Dragonseed

by James Maxey

  Vance shook his head. There was something disturbing about the way he wasn’t looking directly at Burke. Did he come bearing bad news?

  “We thought we weren’t going to make it,” Thorny said. “The dragons have every road into town blocked off. Worse, they’ve lined the roads with corpses. Even if the roads weren’t guarded, I don’t think many people would be coming here. They took all the refugees from Burke’s Tavern captive. All the healthy people they’ve gathered into a holding pen, to be sold as slaves. The sickest of us, they let through the blockade. There was me, Vance, and old Dealon. Unfortunately, Dealon was weakened from the journey and worn down by the terror of walking past all those corpses. He’s dead, Burke. Fell to the ground not a half mile from the gate.”

  Burke lowered his head. When Ragnar had started his little rebellion, Burke had refused to let anyone else from his village join his army, hoping to shield them from the worst of what was to come. Dealon had been the first man to welcome him to Burke’s Tavern. He’d been outgoing, kind, and didn’t have an enemy in the world. He didn’t deserve a death like this.

  “I guess it makes a sort of cold strategic logic to let the old and infirm through the blockade. But Vance, you’re young and healthy. How’d you slip through?”

  Vance shook his head. “I’m blind,” he said. “I took a bad blow to my head. The world’s been dark since. I’m useless now.”

  “Don’t think that,” said Burke. “You’re a brave kid with a good head on his shoulders. I’ll find useful work for you.” He looked back to Thorny. “As for you, the dragons obviously don’t know what a treasure they’ve given us by letting a man with your know-how slip through.”

  “I don’t hold a candle to you, Burke,” said Thorny. “And it’s not like I can handle a wrench anymore.”

  “You know how to read a plan, though. More importantly, you know how to spot a flaw in a plan. I can’t wait for you to see the Angry Beetle.”

  Vance sagged at these words. Burke bit his lip, realizing the word “see” might have been a poor choice. “I’m going to need some help standing up,” Burke said, lifting his hand.

  Thorny placed his useless claws onto Vance’s wrist and guided the young man’s healthy hand to Burke’s outstretched fingers. “It looks like war has taken a bite out of you as well,” said Thorny.

  “It was just a leg,” said Burke. “Not even my favorite one.”

  As Vance helped him stand, he asked, “What happened to the girl? The one talking about how we’d all be healed? Did Ragnar kill her?”

  Burke nodded. Then, catching himself, he said, “Yes.”

  Vance shook his head slowly. “When I heard about Ragnar, me and Vinton left Stony Ford to join him, thinking he was a hero. Now I’m thinking he’s a monster.”

  Burke looked around. Some of the Mighty Men were nearby, talking about who was going into the well. If they’d heard Vance’s words, they didn’t react.

  “Sometimes, to fight monsters, you need an ally who’s a bigger monster,” said Burke. “For better or worse, there are men in this fort who are willing to die for Ragnar. I don’t like him and I don’t trust him. I know he feels the same about me. But we both know that we need each other if we’re going to reach our goals. Ragnar needs me to build weapons. I need him to build armies that will put those weapons to good use. As long as we have the dragons to fight, we’ll muddle through. It’s what happens after we defeat the dragons that’s going to be messy.”

  Vance nodded. “Did I hear the girl offering you something to eat? ‘Cause I’m starving.”

  “You don’t want what she was offering. Come on back to the shop,” he said, hopping around, his hand on the well for balance. He crouched down on his one leg to reach his crutch. “I’ve got some grub there. Nothing fancy, but you’ll sleep with full bellies tonight.”

  “What was she offering?” asked Vance.

  “A lot of nonsense, mostly,” said Burke. “Blasphet possessed an unparalleled knowledge of poisons. She must have ingested something that drove her crazy.”

  “But what was she talking about? The dragonseed?”

  He couldn’t fault the boy for his curiosity. Burke took the seed Shanna had given him and placed it in Vance’s palm for the boy to examine. “They’re like big watermelon seeds. I can’t even guess what plant they come from. But I’m not so desperate that I’m going to put something strange in my mouth because an obviously insane woman promises it will heal me.”

