by James Maxey
The boy’s breath was as hot as a furnace. Bitterwood pulled the filthy blanket that swaddled Jeremiah higher up on his chin. He knew that a thousand blankets wouldn’t be enough to make the boy feel warm.
“We’ll be inside soon,” Bitterwood said softly, brushing the boy’s matted hair away from his eyes. “I promise we’ll find you a proper bed, and some hot soup.”
“I-I’m n-not h-hun…,” Jeremiah’s voice trailed off.
Jeremiah was slipping in and out of sleep without bothering to open his eyes. Bitterwood wasn’t certain if the boy was even aware that Hex had joined them. He showed no awareness of their odd surroundings.
They rode through the forest of tents that surrounded the Free City. Flaps were pushed aside as men and women peeked out to stare at the gleaming long-wyrm and the sun-dragon walking beside it with a noticeable limp. Here and there among the crowd, the dark green turtle-faces of earth-dragons could be seen. They were as curious as the humans, and showed no signs of hostility. The last time Bitterwood had approached the Free City, the only earth-dragons in sight had been armed soldiers, pushing their captives along at spear point.
“I didn’t know there were so many people in the world,” Vance said softly.
Bitterwood remembered how small the world had seemed to him back in his own youth. Until the dragons burned Christdale, he’d never journeyed more than thirty miles from his birthplace. The true scope of the world had been impossible to fathom.
“There are far more people here than at Dragon Forge,” said Burke as he surveyed the crowd. “Are these refugees who were turned away by the blockade? Or perhaps chaos is spreading further through the kingdom than we knew?”
Hex’s scales bristled at the use of the word “chaos.” “It isn’t chaos that’s spreading,” the sun-dragon said. “It’s freedom. The authoritarian regime that enslaved these people is gone, leaving them free to follow their own destinies.”
“If following their own destinies means abandoning their homes to live in tents, I fear their destinies will be short and sad,” said Burke. “Think of all the abandoned villages we’ve seen. Spring is coming. Who will plant the crops? Where will the food to feed everyone come from by next summer?”
“The beasts of the forest survive without farming,” said Hex. “The world is bountiful.”
“Hex, as I understand it, you’ve lived most of your life in a library on the Isle of Horses. You have an overly romantic view of nature, I fear. I’ve spent a fair amount of my youth in the forest. It’s not as full of food as you might think.”
“My views aren’t romantic,” said Hex. “I’m simply able to see the evil that has been inflicted on both men and dragons in the name of order.”
“I’ll take order over chaos any day.”
“This is a curious argument for a revolutionary to make.”
“Seizing Dragon Forge was the first step to imposing a new order,” said Burke. “Anarchy was never the goal.”
“Impose is a telling verb,” said Hex. “If the rebellion at Dragon Forge is intended to be the first step toward a human war of genocide against dragons, rest assured I will destroy your rebellion. I haven’t helped take the slavecatcher’s whip away from the dragons in order to give it to humans.”
“Someone’s hand is always going to be holding the whip,” Burke said. “It’s the way the world works. It’s the lesson of history.”
“I intend to bring an end to history. I want to live in a world where the strength of ideas has more power than the strength of arms.”
Bitterwood had heard enough. “You’re a hypocrite, Hex. You didn’t persuade Rorg with the force of your ideas. You didn’t change Shandrazel’s mind with an argument. Everything you’ve accomplished of note you’ve done through violence—you slaughtered Rorg and you allowed your own brother to die. You call yourself a warrior philosopher, but you’re nothing but a long-winded bully.”
Hex looked around at the throng of refugees who stared at them. “Bullies use their strength against those who are weaker. I’ve stood up to would-be kings and would-be gods. These humans have nothing to fear from me.”
“Unless they join the rebellion under their own free will, and you try to crush it,” said Burke.
Hex shook his head. “If they don’t become oppressors, they have nothing to fear. Any hand that would reach for a whip, however,”— he turned his gaze toward Burke – “will find itself bitten off.”
By now, they reached the gates of the Free City. A quartet of young women in white cloaks, their faces shadowed by large hoods, approached cautiously.
