Dragonseed

by James Maxey

  It appeared the debate was over.

  Shay turned his face skyward, then zoomed toward the blue above, swifter than arrows.

  BISCUIT’S ONE GOOD eye was full of hate as it glared at Stonewall. The man’s hands were trembling as he rammed the bag of shot he’d snatched from Frost’s belt into the barrel.

  “Put the gun down,” said Stonewall.

  “You might not have been with them,” Biscuit said. “But I know your hand was on the knife just as sure as Frost’s.”

  “I’ve never tortured any man,” said Stonewall. “Had I known what Frost was capable of, I wouldn’t have told him my suspicions that you were Burke’s confidante. Put the gun down.”

  “Not until I put down you and Ragnar and the rest of the monsters!”

  Never once as Stonewall looked down the barrel of the gun did he fear death. Faith, however, wasn’t the reason for his confidence. Shay had escaped so swiftly he’d been difficult for the eye to follow. Biscuit was a stationary target.

  The first arrow struck him in the shoulder of the arm that held the gun. As the gun fell to the dirt, two more arrows struck Biscuit in the back, and another jutted from his neck. By the time he hit the ground, he looked like a pin-cushion.

  Stonewall shook his head, saddened by the loss of two fine blacksmiths. He was sad, as well, that Shay was gone. He’d enjoyed their discussion. Since leaving the Drifting Isles, he’d found precious little in the way of informed debate. Still, Shay’s wings were difficult to ignore. What spell had Jandra cast on him? Or could it be true? Were the wings simply machines?

  The blood that flowed from Frost and Biscuit merged into a single pool. Stonewall stepped into this pool and picked up the handgun. It was a fairly clever invention. Was it Burke’s design? Or had Frost taken the initiative to modify the weapon on his own?

  His musings were cut short as the door to the brick house opened. Ragnar stood on the stairs, dazed. The prophet’s forehead had a red dot from where he’d been pressing it against the floor. He didn’t appear to notice the two dead bodies on his doorstep.

  “The Lord answered my prayers with a voice of thunder on a cloudless day,” said the prophet.

  Stonewall started to mention the fight, but decided it might be blasphemous to imply the prophet had mistaken gunfire for the Lord’s voice.

  “I have a message for the men,” said Ragnar. “Gather them. Everyone.”

  “Even those under quarantine?”

  “Everyone. Now.”

  The hairy prophet spun on his heels and marched back into the house.

  AN HOUR LATER, Stonewall had overseen the removal of the bodies. Straw had been spread to hide the blood that stained the hard-packed soil. The Mighty Men had gone from building to building, dragging men from their bunks and, in some cases, from beneath them. Two thousand men crowded onto the street before Ragnar’s house. At the front stood the men who’d been placed in quarantine. They were a sorry looking lot, disheveled and dirty, with oily hair and scraggy beards. They’d not been allowed near the baths since their confinement.

  It was mid-afternoon. With the bright sun, the day was warm. It was the sort of winter day that promised that spring was near.

  Soon, everyone in the fort was present, save for the men on the sky-wall team. They’d been boosted back to their full numbers. They made an impressive sight upon the walls.

  The door to the brick house opened.

  Ragnar stepped out, the cross of swords in his left hand. He slammed it onto the brick steps. The iron blades sang out like bells.

  “There is no disease in Dragon Forge!” Ragnar shouted.

  Stonewall furrowed his brow. There were whispers in the crowd.

  “There is no disease in Dragon Forge!” Ragnar again cried out. “The Lord spoke to me in thunder! He said we have no reason for fear! Our righteous cause will not be brought low by illness. He shields us from plague and fever. Any who were sick are now healed by the power of our faith!”

  Stonewall looked over the ragged men who’d come from the quarantine barracks. While none of them were the picture of health, none of them were incapacitated either. None even looked feverish, save for one of the younger men, a boy really. Stonewall felt as if he should know this boy’s name. At last, it hit him. This was Burr, the boy Jeremiah had vomited on. When he’d gone into the quarantine barracks, Burr had been a big lad, his face ruddy and plump. Now, his cheeks were pale and hollow. Could worry alone have produced this change?