  Vance rolled the large black seed between his fingers. “Yeah,” he said. “Only a fool would fall for something like that.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN:

  MACHINE HEART

  BAZANEL, THE MOST acclaimed chemist among the sky-dragons, stood before the black slate wall in the Golden Tower of the College of Spires, writing out the recipe for gunpowder. He turned and faced his guest, nervously rolling the small rod of bone-white chalk in his left fore-talon. Suddenly self-conscious of his fidgeting, he put the chalk down. With the single remaining claw on his mangled right fore-talon, he scratched at the scaleless mass of scar-tissue where his ear used to be and cleared his throat.

  “The key component is saltpeter… potassium nitrate. This contains three oxygen molecules, bound to one molecule of potassium and one of nitrogen. When mixed with the other compounds it’s stable until energy is introduced. The oxygen unbinds, then rebinds, producing explosive combustion.”

  The sky-dragon seated upon a leather cushion looked at the board with a blank stare. Unlike the students he normally lectured, this guest probably had little training in chemistry. She was a valkyrie, a female sky-dragon, one of the warriors who guarded the Nest.

  Ordinarily, sky-dragons lived with the complete segregation of the sexes. The extraordinary events of recent weeks had produced the current cooperation. The aerial guard had always been a small force, and it had suffered losses in the battle of the Free City. The valkyries had lost hundreds during Blasphet’s assault on the Nest. Only a combination of forces could now have a hope of restoring order to the fractured land.

  Bazanel could count on his claws the number of times he’d been in the presence of a female of his species—even though he had fewer claws than most. Breeding was strictly controlled by the matriarch, the leader of the Nest who guided the genetic destiny of the sky-dragons. Male sky-dragons who excelled in scholarship were rewarded with the opportunity to breed so that their desirable traits might remain in the species.

  At the age of fifty-four, Bazanel had never been invited to the Nest, though he was widely acclaimed as the most knowledgeable chemist the biologians had ever produced. No doubt his physical appearance had some bearing in this decision. He’d long had a special interest in the study of unstable chemicals. A side-effect of this interest meant that more than half of his body was marred by scar tissue. He was completely deaf in his right ear and plagued by incessant ringing in the left. Holes riddled both wings, rendering him flightless. His once fine tail was now only a stub. And yet, against all odds, his reproductive organs remained intact. Genetically, he was a whole being. The matriarch had to know this. Why was he snubbed?

  The valkyrie’s name was Rachale; she had several burn wounds along her neck, still red and puffy. During the attack on the Nest, some of Blasphet’s forces had used a crude flame-thrower—no doubt she was a veteran of this battle.

  She asked, “You’re certain saltpeter can be found in bat guano?”

  “Oh yes,” said Bazanel. “Most abundantly. It’s in any number of other sources as well—almost any urine will have the necessary components. Caves merely provide a convenient, stable environment for the crystals to grow.”

  “Given your knowledge of the ingredients, how much gunpowder do you think the rebels could have made in this short period?”

  “Perhaps quite a bit,” said Bazanel. “Some of the ancient waterworks in that area have been the undisturbed home of bats for centuries.”

  Rachale nodded slowly. “We’re placing a great deal o
f faith that you’ve gotten this right.”

  “This requires no faith” said Bazanel. “This is chemistry. If you follow the formulas I’ve provided you, you will manufacture gunpowder by the barrelful. I stake my reputation as a scholar upon it.”

  “It isn’t your reputation as a scholar that causes our concern,” said Rachale. “It’s your reputation for carelessness.”

  “I see,” said Bazanel. Her use of the word “our” was of interest to him. Was this an opinion of the matriarch?

  “Over the course of the last three decades, you’ve gutted four towers, caused structural damage to six others, killed two students, seventeen human slaves, and injured countless more. You’re lucky to be alive. Luckier still, I think, that Chapelion has allowed you to retain your position. At the Nest, such carelessness wouldn’t be tolerated.”

  Bazanel drew his shoulders back and tilted his chin upward. Rachale’s words displayed such staggering ignorance that, if all females were this limited in their intellect, he was grateful he’d never been invited to breed.

