Dragonseed

by James Maxey

  Hex rose on his shaky legs. “So. You owe your new-found abilities to a tiara you admit to stealing and to a corpse you admit you planned to desecrate. I’m a friend of the true owner of the tiara. Jandra was haunted by the mystery of Vendevorex’s missing body. If you’re truly an honorable being now, you’ll give me the tiara.”

  Blasphet sagged as he shook his head mournfully. “I cannot defend the actions of my previous self. The dragon I was died in the darkness, slain by the hands of the true Murder God. The dragon who limped out of that tunnel, and now stands before you, is a reborn being. Possession of this tiara is my greatest hope for repairing the evil I’ve done.”

  “You slew eight hundred valkyries,” said Hex. “No amount of good deeds can balance this villainy.”

  Burke still had his hands on Bitterwood’s shirt. He’d been glancing back and forth between Bitterwood and Anza. Increasingly, his eyes were upon his daughter. Finally, he asked, softly, “Are you all right, Anza? Why are you protecting this monster?”

  “Fah-der,” she said, in slow, halting syllable. “Dis drak-on haz …” She paused, her mouth open, a look of intense concentration in her eyes. She uttered the final words of her thought carefully, in syllables that were more on the mark. “He … healed… me.”

  Burke’s hand went slack and dropped from Bitterwood’s collar. “You can talk?”

  “Yas,” she said, nodding for emphasis.

  “Your daughter suffered from a calcified tumor near her vocal chords,” said Blasphet. “I removed it, repairing the damaged nerves and reviving atrophied muscles. She is still training her new voice. In time, she will speak as well as any other human.”

  Anza pursed her lips once more. “He… can heal… you.”

  Burke’s crutch slipped from his fingers. He dropped to the floor in a motion that was half falling, half sitting. He held his hands in his head as he whispered, on the verge of tears, “All my life, I’ve had dreams that you could talk to me.” He let out a long slow breath. “I trust Anza. Let Blasphet heal Jeremiah.”

  “You’re insane!” Bitterwood said.

  “No he’s not,” said Vance, stepping up. “I ate the dragonseed and it cured me. Let Blasphet help Jeremiah.”

  Bitterwood furrowed his brow. This was, in a way, such an obvious thing to try. Why had his first approach to this problem been to kill Blasphet and take the tiara? Would there ever be a problem in his life he wouldn’t attempt to fix by killing something? He shook his head, disgusted that he was having these doubts, especially here, in the Free City. Blasphet was a monster. Was he the only sane person in the room?

  Before he could decide on a course of action, Thorny walked toward the huge black dragon, holding his gnarled hands before him. “If you’ve done right by Anza, I’ll trust you. Can you fix my hands?”

  “Of course,” said Blasphet. He raked his fore-talon along his chest. His feathery scales were bunched into small polyps. He plucked one free, and held it toward Thorny.

  “The seeds grow from your body?” Burke asked.

  “Yes,” said Blasphet. “They are full of the same tiny machines that swam in Vendevorex’s blood. They now thrive within me. When you ingest the seed, the microscopic engines will spread through your body, seeking out damage and repairing it.”

  Bitterwood felt nauseated as Thorny bent his head down to Blasphet’s talon and took the seed between his lips. Thorny swallowed as he stood up. He looked down at his hands as he asked, “How long will it take to work?”

  “Unguided, the machines need several hours to analyze your body for flaws,” said Blasphet. “I can guide them more quickly. My… familiarity… with corpses has left me well prepared as a healer. I know what all the bones in a healthy human hand should look like. I know how thick the cartilage between them should be, and where the tendons should attach. If you choose to have me guide the process, there will be a certain level of pain involved.”

  “I’ve not had a moment free of pain in thirty years,” said Thorny. “Do it.”

  “As you wish,” said Blasphet. He fixed his gaze upon Thorny’s hands. Thorny suddenly drew a sharp breath and dropped to his knees, leaning against the canvas-covered platform.

  Around the room, the white-robed disciples began to sing as Thorny cried out in incoherent, babbling agony. His fingers twitched and writhed. Even Anza’s gaze was drawn to the sight of Thorny’s useless, knotted claws changing into something that looked like healthy hands.

  Bitterwood knew this was the moment. He reached over his shoulder, his fingers brushing against the leafy end of a fresh arrow. Before he could pluck it from the quiver, a small hand touched him on the hip. He looked down and found Zeeky looking up at him.

  Beneath the din of the singing and Thorny’s screams, she said, “Let him help Jeremiah.”

  Bitterwood drew the arrow.

  “If Jeremiah dies, you’ll never forgive yourself,” said Zeeky.

  Bitterwood clenched his jaw. Every instinct wanted to place the arrow against his bowstring. However, just as Burke trusted Anza, Bitterwood trusted Zeeky. He’d been friendless for twenty years. This mysterious little girl had liked and trusted him from the moment they’d met. He wanted her approval more than he wanted Blasphet’s death. With a sigh, he returned the arrow to his quiver.

  The song of the disciples fell off and Thorny stopped screaming. The old man breathed heavily, his face dripping tears. He stared at his restored hands, opening and closing them slowly.

  He wiped his cheeks. He pursed his lips tightly and took a long, calming breath through his nose. He grabbed the edge of the platform and supported his weight on his hands as he stood. He looked up at Blasphet.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice raspy from screaming.

  “You’re welcome,” said Blasphet. “The dragonseed will continue to work, slowly restoring further infirmities. Soon, you’ll eat your meals with a full set of teeth once more. And your overall health will improve as the damage that alcohol has done to your liver is reversed.”

  “Will I be young again?” asked Thorny.

  “No,” said Blasphet. “Age is not a disease. You will, however, be strong and healthy. A well-maintained human body should last nearly a century. See to it that you are careful in your habits, and you will at least feel young.”