  “Every man is to return to his work when he leaves here,” said Ragnar. “Let the dragons tremble when they see the smoke rising from Dragon Forge once more. The archers on the walls report they’ve seen the movements of catapults. Their pitiful engines of war are nothing compared to our cannons! Tonight, we will demonstrate our power! I want all the cannons currently ready placed upon the walls. We begin our barrage of the blockade tonight!”

  Stonewall cleared his throat. He leaned over to Ragnar and whispered, “Sir, there are only five spots along the wall that can support the biggest cannons. We’ve been working to reinforce the wall for more, but…”

  Ragnar answered him by shouting to the crowd. “By nightfall, we will have fifty large cannons upon the wall. Every man here is rested and ready! Our task is clear! Our cause is just! Remember the Free City!”

  The crowd cheered at these sacred words.

  “Remember the Free City!”

  Again they roared.

  “Remember the Free City!”

  Now even the sad looking men from the quarantine barracks pumped their fists in the air and shouted.

  Save for Burr. The boy, already pale, grew paler still. His eyes rolled up into his head and he fell forward onto the brick steps at Ragnar’s feet.

  The men closest to the Ragnar who’d witnessed the boy fall stopped shouting. Like a wave, the cries of war faded and confused, hissing whispers spread from the front of the crowd to the back.

  “The boy is overcome with excitement!” Ragnar shouted. “There is no disease in Dragon Forge.”

  Every man pushed away from Burr’s unconscious form, deeper back into the crowd, standing as if there was an unseen wall that wouldn’t allow them to be closer than twenty feet of the boy.

  Stonewall stepped down and rolled the boy over. He felt as hot as a just-fired gun barrel. Steeling himself, Stonewall pushed back the boy’s lips. His gums were puss yellow.

  From the man standing nearest, he heard the whisper, “Yellow-mouth!”

  Ten seconds later, there was full bore panic through the streets. Men were shouting. There was a shrill cry of pain near the back of the crowd as a man was trampled.

  “Be still!” Ragnar shouted. “Have faith! Remember the Free City! Remember the Free City!”

  The screams of fear only grew louder as the crowd streamed away.

  “There’s … there’s no disease in …,” Ragnar’s voice trailed off as he looked toward the heavens. His fingers went limp and the iron cross slipped from his grasp.

  Stonewall looked up as the bright sky dimmed.

  The sky was full of rotting human corpses, flying over the walls of Dragon Forge in long, graceful arcs.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT:

  THE PATH OF SCARS

  ALTHOUGH IT WAS still light outside, the interior of the barn in which Bitterwood and his companions stood was full of flickering candles that gave the air the scent of tallow and beeswax. They waited in silence as the woman who’d led them to the barn knelt in front of a canvas-covered platform.

  Bitterwood was growing impatient with the woman’s lengthy prayer. Jeremiah was heavy in his arms, but he didn’t dare put him down. He felt that, as long as he was holding the boy, he was holding onto the last spark of life that still glowed inside the child.

  Hex had settled into a seated position. Bitterwood spotted the weakness in the giant dragon’s limbs. Normally, when he witnessed weakness in a dragon, it triggered the same instinct a dog feels when seeing a wounded rabbit. Now, Bitte
rwood felt something approaching sympathy for the sun-dragon. After cradling Jeremiah for so long, he no longer took any pleasure at seeing even a dragon suffer.

  Burke joined Hex on the floor, as did Thorny. Vance and Zeeky were still on their feet, as was Poocher, who paced back and forth nervously.

  “Can’t you make him sit still?” Bitterwood grumbled.

  Zeeky shrugged. “This is the barn where he was penned up with the other animals the last time we were at the Free City. He remembers the smell of the place. Smells get him agitated.”

  Poocher looked at her and grunted.

  “For instance,” she said, “he smells a sun-dragon here.”

  Bitterwood looked at Hex, who possessed the distinctive draconic odor of rotten fish.

  “I mean he smells a second sun-dragon,” said Zeeky.

  Before they could discuss this further, a throng of young women in white robes, their faces hidden by hoods, filed into the barn. They quickly lined the walls.