One held out her hand and said, “Greetings, brothers,” then spotting Zeeky near the back of the long-wyrm she added, “and sister. Welcome to the Free City. Many among you appear injured. You shall all be healed.”
“We need to see the healer now,” said Bitterwood.
The woman pushed back her hood, looking sympathetic to Bitterwood’s need. She patiently explained, “The increase of supplicants in recent days is placing great demands upon the healer’s time. He only attends to those with the gravest needs. The rest of you will be cared for by his disciples, who will administer the dragonseed.”
“'Disciples' is a word with religious overtones,” said Hex. “Does this healer claim to be a god?”
The woman smiled gently. “He makes no claims to godhood. He says he is, instead, a servant to us all.”
“He’s the servant?” Hex asked, sounding skeptical.
Bitterwood sensed that Hex might be on the verge of a diatribe on the political implications of a servant/master relationship and decided to nip off the argument before it began.
“This boy has yellow-mouth,” said Bitterwood. “He may not survive the day. Can your healer save him?”
The woman approached the long-wyrm. She reached up and stroked Jeremiah’s sweat-beaded brow, frowning with concern. She said, “We shall take him to see the healer immediately. Give him to us.”
“I’ll carry him,” said Bitterwood. “I want to stay with him.”
“We’ll all stay with him,” Zeeky said.
The woman looked back toward her three companions. Some unspoken communication took place, ending with a nod by all four.
“Very well,” said the woman. “We’ll lead you to the healer. Dismount and we’ll tend to your steed, seeing that it has water and food… though, I confess, I’m unfamiliar with this beast. What does it eat?”
“Pretty much anything,” said Zeeky, hopping down from her saddle. “Oats would be great. Don’t leave him alone around any small animals, though. He’ll gulp down a chicken before you can blink.”
Bitterwood was surprised that Zeeky was surrendering Skitter to the women. From her body language, Zeeky didn’t appear worried about their intentions. Bitterwood wasn’t as certain, though he couldn’t say why. There was nothing overtly sinister about these women. That only added to his sense that they were walking into a snake pit. But, if he had to walk into hell itself to save Jeremiah, he would. He slid down from his saddle as the others dismounted.
Hex extended his fore-talon to help Burke balance himself. Burke looked skeptical, then placed his hand on the claw and lowered himself to the ground.
“Thanks,” he said.
Skitter followed one of the women toward the stables as the first woman led the motley collection of men, sun-dragon, girl, and pig through the busy streets of the city. The scent of fresh-cut pine hung heavy in the air. Hammer blows echoed from all directions.
Burke limped more rapidly on his crutch until he was just behind the woman. “How are they feeding all these workers?”
“Our healer is also our provider,” said the woman. “I’ve witnessed him take a bag of grain, and pour it into an empty bag. Once that bag is full, another is brought, then another, then another. From a single bag, he may fill forty of the same size. There is no hunger here.”
“That’s what was said about the Free City when Blasphet ran it,” said Burke. “This city
was sold as a sanctuary where all human needs would be met. But once everyone was inside the gates, the true plan was for it to become a mill of death.”
“You speak of the time when Blasphet was known as the Murder God.”
“Yes,” said Burke.
“Blasphet, the Murder God, is dead,” said the woman. “According to the healer, a new Murder God has taken his place.”
“A new Murder God?”
“Yes. The beast who murdered the Murder God. His unholy name is…,” the woman paused, frowning, as if the name were sour on her tongue. When she finally spoke, her voice dripped with contempt. “He is known as the Death of All Dragons. He is called the Ghost Who Kills. His unholy name is Bitterwood.”
SHAY WALKED WITH Biscuit on one side of him and Frost on the other. Biscuit looked disgusted as Frost stumbled on the steps of one of the nicer buildings Shay had seen in Dragon Forge, a stately two story house built of brick, with slate shingles and glass windows.
“This was Charkon’s residence,” said Biscuit.
