken out of your throat. You’ll be able to talk normally if you want. Would you like that?”
Anza narrowed her eyes and curled her lips downward, a look somewhere between disgust and skepticism.
“‘We shall all be healed,’ they whispered,” said Zeeky.
Anza tilted her head.
“I don’t know exactly what it means either,” said Zeeky. “I wanted to tell you before you leave us tonight.”
Anza’s eyebrows rose again.
“How did I know? According to my crystal ball, you’re going to leave us to go recover the shotgun Vulpine stole.”
Anza nodded, looking impressed.
“I wish I could tell you more,” said Zeeky. “But the villagers say that talking about the future runs the risk of changing it.”
Before they could discuss the matter further, there was a rustling sound in the nearby forest. Anza leapt like a doe back to her clothes on the rock, the white towel fluttering in the air where she’d released it mid-leap. She had her buckskins up over her shoulders in the span of seconds, though they gaped in the front, unlaced all the way down to below her belly button. She grabbed her sword and spun to face the rustling leaves.
Lizard scampered out from the woods. He skipped toward Zeeky, his fists full of fat white grubs. More grubs—or at least grub parts—spilled from his turtle-like beak as he chewed on his newly discovered treat.
He squatted before Zeeky and held out his treasure. “Good eat, wise boss,” he said.
Zeeky shook her head and pointed toward Poocher. “I’m vegetarian. Fat boss would enjoy them, though.”
Poocher grunted happily at the offering. He gave a snort as he rose and waddled over. Lizard looked at Poocher with an expression that conveyed awe—and also hunger. As Poocher’s skillful lips and tongue snatched the grubs one by one, Lizard chewed his own grubs more slowly. Zeeky knew what Lizard was thinking. It was almost cute that the little green turtle-monkey was seriously weighing his odds of making a meal out of Poocher. Almost.
“Don’t even think about it,” said Zeeky. “Poocher knocked a goddess onto her butt in the last fight he was in. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”
Poocher sneered at the little dragon.
“And don’t you go getting too cocky, Poocher,” said Zeeky. “Bitterwood says we’re retiring after we find Jeremiah. Your fighting days are almost over.”
Poocher narrowed his eyes and snorted.
“Yeah, you’re scary,” said Zeeky, scratching the pig’s bristly neck.
THEY FLEW THROUGH the night. Vulpine led the way, with Sagen and a squadron of fifty Aerial Guards at his back. Vulpine kept a pace that no doubt tested many of the guards, though most were a third his age. He wished he could fly even faster. A blockade should have been in place within hours after the rebels took the fort. Come the dawn, this strategic error would be rectified.
They were roughly forty miles from Dragon Forge. They’d veered south slightly to follow the river that flowed past the town. Sagen increased his speed and drew beside Vulpine. Vulpine admired Sagen’s power as his son’s finely chiseled muscles pumped in his breasts and shoulders to overtake him. Truly, the Matriarch had chosen well in pairing him with a valkyrie a quarter century earlier. Sagen was a fine specimen; if his intelligence was equal to his physique, the future success of the sky-dragon race was assured.
“I wonder what those fires are,” Sagen asked.
Vulpine scanned the horizon in the general direction of Sagen’s gaze. Multiple fires flickered in the distance. Vulpine was mildly disturbed he hadn’t spotted them on his own. Perhaps his eyes weren’t what they once were.
“Let’s find out.” Vulpine veered toward the lights. Perhaps these were campfires of humans journeying toward the forge. If so, it would be a satisfying warm-up to have the Aerial Guard deal with them. After they’d flown another mile, however, his eyes began to untangle the glowing riddle. It was the remains of a human farm. What had once been a large farmhouse, a barn, and various outbuildings were now little more than mounds of cinders where the occasional fire still burned.
Beyond the house was a five-acre field full of humanoid figures. He squinted. No, earth-dragons. They were too broad and squat to be humans, plus they had tails. They were not the only figures in the field.
“Your keen eyes may have earned us valuable allies,” Vulpine said to Sagen.
Vulpine soared over the burning buildings, the smoke stinging his eyes. He tilted his wings to slow his flight, drifting downward. Their descent was nearly silent as they landed a few dozen yards behind the mob of earth-dragons and were almost instantly spotted. A flurry of shouts ran among the assemblage as they all turned to face the sky-dragons.
“Greetings,” he called out. “I’m Vulpine, Slavecatcher General. I’ve been given authority to take command of Albekizan’s troops to establish a blockade of Dragon Forge. Who’s in charge here?”
