Dragonseed

by James Maxey

  “Rabbit!” one of the shadows shouted. “Time for another lesson!”

  Jeremiah blinked, bringing Burr and Presser into focus.

  “I-I’ve got to peel potatoes,” he said, his voice faint and quavering.

  Presser stomped inside and grabbed him by the wrist. He dragged Jeremiah toward the open door and threw him into the street.

  “Everyone fights! You don’t fight, you don’t eat!” Presser yelled.

  Jeremiah lay on the cold, packed earth of the street. A crowd was already starting to gather. Burr’s feet came round to his face. His boots were scuffed and worn. The right sole was peeling away at the toe, revealing a gray wool sock.

  A sheathed sword dropped to the ground next to Jeremiah’s hand.

  “Get up,” said Burr.

  Jeremiah shook his head.

  “Get up or I’ll kick the snot out of you,” Burr said.

  “I feel sick,” said Jeremiah.

  “You feel chicken,” said Burr. “Presser, help him up.”

  Presser leaned down and grabbed Jeremiah by the hair. He pulled and Jeremiah found the motivation to rise to his hands and knees, then to his feet. Presser let him go and Jeremiah stood, swaying in the bright sunlight, feeling the world spinning beneath him.

  “Pick up your sword, Rabbit,” Burr said.

  Jeremiah didn’t move. It wasn’t fear that held him motionless. In truth, he didn’t feel anything at all beyond the terrible dizziness. It took all his will to stay on his feet.

  “He looks like he’s about to faint,” Presser said with a giggle.

  Jeremiah felt like he was about to faint.

  “This will wake him up,” said Burr. He charged forward and delivered a powerful punch to Jeremiah’s gut. Jeremiah instantly vomited, spraying a jet of thin yellow fluid as he doubled over.

  Burr cursed as he staggered backwards, wiping the vomit from his face.

  Presser giggled as Jeremiah fell back to the dust. He vomited again, heaving and heaving. He was stunned by the amount of liquid pouring from him. He hadn’t eaten a thing all day, and had only taken a few sips of water.

  Presser continued to giggle, but the rest of the crowd grew deathly quiet. The circle of men drew back further, dispersing. Some of the men took off running. Only as he watched the frightened reaction of the crowd did Presser’s giggles trail off.

  Jeremiah stared with unfocused eyes as a pair of black boots came up from behind the crowd. The crowd parted at their approach. The man who wore the boots fearlessly approached Jeremiah, kneeling before him, rolling him onto his back. The man was white haired, his face dimpled with countless scars. His left ear was nothing but a mess of scabby ribbons. The white-haired man looked down with concerned eyes. On one of his hands, several of the fingers were set in splints. He pressed the back of this hand to Jeremiah’s forehead. He pulled open Jeremiah’s mouth with his good hand, tilting to better see inside, and frowned.

  “Whose son is this?” the man asked the crowd.

  “He arrived alone,” said Presser. “Said he’d escaped from Vulpine himself. He’s been working in the kitchen since.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “We’ve been calling him Rabbit.”

  Jeremiah swallowed, then whispered, “Juh…Jeremiah, sir.”

  “Where’d you come from?”

  “F-from the m-mountains,” he said, his teeth beginning to chatter as chills seized him. “B-Big Lick. I w-was sold into s-slavery.”

  “To which dragon?” the man asked.

  “R-r-rorg.”

  A second pair of boots approached. These were the biggest feet he’d ever seen on a man. A deep voice asked, “What’s happening, Frost?”

  Frost shook his head. “Stonewall, you don’t want to know.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” said the big man.

  “This boy has yellow-mouth. Probably contracted it in Rorg’s cavern.”

  “You’re right,” said Stonewall. “I didn’t want to know that.”

  “And he’s been working in the kitchen.”

  “Oh.” Stonewall was silent as he contemplated this news. “Can yellow-mouth spread through—”

  “Yes,” said Frost. “Since he can still talk, he’s not yet in the final phase. He won’t live too many more days, though. I had the disease when I was his age, but I was healthy. He’s half-starved and infested with lice. He won’t make it.”