“Ah,” said Shay. Charkon had been the boss of Dragon Forge. It made sense that an earth-dragon of his reputation would have a better home than the dragons who worked beneath him. It made sense, as well, that Ragnar should claim possession of the house. Shay guessed that, inside, he would find many of the spoils of war being used for Ragnar’s comfort.
Instead, when the door opened, pulled from within by the giant bodyguard Stonewall, Shay saw that the interior of the house was almost empty. The large central room had been stripped bare, with the only furnishing present being an iron cross forged from the blades of four swords leaning against a brick wall. Ragnar knelt before this cross, his head lowered so that his bushy mane touched the floor.
Stonewall stepped outside and closed the door behind him.
“This boy wants to see Ragnar,” said Frost. A slight belch punctuated his sentence.
“Ragnar’s praying,” Stonewall said. “He’s not to be disturbed. I saw your approach from the window.” Stonewall looked at Shay with a thoughtful gaze. “You’re the escaped slave who brought the books. I don’t believe I ever learned your name.”
“Shay. It’s important I talk to Ragnar.”
Stonewall shook his head. “I’m sorry. The prophet’s present conversation is with someone more important. He’s praying for divine assistance to deal with the rumors of yellow-mouth.”
“Rumors?” said Shay. “I thought there were people actually sick from the disease.”
“There was a single boy who vomited,” said Stonewall. “Bitterwood took him. We quarantined two dozen men who had contact with him. So far, there have been no symptoms.”
“Then why have the foundry fires died?” asked Shay. “You’re surrounded by dragons on all sides. I would run the foundry until every man in Dragon Forge had a gun, or even a dozen guns. From my vantage point, I spotted catapults ringing the city. It looks as if the dragons may be preparing an attack.”
“The foundry workers are damn cowards,” muttered Frost.
Biscuit ground his teeth loudly enough for Shay to hear. He grumbled, “No man wants to be seen in public if the next time he coughs he’s going to be thrown into the quarantine barracks—or the furnace.”
“Are you trying to start something?” Frost asked, his hand falling back to the modified gun on his belt. “‘Speak carefully. You still have one eye.” He hiccupped.
“Have you been drinking?” Stonewall asked before Biscuit could answer.
Frost turned pale. “Of course not. Ragnar forbids all alcohol.”
Shay said, “What happened to Burke? He could have managed an outbreak of disease. He wouldn’t have let the foundries shut down.”
Stonewall crossed his arms. “Burke also wouldn’t share his knowledge freely with his fellow men. His pride prevented him from telling Ragnar all his secrets. In his disbelief, he lacked a moral compass to guide him to the greater good. In the end, he killed a dozen men as he fled the city. He destroyed the southern gate, exposing us to the risk of attack; we’ve set up a barrier, but it’s impossible to describe the harm Burke has done to our cause.”
Shay clenched his fists. He wanted to scream at the stupidity of Stonewall’s words, but fought to keep his cool. “Don’t talk to me about sharing knowledge. I came here with books filled with information and ideas that could have helped launch a new human age. Ragnar took those books and flung them into the fire. Ragnar gave Burke every reason to be cautious about sharing what he knew.”
Stonewall said, “Ragnar threw only one book into the fire. He had me gather up the rest. I still have them. He forgot about them five minutes after we left the loft. The prophet has many things on his mind.”
“You have the books?”
“I’m a voracious reader. I was curious as to their contents,” said Stonewall. “The Drifting Isles are remote and lonely. Books are highly valued there.”
Shay was confused. It must have shown in his face, because Stonewall said, “You seem to think that because I’m a man of faith, I’m also a man of ignorance. It’s a prejudice that Burke shared, I’m afraid.”
“According to Chapelion, faith is the opposite of knowledge,” said Shay. “It’s difficult, I admit, to think that you can be well-read and still believe that Ragnar speaks directly with God.”
Frost let loose a low growl as his fingers fondled the butt of his gun. “You’re getting mighty close to blasphemy, boy.”
Stonewall’s eyes twinkled. He didn’t look offended by Shay’s argument. “You aren’t so different from me, Shay. You place your faith in books. You’ve read things written long ago and believe them, even though these events unfolded centuries before your birth, and there’s no direct evidence that they actually occurred. How am I any different? I’ve read a book that taught me that God chooses men from time to time as his prophets, to guide his people through periods of darkness. Ragnar is one of these men.”