Ninety-nine earth-dragon heads instantly swiveled to stare at a single beast. Beast was exactly the right term; this was the largest earth-dragon Vulpine had ever seen, over six feet tall and almost that broad across the shoulders. Unlike many soldiers, this earth-dragon wore no armor, and was naked save for a necklace of human teeth that draped round and round his shoulders. He carried a weapon in both hand
s that looked like a fence post topped with an anvil. His most arresting feature, aside from his overall mass, was his beak. Unlike the normal smooth lines resembling a turtle’s beak, this dragon’s bony jaws had been carved and chiseled into ragged, jagged edges that reminded Vulpine of the blade of a saw.
The beast stomped forward, drawing ever closer, as if his intent wasn’t to march to Vulpine, but to march over him. The squadron of Aerial Guards readied their weapons. Vulpine raised a fore-claw, motioning for them to remain still.
The beast stopped inches from Vulpine.
“I’m Sawface!” he yelled, at a volume appropriate only if Vulpine had been standing on the other side of the field. “These are my Wasters! I’m the top boss!” His breath smelled heavily of goom, the booze of choice among earth-dragons, fermented from cabbages and hot chilies.
Vulpine nodded respectfully, looking over Sawface’s shoulder. “I admire your artistry,” he said.
Beyond Sawface, fourteen human bodies were lashed to upright poles, like scarecrows in the field. They ranged in age from an elderly man to an infant. Not all were dead. Several were missing limbs. Two were missing heads. As frightening a scene as this presented, Vulpine was certain they would fail as scarecrows. No doubt by the following evening, crows would be devouring the eyes.
Sawface shouted, forcefully enough that Vulpine’s feather scales were stirred by the wind of his voice. “We slaughter men! All must die!”
“Yes,” said Vulpine. “Quite. However, if you rid the world of humans, who will grow the cabbages and chilies to make goom? Is a world without goom a world worth living in?”
Sawface opened his jaws to shout a response, but then some dim light flickered in his eyes.
Vulpine said, “I would like to engage your services in establishing a blockade around Dragon Forge. I can pay more gold than you can imagine. More importantly, I can supply you with all the goom you can possibly drink. I have full command of the kitchen barracks at the Dragon Palace. Join me, and I’ll have fifty wagons of the stuff rolling toward us before sunset.”
Sawface ground his lower jaw against his upper one, a grating noise like un-oiled, rusty gears grinding together inside the beast’s head. Finally, Sawface held up his weapon. “I want a chest of gold that weighs more than the head of my hammer!”
“Done,” said Vulpine. “I’ll double it, in fact, once you’ve performed a service for me.”
“Name it,” said Sawface.
“I want the four main roads leading to Dragon Forge decorated with these scarecrows of yours,” he said. “Two miles on each road should suffice. I understand it may take you some time to find enough bodies—”
“Do they need to be fresh?” asked Sawface, rubbing the underside of his jagged beak with his blood-encrusted hammer. His voice was quieter now. He almost sounded like he was thinking.
“I can’t see why.”
“Have your gold ready in a week,” said Sawface, gruffly, before turning and stomping back to the rest of his mob.
Vulpine looked back at Sagen. “That went well.”
“Shall I send one of the guards back to requisition the goom?”
“Of course not,” said Vulpine. “I gave the order for the wagons to roll before we left. I anticipated we would find remnants of Shandrazel’s army. In fact, it’s time we divide our forces. There are four main roads leading into Dragon Forge. Send ten guards to each to establish the blockades. Have your remaining guards spread throughout the area seeking out earth-dragons. Make them similar offers of gold and goom.”
Sagen nodded. “At once, sir. On which road will you be establishing your command post?”
“I won’t be establishing the command post. You will. Pick whichever road you think is most vital. I have other business I must attend to.”
“Other business, sir?”
“I need to pay a visit to the sun-dragon Rorg,” Vulpine said. He grimaced. “A most unpleasant task. Rorg tends to divide all of life’s problems into two categories: those he can solve by killing something, and those he can ignore. Dealing with him is always tedious.”
“How many guards will you need as an escort?”
“None,” said Vulpine. “I said he was tedious, not dangerous. The day I can no longer handle negotiations with a sun-dragon is the day you may build my funeral pyre.” He looked toward the east. The scarecrows were black silhouettes against a brightening sky. “A new day approaches,” he said. “The humans have had their moment of glory. Today begins their time of terror. When we’re done, they’ll be begging for our merciful guidance once more.”
GETTING TO THE top of the city wall was more challenging than Burke anticipated, especially with his crutch in his left hand and the case that held the spy-owl strapped to his back. The spy-owl weighed close to fifty pounds, which had the effect of pressing his belly up against the ladder, preventing him from seeing his remaining foot as it searched for the rungs. His aching arms supported most of his weight as he slowly worked his way up, one frustrating rung at a time.