  Bitterwood was assessing their potential threat when Vance, Burke, and Thorny all gasped. Hex’s scales suddenly bristled. Poocher squealed. Bitterwood turned to the canvas platform and found Blasphet seated before him, not twenty feet distant. Hovering a few inches above Blasphet’s ebony brow was a glowing circlet of silver he knew well: Jandra’s tiara.

  Blasphet eyed him with an unblinking gaze. The great beast’s mouth opened as he said, “The light is better than when we first met, oh Ghost Who Kills.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re shorter than I remembered.”

  Bitterwood dropped to one knee before Blasphet. He leaned forward and carefully placed Jeremiah onto the straw-covered floor. He stroked the boy’s cheek to brush the hair from his face. He turned his head toward Hex, who looked dumbfounded by Blasphet’s sudden appearance. Vance, too, was standing slack-jawed, oblivious to Burke and Thorny, who were trying to stand.

  The only ones nearby who still had their wits about them were Zeeky and Poocher. With the bristles along his spine raised like little spears, and his head tilted forward to turn his small tusks into weapons, Poocher looked ready for battle.

  “Protect the boy,” he said.

  When he rose, all his gentle, fatherly instincts were gone. His bow was in his hand as if it had always been there. He plucked an arrow from his quiver with as little thought as he gave to commanding the beat of his heart.

  Blasphet rose, his serpentine neck snaking toward the beams of the loft. The light from the tiara cast shadows down his torso. “Put down your bow. There’s no need—”

  Before he could finish his sentence, Bitterwood fired. The arrow raced straight toward Blasphet’s eye. A full foot from its target, a gleaming tomahawk flashed across its path, knocking it away. Bitterwood didn’t pause to ponder its source. He already had another arrow aimed. With a zzzmmm, his second arrow flew, flashing toward the black beast’s gut.

  With a speed that was difficult for even his eyes to follow, one of the white-robed disciples leapt into the arrow’s path, her slender arm whipping out. She caught the shaft in mid-flight. Her hood fell back, revealing a woman with deeply-tanned skin and jet black hair.

  “Stop!” Burke shouted.

  Bitterwood had no intention of stopping. He’d been caught off guard by the impressive reflexes of Blasphet’s protector, but now that he was aware of her, she could be neutralized. His third arrow targeted her, on a trajectory that wouldn’t hit Blasphet. As expected, she leapt from the arrow’s path, landing with a roll that would bring her back to her feet. Bitterwood already had another arrow nocked. She was reaching her feet when he let the arrow fly, aimed at Blasphet’s heart.

  A sword appeared in the woman’s hand as if by magic. She threw the sword into the arrow’s path, so that the razor sharp edge of the blade bisected the thorn-tip of the arrow. The wobbling twin shards of arrow that continued past bounced harmlessly from Blasphet’s scales. The woman somersaulted across the front of the platform and landed with her hand outstretched. The sword she had thrown fell into it.

  Bitterwood narrowed his eyes. The woman looked at him with a calm gaze. There was something familiar about her. She moved like the mechanical men he’d fought, Hezekiah and Gabriel, ancient engines designed to look human.

  The woman held an upturned palm toward Bitterwood and crooked her fingers, as if daring him to attack. Bitterwood took careful aim, intending to take that dare.

  A steel crutch whacked him across the side of his face, knocking him off balance. Stars danced before his eyes and he stumbled. His ears rang, but not from the blow. Instead, Burke was inches from his ear, shouting at the top of his lungs.

  “I said stop!” Burke grabbed Bitterwood by the collar and pulled their faces together. “That’s Anza!”

  “Anza?” Bitterwood said, casting a glance back at the woman. Now he knew why she’d seemed familiar. He’d only met her briefly during their escape from the Dragon Palace. He hadn’t recognized her without her black buckskins. Her hair hung loosely around her face instead of being pulled back in a severe braid.

  “There’s no need for violence,” said Blasphet in his smooth, well-mannered voice, as he lowered himself back down to a seated position. “I hold no grudge against you, Bitterwood.”

  “Who are you really?” Bitterwood growled. “I killed Blasphet. You can’t be the real Murder God.”

  “Indeed,” said Blasphet. “You brought an end to my reign as the Murder God. You are the Ghost who Kills, the Death of All Dragons. You, Bitterwood, are the true Murder God.”

