Dragonseed

by James Maxey

  With a motion smooth and certain as clockwork, she ran the blade across his throat in a precision that brought pressure but no pain. Bazanel raised his fore-talons and found blood gushing from his neck. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a bubbling wheeze. He fell to the floor, fighting to breathe.

  Above him, Anza sucked in air as the gob of flaming oil burned through her buckskin. She placed her gloved fingers over the flame to squelch it.

  On the far side of the table, the oil in the floor erupted. Anza strode toward it. Seconds later, a stack of Bazanel’s notes fell into the center of the flames. Spots danced before his eyes as she tore a second lantern from the wall and poured its oil over the fire, trailing away to lead the flames to bookcases and shelves full of chemicals.

  She ended near the bench where he’d been testing the gunpowder he’d already made. He could no longer keep his eyes open. He drifted into darkness as his blood pumped away. He heard the soft pad of Anza’s moccasins walk through the blood that pooled before him.

  Bazanel’s greatest regret was that he wasn’t going to be alive a moment from now. He was going to miss the grandest explosion ever to come from his laboratory.

  ANZA WAS WELL into the woods when the third explosion shook the earth. Ahead in the darkness, her horse whinnied loudly. The Golden Tower was simply gone, with only a cloud of reddish smoke billowing into the evening sky to give evidence that it had ever been there. Seconds later, chunks of gravel began to rain down. She took shelter behind the trunk of a large pine.

  She looked down at the red and blistered skin a few inches below her left collarbone. The oil had burned through her buckskin in an almost perfect circle, though the edges of the buckskin were curled up like little teeth.

  The teeth and the circle combined in the dim light to look like one of the toothy wheels in her father’s clockwork animals. The burn would leave a scar in the shape of a cog right above her heart.

  Her machine heart.

  Were Bazanel’s word’s true? Had her father raised her only as a machine for killing? Growing up in the tavern, listening to the ceaseless, mindless chatter of the patrons, she’d realized that their heads must be full of words. While she understood words, she didn’t often think with them. Instead, her thoughts were formed by movements. She lived in a world of ceaseless motion, and understood intimately her relationship to that motion. She was swift and sure enough to pluck an arrow from the air. Other people moved as if their bodies were puppets being pulled by the strings of their graceless thoughts. Her body and mind functioned as a single mechanism.

  As the rain of gravel ceased, she headed deeper into the woods. She wanted to return to Dragon Forge, to warn her father that Thorny was a spy. However, it sounded as if the secret of gunpowder was carried by a lone messenger. A single scroll carried the formula. Perhaps there was still hope of protecting the secret. Her next destination would be the Dragon Palace. She grimaced as she thought of the hard ride before her, back to the very place she’d just left. Her butt was already sore enough.

  She smiled. No machine would ever complain of the work before it. There was a human heart within her after all.

  JEREMIAH WAS TOO terrified to scream as the wind buffeted his body. He was wrapped up tightly inside a scratchy blanket that smelled like stale pee, tied securely with ropes. The sky-dragon who carried him, Vulpine, grunted from time to time as they flew. It sounded as if he were straining to remain in the air with Jeremiah’s weight. With his face covered by the blanket, Jeremiah had no way of knowing how high they were. Having been raised in the mountains, he was used to high places, and had no fear of standing at the edge of a cliff to stare out over a valley. This was something far different, though. He imagined they must be high enough to touch the moon.

  All his life, Jeremiah had heard that winged dragons could snatch up children. He used to have nightmares about it. Now, his nightmare was coming true. The dragon’s long wings beat the air, carrying them ever higher. Despite being completely enwrapped, the cold air stabbed through the thin blanket, turning his skin to ice.

  He had no way of measuring time, save for a slight brightening and darkening of the threadbare fabric before him as day passed into night, then brightened into day again. Three times, Vulpine stopped to rest for what felt like hours, but never once offered Jeremiah any food or water. Jeremiah remained still as a corpse the entire time, afraid that any movement might cause the dragon to attack him.