  Stonewall rubbed his eyes. “How widespread do you think—”

  “He worked in the damn kitchen,” snapped Frost. “Everyone in Dragon Forge is at risk.”

  “You’ve survived the disease,” said Stonewall, sounding calm and thoughtful. “Others have, too. Spread the word that I want anyone who’s survived yellow-mouth to gather at the kitchen. The men who this boy has been in contact with will need to be quarantined. We need to find out what his kitchen duties were. If he was in contact with the food before it was cooked, it may be that the grace of God has spared us. Not much survives the cooking here.”

  “This isn’t something to joke about.”

  “Nor is it something to panic about,” said Stonewall. “We have to have faith we’ll get through this. We’ll control the outbreak. We’ll isolate those most exposed. We’ll start a regimen of checking people’s gums daily. Swift action is the key.”

  Frost scooped Jeremiah up and slung him unceremoniously over his shoulder. “Swift action works for me. You go update Ragnar. I’ll take care of the boy.”

  Stonewall looked at Frost. “When you say take care of the boy…?”

  “This isn’t the time to argue.”

  Stonewall frowned. “After what you did to Biscuit, I—”

  “I know what I’m doing. Go!”

  Stonewall slowly turned away, then loped off on search of Ragnar.

  Jeremiah kicked as Frost turned and walked in the opposite direction, but Frost only grasped his legs tighter. Jeremiah lifted his head, straining to see where they were going. They were heading toward the foundry. The double doors stood open—even in the dead of winter, the interior of the foundry was sweltering. The doors looked like the gates of hell. It was dark and shadowy within. White flames danced above a red stream of molten iron flowing into molds.

  “Put me down,” Jeremiah said. “I can walk.”

  “You can run, you mean,” said Frost.

  “I won’t run. I’m sick.”

  “I know,” said Frost. “Very sick. You’re going to die, boy. Yellow-mouth is a bad way to go. It’s not a quick death. So, I’m going to throw you in the furnace.”

  Jeremiah didn’t believe him. “What are you really going to do?”

  Frost chuckled, but didn’t answer.

  They passed through the door into the dark interior. The heat jumped dramatically—it was hotter than the kitchen, a dry, parched blast that sopped up the sweat beading on his skin. The noise of the foundry was as hellish as the swelter, with the constant roar of furnaces stoked by mule-driven bellows, and the banging of countless hammers against anvils.

  “Y-you’re really going to do it?” Jeremiah asked.

  “I’ll snap your neck first. I’m not cruel, boy. Only practical.”

  Jeremiah still felt dizzy, but panic sent a surge of strength through his limbs. He beat Frost’s ribs with his fists. The man’s broad back sounded like a drum. He kicked furiously, but to no effect. Frost didn’t even flinch.

  “Open the furnace door!” Frost yelled. “Then, get back! This boy has yellow-mouth!”

  Slowly, the noise changed throughout the foundry. Hammers fell silent and men began to shout, “Yellow-mouth!”

  “Don’t panic, damn it!” Frost shouted. “Fear is more dangerous than the disease. We’re taking swift, decisive action to stop the spread. Gather round. Watch me. This boy is the only one we know of who’s sick. I want you all to see that we're stronger than any disease!”

  There was a horrible groan as an iron door swung open. The roar of flames grew louder, and the back o
f Jeremiah’s legs grew hotter. Red light cast a stark black shadow on the wall behind them.

  Jeremiah screamed, “Please don’t—” His hands flailed around. His fingers fell onto the scabby strips of flesh that had once been Frost’s ear. He gripped these shreds of skin for all he was worth.

  Frost screeched, pulled Jeremiah from his shoulder, and threw him to the hot brick floor. Jeremiah rolled onto his back, skittering and kicking to get away. He scooted backward until he was pressed against a low brick wall.

  “Until now, I wasn’t planning on enjoying this,” Frost said, rubbing his ear nub with his good hand. He pulled his fingers away; they were orange with blood and puss. He reached toward Jeremiah’s face. “Before I throw you in, I’m going to break every last damn fi—NNNG!”

  Frost cried out in pain as an arrow erupted from his good hand. He drew back, staring at the missile that had entered the back of his wrist and passed through to the skin on the other side, pushing it out in a little pointy tent. The arrow was fletched with fresh green leaves that wilted in the sweltering heat of the foundry.