Shay started to speak, but held his tongue. He was getting sidetracked from his main mission. Stonewall evidently mistook his pause as an invitation for further explanation. “Some force spared Ragnar when dragons slew his family. Some force gave him the gift of persuasion that has allowed a man so young to gather so many followers. Some force placed Ragnar at the Free City, where he helped defeat Albekizan and Kanst and Blasphet. This same guiding force led Ragnar to gather the refugees into an army and seize control of this fortress. You weren’t here to see him fight. With no armor, Ragnar plunges into the thick of battle and emerges with nothing but scratches. If you cannot accept this as evidence that he’s God’s chosen, then no evidence in the world will ever lead you to the truth.”
“He could also just be lucky,” said Shay. “I should have been killed a half dozen times in recent days. I’m alive more due to chance than to my own efforts. But I don’t regard a little luck as evidence that I’m one of God’s chosen. I’ve also had my share of misfortune.” He felt a cold, hard spot in his belly as he thought of Jandra.
“One of the books you brought spoke of an invisible hand that guides the economies of mankind,” said Stonewall. “I believe in an invisible hand that guides all men in all actions. Even you, Shay.”
Shay grimaced. He hadn’t come here to debate philosophy. “We’re wasting time,” he said. “I have to find Bitterwood, before the goddess finds him.”
“The goddess is only a false idol, Shay,” said Stonewall.
“This false idol almost killed me and she’s currently possessing Jandra, whose life means a great deal to me. I can’t stay here until Ragnar finishes talking to his invisible hand. I have a secret that can help you break the blockade.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“When we were in the kingdom of the goddess we found wings that let a man fly. I gave them to … to a friend to carry. I have six pairs, not counting my own. With them, you can outfly dragons. It’s how I got here. You could fly over the blockade in the dead of night, since I have a device for seeing in darkness
as well.”
“Only witches see in the dark,” grumbled Frost. “I think Jandra’s enspelled you, boy.”
“Jandra’s not a witch,” said Shay.
“I know a witch when I see one.” Frost spat to punctuate his sentence.
“Shouldn’t you go somewhere to sleep off your goom?” asked Shay, finding Frost’s presence tiring.
While Frost looked hostile, Stonewall looked concerned. “Are you claiming to have flown? With wings? Shapeshifting is a sign of witchcraft.”
“I’m not shapeshifting,” said Shay. “They’re a machine.”
With a thought, he willed his wings to unfold. They unfurled, glinting silver in the sun, tinkling like a thousand tiny bells.
He smiled, expecting this to provide convincing proof for his argument.
Instantly, he realized the error of this assumption.
Frost yanked the short shotgun from his belt and held it inches from Shay’s face. The blacksmith’s bloodshot eyes narrowed as he squeezed the trigger. Shay flinched.
Nothing happened.
Biscuit leapt forward, tearing the gun from Frost’s fingers. He said, in a voice trembling with pent up anger, “A sober man wouldn’t have forgotten the safety.”
Frost looked at Biscuit, his mouth hanging slack, staring down the barrel of his own gun. Biscuit’s thumb flicked the safety.
Shay turned his face away as Biscuit pulled the trigger. In the flash and bang that followed, he almost didn’t see Stonewall leaping from the brick steps, drawing his sword.
With a thought, Shay launched thirty feet into the air in the half second it took Stonewall to land where he’d just stood.
Frost dropped to his knees. Half his head was missing. His body slumped forward, landing against Biscuit’s trousers. Biscuit snarled, “An eye for an eye you bastard!”
Stonewall was staring up at Shay. Shay hesitated. Was it too late for reason? Five seconds ago, they’d been talking civilly. How had events turned so sour so quickly?
There was a clang at his back as something bounced from the broad circle from which his wings unfolded. He spun, and an arrow suddenly jutted from the bag over his shoulder that held Jandra’s coat. A third arrow whizzed past his head, close enough he could feel the wind that trailed it.