Of course, he could have called out and any of the sky-wall bowmen would have run to his aid. But after all that time feeling helpless in his wheeled chair as his right leg died, he was eager to return to independent mobility. Getting around on his crutch felt like sprinting after his confinement to the chair.
He reached the top of the ladder and tossed his crutch onto the walkway that ran along the battlements. He grunted as he tried to slip the straps that held the spy-owl off his shoulder. Unfortunately, this threw off his center of gravity as he leaned backward. The ladder swayed slowly back from the wall.
A large brown boot, filthy with muck, slammed down onto the rung by his fingers, stopping the motion of the ladder. Stonewall stood above him, frowning as he looked down. Stonewall muttered something Burke didn’t quite catch, then leaned down and grabbed Burke’s wrist. Before Burke could protest, the giant lifted him, moving him through the air with no more effort than lifting a house cat.
Stonewall brought Burke even with his eyes. Despite his great size, Stonewall possessed youthful, even boyish features. His cheeks and chin were smooth, with no hint of beard, and the skin around his eyes was free of wrinkles or blemishes. His eyes were a piercing gray, the color of freshly cooled pig iron. His ebony hair framed his face in curly locks.
“You should be more careful,” Stonewall said, his voice deep as a sun-dragons, yet also gentle.
Burke nodded. “You can put me down now.” Stonewall sat Burke down. Burke hopped over to the wall and balanced against it while Stonewall handed him his crutch.
“Should you be up yet?” asked Stonewall. “You’ve only had a few days to recover from your surgery.”
“I can’t rest anymore,” said Burke, wrestling the spy-owl case from his shoulder. “There’s too much to be done. I’m tired of running this fort from a bed.”
Stonewall crossed his massive arms. His chainmail shirt rattled as he moved. “I was unaware you were running anything,” he said. “Ragnar commands this fort by God’s grace. You merely advise him.”
Burke didn’t want to argue with this oversized farm boy. He’d known the moment he’d signed up for this revolution that he’d do all the work and Ragnar would get all the glory. To be honest, he wanted things this way. He’d been one of the leaders of the Southern Rebellion twenty years ago, and in his dreams he still heard the screams of the men he’d led as the sun-dragon army tore them to shreds. This new rebellion may have been following his plans, but Ragnar’s fire and brimstone speeches were what motivated the men. Plus, Burke was blameless if these men chose to die for Ragnar’s glory.
Ignoring Stonewall, Burke flipped the brass clasps of the heavy case. Three legs dropped down, creating a tripod that the case balanced on. The panels of the case folded away revealing a brass statue of an owl almost two feet high. The owl’s glass eyes reflected his image in the soft morning light. He leaned, as if wiping away a smudge from the eye-lenses, but in reality it was some faint trace of
vanity that drew his eye. He’d bathed this morning for the first time in weeks. His hair was clean and shining, with three crimson feather-scales woven into the braid that draped over his shoulder. His spare spectacles made his brown eyes look oddly small, but for the first time in weeks the whites of his eyes were truly white, untainted by illness. Three parallel scars ran down his right cheek, testament to his first encounter with Charkon twenty years prior. Yet despite the scars and wrinkles, despite the gray that streaked his hair, he looked pretty good for a man who’d been at the gates of death only a few days before. He straightened up and spun the spy owl around to face the western road. It was two hours after sun-rise. Normally a stream of refugees, volunteers, and traders would gather around the city walls during the night. This morning, they were absent.
He leaned down and looked into the window in the back of the spy-owl’s head. An elaborate set of mirrors and lenses caught the light from two miles down the road and brought it crisply to his eyes.
It didn’t take him long to understand what he was looking at. A platoon of earth-dragons were lashing human corpses to poles set along the road-side. From the look of things, these weren’t fresh bodies. A trio of sky-dragons stood nearby, supervising. From their armor, Burke recognized them as members of the Aerial Guard .
“It took them long enough,” he said.
“It took who long enough for what?” asked Stonewall.
“A blockade. Earth-dragons and sky-dragons. We’ve had an easy couple of weeks since Shandrazel’s army collapsed. With two kings dying back to back, the second with no heir, there’s been no one to seize control of the earth-dragons and guide them into the rather obvious strategy of a blockade. They’ve been randomly running around the countryside killing people in an unfocused rage. They’ve made life miserable for people directly in their path, but as a strategy for retaking Dragon Forge, it has obvious shortcomings.”
“You shouldn’t speak so lightly of the people who’ve died due to the dragons’ rampage,” said Stonewall. “I’ve spoken to many of the refugees. They’ve seen horrible things.”