  “Chapelion understands that mine is the work of a pioneer. I’ve expanded the frontiers of knowledge. My scars are badges of honor, not marks of shame. I believe this meeting is over. Return to Chapelion with my report. He will have the intellect to appreciate the treasure I’m giving him.”

  Without waiting for her reply, he turned and limped toward the staircase that spiraled down the outer rim of the tower. Rachale’s accusation festered in his mind. Carelessness? Carelessness? In his indignity, a previously unthinkable course of action formed in his mind.

  The action he contemplated violated the most fundamental moral code of the sky-dragons, but they had pushed him to this. It was time for him to draft the most scathing letter any dragon had ever crafted, a letter that would make the matriarch weep with shame when confronted with the tremendous injustice she’d perpetrated.

  His rage was still burning by the time he limped his way into his laboratory in the cellar. The cool, musty air calmed him somewhat. The familiar smell of his lab soothed him further. He did note, however that the atmosphere reeked of lamp-oil.

  When he pushed open the door, he found his laboratory in complete darkness. Why had Festidian allowed the lanterns to burn out? The young biologian was normally much more diligent.

  “Festidian?” he asked. No one answered.

  Bazanel stepped into the room slowly, groping his way forward until he bumped into his lab table. He carefully swept his scarred claws across it until he found the beaker he was looking for. He had a nugget of phosphorous within, stored under a two-inch layer of oil to keep if from contact with the air. He found a glass dish and poured the contents of the beaker onto it. In the shallow dish, the phosphorous, now exposed to air, took on a faint green glow. Seconds later it began to spit sparks, setting the oil in the dish on fire. The nugget now blazed like a shard of the sun. Stark shadows were cast on the wall. The phosphorous hissed as it burned. The smell brought to mind toasted garlic.

  “Festidian?” he called out, more forcefully. No answer.

  Bazanel shrugged. Perhaps, Festidian had slipped back to his chambers to catch a nap. He’d worked the young dragon to the point of exhaustion. Ever since the shotgun and the ammo belt had been brought to the College of Spires, Bazanel had heard the ticking of a clock in the back of his mind. He instantly recognized the importance of the compound and knew it was vital to the survival of all dragons to match the humans' sudden advantage in power.

  He walked to one of the wall lanterns to light it, so that he might have a softer, steadier light than the overly energetic phosphorous and the flickering oil. He slipped as he neared the wall. A sharp pain sliced into his left hind-talon.

  Oil covered the floor. A shard of glass jutted from the outer pad of his talon. The lantern was broken—a polished steel tomahawk was buried into the tin well that held the oil. The glass globe was gone. The stark, flickering shadows had hid the damage from him until he was right on top of it.

  “Oh no,” he whispered, understanding the full implications of what he saw.

  He spun around, slipping again in the oil, reaching out to the table edge to steady himself.

  “Festidian?” he whispered again, though now he knew there would be no answer.

  He looked across the table, toward the locked cabinet where he kept the rarer substances he studied, including the recently delivered shotgun. The lock was gone, the wood where it had once hung was splintered.

  His eyes searched the dancing shadows. “Sh-show yourself,” he said. “I know who you are.” His pounding heart drowned out the sizzle of the phosphorus.

  “Y-your name is Andzanuto,” he said, addressing his unseen visitor. “It’s the Cherokee word for heart. Thor Nightingale tells me you father calls you Anza. He… your father… he’s now called Burke. Twenty years ago, he was better known as Kanati the Machinist. He was once my friend.”

  Again, his words were met with silence. He edged his way around the table, his fore-talon gripping the thick oak to maintain his balance. Where was she?

  “There’s no point in hiding,” he said. “Kanati wouldn’t have sent you to only recover the gun. The weapon was unmistakably of his design. Who else would have bothered with the decorative scale pattern? No doubt, he wants you to destroy all records of my research. You’re too late. I’ve given a scroll with the formula to a valkyrie who even now carries it back to Chapelion. The secret cannot be contained.”

  He reached the cabinet. The padlock lay in the floor, still intact. She’d simply torn the metal braces that held it from the wood. That security flaw would have to be remedied, obviously. He opened the cabinet and peered inside. The shotgun was gone.