  The fourth time they landed, something was different. Jeremiah was dropped to the ground roughly, but he paid little attention to the impact. He could hear voices. There was a delicious smell heavy in the air, like fish being cooked over coals.

  “Sir,” someone said. “Welcome back. How was your journey?”

  “As delightful as I thought it would be, Sagen.” Vulpine chuckled, a low sound that made Jeremiah shiver. “Rorg, as ever, is a font of invigorating conversation.”

  “Did he give you what you wanted?”

  The blanket that held him was lifted by the ropes around his shoulders. He was set to his feet. Vulpine’s claw snagged the rope for a second. With a grunt he jerked his claw free. The rope suddenly felt slack.

  “He doesn’t look like much,” said Sagen.

  “We’ll fatten him up,” said Vulpine. “He’ll make a fine meal.”

  Jeremiah bit his lower lip to keep from crying out. Why would they want to eat him? He was nothing but bones!

  Vulpine said, “Throw him in my tent for now. We’ll clean him up later and put him in the meat pens.”

  Jeremiah thought he might faint.

  “Sir?” said Sagen, sounding skeptical. “Your tent isn’t terribly secure. What if he slipped free of his ropes? He might crawl out the back.”

  “Bah,” Vulpine said dismissively. “Those ropes have held so far. He won’t be going anywhere.”

  “I hope not, sir. Dragon Forge is only a few miles away. It’s the stronghold of the human rebellion. If he reached it, we’d never get him back.”

  Jeremiah caught his breath. What human rebellion? If he could wriggle free… but, almost the instant he felt hope flickering, it was squashed again by Vulpine’s voice.

  “Even if this future meal did escape, how could he find the fortress? He doesn’t even know where he is.”

  Jeremiah sagged as he contemplated this reality.

  “But, sir,” protested Sagen. “At night the foundries glow like a beacon. And by day, anyone could follow the smoke from the smokestacks.”

  Vulpine laughed. “You act like this is a dragon we’re talking about. This is a muck-slave, not clever enough to slip out of his ropes, crawl under the tent flaps in the back, then search the sky for clues as to which direction he should run. You worry too much.”

  “Of course, sir,” said the other dragon.

  Jeremiah was lifted up by the rope around his hips. He was carried a few dozen yards, then tossed unceremoniously into a place where the sounds of voices and the smell of cooking were more muted. The ropes around his shoulder snapped completely as he hit the ground. He wriggled, freeing his head. He was inside a tent. It was dark, with only a few faint rays of light seeping through the flap that covered the door. He wriggled more. He was suddenly grateful he was skinny. He started kicking, and was free of the blanket in no time.

  He looked around. The place was sparsely furnished; only a few cushions piled in the corner to serve as a bed. A small crate sat next to the cushions, and atop it sat a long knife in a sheath. He grabbed it and pulled the weapon out. He stood quietly and listened to the dragons just outside the tent. He crouched as they passed, and grabbed the blanket. It was so cold he could see his breath in front of him; despite the stench, he draped the blanket over his shoulders like a cloak.

  He dropped to his knees beside the back wall of the tent and peeked under a gap he found there. He could see no dragons in this direction, only bushes. Off in the distance, beyond some low hills, there was a red smear of smoke and clouds in the sky.<
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  Clutching the knife tightly, he rolled beneath the tent flap and scurried for the bushes.

  VULPINE WATCHED AS the small, shadowy figure crept up the hill. Sagen shook his head in amazement.

  “I can’t believe he fell for that,” said Sagen.

  Vulpine chuckled. “I’m a bit surprised myself. You lack talent as an actor, I fear. Could you possibly have been any more wooden in the delivery of your lines?”

  “I’m a soldier, not an actor,” said Sagen.

  Vulpine placed his fore-talon on Sagen’s shoulder. “I cannot possibly express how happy I am this is so.”

  Sagen looked away, embarrassed by the praise. He watched as the boy vanished over the hill. “You’re sure he’s infected?”

  “He’d better be. I’d hate to think I carried him wrapped in that reeking corpse blanket all this way for nothing. But if we waited for him to develop symptoms, it would be too late. We need him to get inside while he still looks healthy. How goes the blockade?”