  Bitterwood felt as if he’d slipped into a nightmare. It was the only explanation. Even if Blasphet had survived, how could he be talking? His anger faded into confusion. “I ate your tongue.”

  “How appropriate,” said Blasphet. “Devouring the remains of a defeated foe is a way of taking on their power.”

  “It was only dinner,” said Bitterwood, shaking his head.

  Hex said, “This is why the valkyries never found your body, uncle. Once more, you’ve made an impressive escape.”

  “No!” Bitterwood protested. “He had no heartbeat! He wasn’t breathing. When I sawed his tongue out, he didn’t even flinch.”

  Blasphet nodded. “All true. I’ve lived many years with the threat of execution over my head. I long ago developed a poison that would plunge me into a state indistinguishable from death. Colobi found me and administered the antidote only moments after you departed. We limped away from the Nest. My wounds were grievous. You butchered me most effectively.”

  “You… weren’t dead?” Bitterwood found this difficult to believe, despite the evidence before him.

  “I was as close to death as any mortal being may come. As the poison spread within me, I felt as if I were falling from my body, into a great, unending nothingness. I have been to the abyss, Bitterwood. What I found there changed me. When Colobi revived me, I returned to a world where every breath was agony. And yet, I now bear witness to the fact that one painful gasp is far, far sweeter than the nothingness of death. I left the dark tunnel repenting my wicked ways, vowing never to cause harm to a fellow being. I have turned my intellect, once so enamored with murder, to the protection and improvement of life.”

  Hex shook his head as Blasphet spoke. “You’ll forgive me if I’m skeptical, uncle.”

  “Judge me by my deeds,” said Blasphet. “Look around you. I give sight to the blind. I allow the lame to walk. I feed the hungry and clothe the poor. When I designed the Free City, the false promise spread that it would be a paradise where all needs were met. Now, I intend to keep that promise. All who seek comfort will find it.”

  Hex’s eyes focused on the tiara above Blasphet’s head. “How did you come to be in possession of Jandra’s tiara?” he asked. “I’ve experienced her healing touch. I know that its power would be sufficient to regrow your tongue.”

  “When I returned to my temple with Colobi, the sisters who stayed behind presented me with treasures they had collected during their raids on the Dragon Palace. Amon
g their gifts was this tiara. I recognized it instantly. I’d long studied Vendevorex and Jandra, suspecting their headgear might be the source of their abilities. I placed it on my brow… and felt nothing. The device was lifeless.”

  “Obviously, you figured out how to activate it,” said Hex.

  “That was due to another looted treasure,” said Blasphet. “The sisters had stolen Vendevorex’s corpse before they freed me from my confinement in the dungeon. I’d long wanted to study Vendevorex to find out if his magic was, indeed, the result of his skull-cap, or perhaps flowed from some strange mutation. I hoped his body would reveal his secrets. Alas, I was occupied with the plot to destroy the Nest, and had little time to perform a dissection. When I returned from the Nest, with my change of heart, I regarded dissecting Vendevorex in a different light. Desecrating his remains further seemed distasteful. I went to the morgue where I had laid his body upon a slab. I discovered, to my amazement, that his body hadn’t decayed since. Indeed, he showed signs of continued life. The broken and twisted bones of his wings looked straight and whole once more.”

  Bitterwood watched Anza carefully as Blasphet told his story. She, in turn, watched him. Burke still held his collar. Bitterwood glanced toward the tiara floating like a halo above Blasphet. He needed this to save Jeremiah. Burke would never forgive him if he hurt Anza. But what choice did he have? Blasphet possessed poisons that would alter the mind. Anza must be under the influence of such a drug.

  Blasphet continued his tale: “I leaned close to the wizard’s body, listening for a breath. I heard nothing. I placed my head on his chest to detect a heartbeat. Not a single sound stirred beneath his azure scales. Yet, as I concentrated, the tiara, which I still wore, began to glow faintly. I slowly grew aware of a multitude of microscopic machines permeating Vendevorex’s body. These invisible constructs whispered pleas for my guidance. They had reversed his decay, repairing him from the cellular level up, yet lacked the initiative to restore the spark of life. The more I concentrated, the more clearly I understood the whispers of the machines.”