  Frost craned his neck. “Who?” he screamed. “Who did this?”

  From above, a voice answered. “The boy is mine. You may not touch him.”

  Frost and Jeremiah both looked into the shadows of the rafters. A human figure could barely be seen, the contours of his body distorted by a cloak. It was apparent, however, that he held a bow before him, with a second arrow aimed at Frost.

  “This boy has yellow-mouth!” Frost protested. “He’s dying anyway!”

  “We’re all dying,” said the shadowy archer. “Some of us today, perhaps. Step away.”

  Frost walked backward, clutching his bleeding wrist with the thumb and splinted fingers of his other hand. The arrow swayed when he walked.

  The archer dropped a pink rope down from the rafters. He slid down, landing at Jeremiah’s feet. Jeremiah recognized the man; he’d traveled with his sister, Zeeky. It was the old man who’d claimed he was Bitterwood. But Bitterwood and Zeeky were dead, killed by the demons in the mines. Did this mean that Zeeky was also alive?

  “I’m taking the boy,” Bitterwood said. “We’re leaving Dragon Forge. He won’t spread the disease further.”

  “You can’t leave,” Frost said. “There’s a blockade of dragons.”

  “They didn’t see me come in,” said Bitterwood. “They won’t see me go.” He looked down at Jeremiah. “Stand up. We’re leaving.”

  Frost snarled. “Who are you to come here and start issuing demands?”

  Bitterwood held his hand down to meet Jeremiah’s outstretched grasp and help him to his feet.

  “My name isn’t important,” said Bitterwood. “If you’re going to order your men to stop me, do so. Their blood will be on your hands.”

  Frost glared at his assailant, studying his face. Bitterwood met his gaze with an icy stare. At last, Frost looked away.

  “Let him go,” Frost said to the men who’d gathered between Bitterwood and the door.

  Bitterwood tugged at the rope in the rafter. The pink cord snaked down, shrinking as it fell into his gloved hand. He turned, prodding Jeremiah with a nudge between his shoulder blades. Jeremiah scuffled forward. When they reached the street, Bitterwood slung his bow over his shoulder then picked up Jeremiah. Jeremiah draped his arms around the old man’s neck and was carried toward the city gates. He rested his head on Bitterwood’s shoulder.

  “Is Zeeky here?” he whispered.

  “She’s near,” said Bitterwood. “Poocher, too.”

  “Will she catch yellow-mouth from me?”

  “Don’t know,” answered Bitterwood.

  “That man said I was going to die.”

  Bitterwood continued to walk, without saying another word.

  SHAY’S FEET WERE sore. He’d lost track of how many days they’d been walking underground. He had no idea how many miles they’d covered. Since this morning when he’d confessed his attraction to Jandra, they’d walked without conversation. He followed behind her has she led the way. Lizard scrambled along like a faithful dog at her heels. The little dragon had a strange walk. He was bipedal, but he didn’t really stand erect like a human. His torso leaned forward as his tail jutted out beside him. He bounced along in a gait resembling some flightless bird.

  From time to time, Lizard would look over his shoulder, glaring at Shay with what seemed to be a newfound hostility. Did Lizard understand the conversation he and Jandra had shared earlier? Was the small beast jealous? Or did his muted hostility somehow reflect Jandra’s own reaction? She certainly had been anxious to change the subject. Was she looking for a way to let him down gently? He’d been a fool to say anything. He’d never mention it again.

  Or was he being a coward now? When he’d praised Jandra for her bravery, it had been a subtle confession of his own lack of courage. He’d run to escape from Chapelion while his master was away. A braver man might have waited for Chapelion’s return and killed him. The biologian certainly wouldn’t have anticipated it. No doubt, Shay would have been killed in the aftermath, but as a tactical move, killing the head of the College of Spires would have been a serious blow to the morale of all sky-dragons. But was courage only measured as a willingness to kill or be killed? Wasn’t it also a type of courage to steal books and run so that he could teach others to read?