  “It’s… solid,” said Sagen.

  “I sense some doubt in your voice.”

  Sagen shook his head. “There’s no need for concern. The blockade is perfect. We’re penning up the healthy humans we find on the road as you ordered. Whatever their lives once were, they’ll be sent to the slave markets. I did, however, deviate slightly from your orders.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve allowed some of the more pathetic refugees to pass through. Men who are too blind, lame, or old to be of any use. My calculation is that this gives the humans more mouths to feed without giving them any more warriors to stand against us.”

  Vulpine nodded slowly, appreciating his son’s cleverness.

  Sagen still seemed tense, however. “There is… one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Some of the guard has gone missing.”

  “Some?”

  “Four.”

  “Do you suspect humans killed them?”

  Sagen clamped his jaw shut. He looked as if he were choosing his next words carefully. “I must also report that four valkyries have gone missing.”

  “Ah,” said Vulpine. “I see why the math concerns you.”

  “The members of my guard are unaccustomed to working so closely with females, sir. I’ve noticed… unprofessional behavior. I’ve established the highest standards of discipline possible, but … bluntly, sir, I don’t trust the valkyries. Their commander for this blockade is named Arifiel. She’s too young for her duties. I fear she can’t keep her soldiers in control.”

  “I’ve never heard of her, I admit. Still, her youth is unsurprising. The Nest lost over 800 valkyries to the Murder God. I imagine this created gaps in their ranks that required many premature promotions. That said, the matriarch is committed to this cause and wouldn’t have chosen Arifiel lightly. I’ll talk to her.”

  Sagen nodded, apparently satisfied that Vulpine would solve the problem. Vulpine wasn’t as confident. There was a reason the sexes had been separated for centuries. Military discipline was a powerful force; hormones and instinct, however, were just as powerful, and sometimes more so.

  “Shall I continue the policy of allowing the more pathetic refugees access to the fort? Arifiel disagreed with the policy. She said that, should the rebels eventually turn to cannibalism to deal with food shortages, we’re simply helping stock their larder.”

  “If it reaches that stage,” said Vulpine, staring at the blood-tinted clouds that hung over the fort like an omen of doom, “I think we can chalk this up as a victory.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN:

  VIOLENCE AS AN ACCEPTABLE ARGUMENT

  SKITTER RACED DOWN the winding hillside path at a speed that would have put the fastest horse to shame. The winter wind stung Bitterwood’s eyes. Whenever he blinked, dozens of yards had passed. At the bottom of the hill was a broad rocky stream crossed by a covered bridge. Skitter shot into the darkness of the bridge without hesitation. His claws raced through the wooden structure like a drum roll. A second later they were back in daylight, and Bitterwood squinted as the sun glinted on Skitter’s coppery scales.

  When Bitterwood first laid eyes on a long-wyrm he hadn’t put any thought into whether or not he should kill it. It was big, it had scales, it would die. He had dispatched that first long-wyrm in a matter of seconds, despite being armed with nothing more than a fireplace poker. Twenty years of constant war with dragons had honed his reflexes to a razor’s edge, and his pure and total hatred of all dragons was quick to draw that edge across any serpentine throat.

  So Bitterwood was a more than a little disturbed that he was starting to like Skitter. Over the course of his personal war on dragons, he’d traveled many thousand miles on horseback. He was, among his almost endless list of sins, a horse-thief many times over. He’d developed good judgment in sizing up any horse he met. Skitter surpassed them all. The big lizard could gallop along at twice the speed of the swiftest steed. His stamina was phenomenal as well. No horse could cover a hundred miles before resting the way Skitter could. And when Bitterwood had ridden horses at a full gallop for even a few miles, his body paid for it. Riding a horse at full speed was demanding work. Riding Skitter was like riding the wind. He moved with such smoothness it was easy to believe the beast was flying.