  Bazanel took a deep breath. His heart rate slowed. She could have killed him by now. Did she know of his relationship with her father?

  “Years ago, while I was still a student—five years before the failed rebellion at Conyers—I heard the legend of the Anudahdeesdee. I wasn’t blind to the fact that dragons thrived among the ruins of a once dominant human culture. It was said that your people were dedicated to preserving secrets from the Human Age. I traveled through the southern foothills to find them—only to be almost killed when I did so. I fled, grievously wounded, taking refuge in the City of Skeletons. Your father found me there. He nursed my wounds. He said he’d long wanted to talk to a biologian. Much of the knowledge his people preserved had been corrupted or lost. Kanati knew that biologians were dedicated to scholarship, and thought that by sharing our research, we might improve the knowledge of both species. We began a long correspondence. Of course, the rebellion at Conyers put an end to this.”

  Bazanel sighed, shaking his head. “Such a waste. Humans accomplished so much in their time as the only intelligent species. With the rise of dragons, species equal, if not superior, to human intellects, the mind power available to solve the world’s problems doubled. The world should have entered a golden age. Instead, wars and plagues and hatred have reduced both men and dragons to shadows of their possible greatness.”

  He shut the cabinet and leaned against it, weary. He hadn’t slept in two days.

  “Several years after the fall of Conyers, I learned of a clever inventor named Burke. There was no mistaking that this was, in truth, Kanati. I sent Thorny to find him. Over the years, he’s served as my spy, sending me news of Burke’s inventions. I’ve paid him well for his efforts, though from what I’ve heard, he gives all his money to your father in exchange for alcohol.”

  Bazanel paused, listening for a response. Still nothing. Was it possible he was talking only to his imagination?

  “Thorny told me about you, Anza. He says you’re an unsurpassed warrior. You are your father’s ultimate invention… a killing machine, crafted from muscle and bone instead of cogs and springs.”

  This time, when there was no reply, the last of the fear drained from Bazanel. She must have taken the shotgun and fled, thinking her mission was over. He was reminded of Kanati
’s clockwork-driven beasts. They could give the impression of intelligence in a limited series of tasks, such as moving a chess piece, or playing an instrument. But beyond this narrow range of abilities they had no awareness at all, no capacity for independent thought. Perhaps this was true of Anza as well. In raising her with a single-minded focus on killing, no doubt other aspects of her intelligence had been allowed to wither.

  Now that he no longer feared for his life, the pain in his talon took dominance in his mind. He snaked his long neck down to better examine the sliver of glass. As his head lowered below the lip of the table, he discovered most of Festidian's corpse beneath, his wings neatly folded. “Oh dear,” he said, rising.

  Anza stood on the other side of the table. The tomahawk was gone from the ruined lantern behind her left shoulder. Sheaths filled with blades of various sizes ran along her arms and legs. Her hands hung down by her side, hidden by the edge of the table.

  Bazanel whispered, in a dry, trembling voice: “What did you do with his head?”

  Anza lifted up her grisly trophy, a scaly blue head with a pale gray tongue hanging loosely from the jaws. Festidian’s eyes were open slightly, gleaming like polished amber in the phosphor luminance.

  Anza tossed the head toward Bazanel. Reflexively, he caught it. He looked down at the severed head, at the high crown of Festidian’s fine skull. Such a magnificent specimen. He hoped that the matriarch wouldn’t hold a prejudice against Festidian’s mating simply because of his association with Bazanel.

  Not that it mattered, he realized.

  When he looked back to Anza, she held a long, razor-edged sword. He instantly recognized the work as Kanati’s.

  “Before you kill me, there’s one last thing I’d like to point out,” he said.

  She cocked her head.

  “You’re the one standing in lamp oil.” He hurled his former assistant’s head at the oil-filled plate sitting in the center of the table. The flaming oil splashed toward Anza. Rather than leaping away, however, she leapt up, springing onto the table as the blazing fluid splattered across her torso. She paid no heed to a fist-sized gob of fire that flickered at the top of her left breast as she somersaulted to land on the table before Bazanel.