  He’d read a thousand books on the subject of courage, and been offered a thousand different answers. The same was true of love. He’d read countless poems and essays on the matter, studied numerous plays, and could recite from memory a hundred lines where a man summed up his feelings and offered them to a woman like some gilded rose. And now that his moment of romantic confession had come and gone, what had he summoned up? Something like hunger? Nothing like hunger? A lifetime of working with words had left him with these inanities. Perhaps, in the end, Bitterwood was right. Books had never done the world any good.

  He was pulled from his thoughts as the smell of the mines started to change. The damp, egg-scented air took on a saltier, more marine smell, as if they were nearing the ocean. It was like saltwater at low tide, a sort of soggy, methane-rich rot.

  Jandra halted as she studied the tunnel ahead. The passage widened. The mine shaft led to a cliff, and beyond this he couldn’t see anything. Jandra reached up and took off her visor. She turned, nodded her head toward the end of the tunnel, and said, “Light.”

  He removed the visor. He blinked in the darkness that swallowed him. Yet the darkness wasn’t complete. The open end of the tunnel had a dull glow, like dawn just over the horizon. Jandra was a dark silhouette against this faint light.

  “Something’s changed,” said Jandra. “When we left, the place had fallen into total darkness.”

  “We’re here? This is the kingdom of the goddess?”

  “Yes,” said Jandra, walking forward at a rapid pace. “It’s a world within a world. I only saw a small part of it when I was here with Bitterwood and Hex, but it stretches out for over a hundred square miles.”

  Shay hurried to keep up. They halted at the mouth of the tunnel, on a ledge overlooking a large underground lake studded with islands. The stench of rot was extreme. The light came from thousands of small bright pin points scattered across the roof of the endless cavern.

  “To have been built by someone who loved nature, this has to be one of the least natural places on earth,” Jandra said. “After the human age ended, Jazz withdrew to this underground world. She took her self-appointed title of goddess a bit too seriously perhaps, and began to populate it with life of her own design. She was fascinated by the limits evolutionary history had imposed on organisms. She wondered if she could create species that were more intelligently designed to fill niches left in the earth’s ecology by the mass extinctions brought about by civilization.”

  “She thought the world needed long-wyrms?”

  “And talking cats, and amphibious sharks, and zebra-striped winged monkeys,” said Jandra. “She thinks of herse
lf as an artist. She has the freedom to work on a canvas that no artist has ever truly been able to master: life itself. Some of her art is serious; some is whimsical. And, from the looks of things, some of it might still be alive.”

  Shay wrinkled his nose. “It doesn’t smell like much is alive down there.”

  “Something or someone turned on the lights,” said Jandra. “The other long-wyrm riders, perhaps? And… wow. Look at the walls.” She pointed to the stone behind them. He turned and found that almost every surface was studded with pale yellow mushrooms. There was also something moving over his head. It was the size of a squirrel, but furless, slimy, like a long, pink frog with a tail. It crept along the rock face using sucker-toes, pausing to munch on mushrooms.

  “I’ve never seen one of those before,” said Shay.

  “I haven’t either,” said Jandra. “But somehow I know that if you lick the hide, you experience psychedelic visions.”

  “My first instinct wouldn’t be to lick it,” said Shay.

  “When you’re immortal, even with all of creation as your plaything, there are times when you get a little bored,” said Jandra. She looked back out over the saltwater lake. “Luckily, that big island a few miles away is where we need to go. That’s where we buried the goddess’s heart. It was a genie… the same sort of device I used. Vendevorex said his was designed to unlock upon his death so that anyone could use it. I’m gambling that hers acts the same, if it still works at all. We buried it with a flaming sword stuck through it. I’m not certain any technology, no matter how advanced, is going to survive that.”

  “How are we going to get over there?”

  “That’s an excellent question,” she said. “Swimming is a bad idea if the ichthyosaurs are still alive. They were the apex predator of the lake and could survive quite a while by hunting one another. Any that are left are likely to be hungry.”

  “So what options do we have?”

  Jandra pointed toward a stony path leading down the cliff side toward a black beach below. The beach ran along the outer perimeter of the cavern. About a half mile away, a waterfall spilled down over the rocks, crashing into an elevated pool before it spilled into the lake. A few sad trees stood beyond it, their leaves gone.