  If it had only been Skitter’s advantages as a steed that Bitterwood admired, he wouldn’t have been uncomfortable. He was also starting to appreciate the aesthetics of the beast. The copper-colored scales caught the sun the way that goldfish had flashed in the fountains at Chakthalla’s palace. The sheen also reminded him of the metallic wings of the angel Gabriel. Bitterwood had slain Gabriel without remorse. When Zeeky had found Skitter on the shores of the goddess’s island, Bitterwood had assumed he’d eventually kill the beast. Now, he couldn’t imagine hurting Skitter. Riding the long-wyrm stirred unfamiliar emotions within him. As they crested the next hill and zoomed down into another gray-green valley he felt something he suspected might be joy. For two decades, he’d seldom felt a moment of peace, let alone happiness.

  Something was changing within him. Instead of planning his next kill, his thoughts these days were more like dreams. He would rescue Jeremiah, then take the boy and Zeeky, Skitter and, yes, even Poocher, and ride far away from here, beyond the Cursed Mountains, to a land where there were no men or dragons. He’d build a small cabin, and hunt deer rather than winged serpents. He could once again have a family, or something not unlike a family.

  The idea made him… hopeful? Could this actually be hope? He frowned, remembering his advice to Jandra in the shadow of the Free City.

  Life is easier without hope.

  NIGHT HAD FALLEN when they finally reached the caverns. The bones scattered around the big hole were stark white in the pale moonlight. Red light glowed deep inside the cavern, and smoke rose from dozens of holes around the forests. The ground beneath them vibrated and an unearthly howl rose from the mouth of the cave. It was the sound of dozens of dragons singing in unison.

  Bitterwood watched from a grove of trees at the edge of the bone-field as a trio of sun-dragons spiraled down from the sky and crawled into the hole, summoned by the otherworldly song.

  Bitterwood grunted at the new arrivals. “Beastialists,” he said.

  “Beastialists?” asked Zeeky.

  “You noticed none of them carried spears? Beastialists think it’s a show of weakness. They believe the only weapons a dragon needs are his teeth, his only armor his hide.”

  “Their hide looks pretty tough to me,” she said, as yet another big bull dragon drifted down to land in the bone-field. It paused, sniffing the air. Bitterwood tensed. Could it smell Skitter? Finally, the dragon turned and skulked into the cavern.

  “Trust me,” said Bitterwood. “Sun-dragon hide is tough enough. Hit a dragon on his breast scales with the edge of a sword and you’ll be lucky to scratch him. But I can put an arrow through two inches of oak—a dragon’s hide isn’t as tough as that. Once an arrow has punched through
the hide, the veins of a dragon bleed as freely as any other animal.”

  “You really know a lot about dragons,” said Zeeky. She was finally accepting the fact that Bitterwood was, in fact, Bitterwood. When they’d first met, she thought he was lying.

  “I’ve taken enough apart to know how they’re put together. The breast scales are tough, but there are plenty of spots on a dragon where the hide is no thicker than your skin, some with big arteries right beneath them. I can kill a dragon without damaging the meat if I need to. I’d make a good butcher.”

  Zeeky furrowed her brow. “You wouldn’t eat a dragon, would you?” She had strong opinions on what should and should not be food.

  “Fighting dragons is hard work,” he said, apologetically. “I get hungry.”

  He looked at Poocher, who he could swear was grinning. The pig appeared to be taking pleasure at Bitterwood’s discomfort. “I told you I was a dragon-slayer when I met you,” he said. “If I’m willing to kill them, I should be willing to eat them. It would be wasteful otherwise.”

  “You killed Jazz also,” Zeeky said. “And all those long-wyrm riders. Would you have eaten them?”

  “I’m not a cannibal.”

  “Dragons talk,” Zeeky said. “Even you can understand them. I talk with dogs and owls and horses. I talk with long-wyrms and ravens and pigs. They’re all smart creatures who don’t deserve to be eaten.”

  Poocher snorted, as if saying, “Amen!” Bitterwood didn’t plan on giving up bacon, but right now wasn’t the time to debate it.

  “I don’t want you eating dragons any more,” she said.

  “Do you mind if I go in now? I should warn you I might kill a dragon or two trying to save your brother.”

  “There’s a difference between killing to eat and killing to save a life,” she said patiently.