  As Thorny nodded and walked away, Blasphet looked at Hex. “How about you, nephew? I see that you’ve suffered trauma to your brain. Will you allow me to restore you?”

  Hex scowled. “Uncle, if you attempt to alter my brain with your invisible machines, I’ll alter your brain with my jaws.”

  “So be it. I understand the reason for your scorn.” He then looked to Burke. “You, human, have seen the good I’ve done for your daughter. Will you let me make you whole? Life has left you with many scars.”

  Burke stared down at his missing leg. He lifted his hand and traced the three scars that marred his cheek. Bitterwood could tell from the way the machinist held his body that the blisters beneath his arm were still a source of pain. When Burke inhaled to answer, Bitterwood knew Burke, too, would accept Blasphet’s help.

  “No,” said Burke.

  “No?” said Blasphet.

  “No?” said Anza. She walked toward him, kneeling to look into his eyes. “Fadder, he can fex yuh leg.” Her words were more difficult to follow when she tried to speak quickly.

  “I believe he can,” said Burke. “But I lost my leg due to a tactical error; I didn’t use sufficient armor on my war machine. And, these scars… I’ve had these scars on my cheek since the battle of Conyers. Every time I’ve looked into a mirror for the last twenty years, I’m reminded of all the men who died because they believed I could lead them to victory.”

  Anza shook her head as she listened to her father’s words.

  “I don’t regret my bad memories,” he said, taking her hand. “I can’t claim they’ve left me wiser, but they define me. These scars, Anza, they aren’t flaws. They’re part of me. Erasing my scars is li
ke erasing my life.”

  Anza nodded, her dark eyes full of understanding. She helped her father rise again on his one good leg. Vance handed Burke his crutch.

  Blasphet turned toward Bitterwood.

  “The boy at your feet is dying from yellow-mouth,” he said. “With your permission, I shall heal him.”

  Bitterwood clenched his fists as he turned away, unable to look at Blasphet. He gazed at the candles guttering among the rafters, and at the thin rays of a declining sun that poked through the gaps in the barn wall. He saw dust dancing in that light, gleaming like tiny flecks of snow. Jandra had said that all her magic came from dust. Hezekiah had taught him that man came from dust, and returned to it. His shoulders sagged. There were mysteries in this world far beyond his grasp.

  “Save him,” he whispered, walking toward the door they’d entered.

  He didn’t know if he was doing the right thing, despite Zeeky’s reassurance. He needed to step outside and get some fresh air to clear his thoughts. When he pushed open the door, he stepped onto a broad avenue where men and dragons were crowded together, all looking toward the western sky. He shielded his eyes as he, too, looked toward the sunset and discovered an angel. A winged human was plainly visible as a silhouette against the red sky. The entity drifted down toward the Free City. Bitterwood tensed. Was this another of the goddess’s machines, like Gabriel? What was its connection to Blasphet?

  He reached for an arrow. The flying figure altered his descent slightly, now plainly heading for the ground where Bitterwood stood.

  A voice called out, “Bitterwood! I didn’t expect to find you here!”

  Bitterwood squinted. “Shay?”

  Shay flapped his wings and he slowed to a halt a few yards before Bitterwood, hovering several inches above the ground. The wind stirred the folds of Bitterwood’s cloak. “I’m here to find Hex. I didn’t expect to find you. And who are all these people?”

  “Worshippers of Blasphet,” said Bitterwood.

  “The Murder God?” Shay asked, looking around at the crowd that gathered to gawk at him. “I expected his followers to look more… sinister.”

  “He’s renounced the title of Murder God,” said Bitterwood.

  “Can you do that?” Shay sounded perplexed. “Just decide one day you’re no longer a god?”

  Bitterwood shrugged. “Who makes the rules?”

  “Is Hex here?”

  “He’s inside with Burke and the others,” said Bitterwood. “We all arrived together.”

  “Burke?” Shay ran his fingers through hair. His orange locks were disheveled and tangled to an absurd degree, as if he’d spent time inside a tornado. “I can’t believe it! I was told he was dead.”

  “Death is apparently not as permanent as it used to be,” said Bitterwood.

  “This is good fortune. I needed some luck after the last few days. Did Hex tell you about Jandra?”

  “Some,” said Bitterwood. “We haven’t been together long. He failed to mention you’d sprouted wings.”

  Shay glanced back at his silvery appendages, as if he was almost surprised to find them there. He stretched them out and gave them a gentle shake. The metallic feathers chimed softly. “You like them? You’re in luck. I have more of these in Hex’s bag.”

  Just then, Burke limped out the door, supported by Anza. They both stopped in their tracks as they followed the gaze of the crowd upward.

  “Hallo, Sheh,” said Anza.

  Shay’s eyes widened. “You can talk?”

  Burke said, dryly, “I think the more surprising development here is that you can fly.”

  Shay grinned; then just as swiftly, his grin vanished.

  “Burke, Dragon Forge is in trouble. There’s an outbreak of yellow-mouth. Or, at least, there’s fear of an outbreak. The foundry has come to a standstill. The walls were barely manned.”

  Burke shook his head. “I’m sorry to hear that. But it’s not my problem anymore.”

  Shay’s eyes flashed with the same rage Bitterwood had witnessed when he’d announced he’d set fire to the library. “Not your problem?” Shay shouted. “Dragon Forge promised the rebirth of the Human Age. The revolution was the light of a new human dawn, the hope of the slave! You were the brains that made it possible!”

  “I may have been the brains, but Ragnar was the heart. And that heart was corrupted. The two of us never trusted each other. We were doomed from the start.”

  “You have to become the heart as well as the brains,” said Shay. “You know you have the dream to make men free once more!”

  Burke sighed. “I’ve already caused too many people to die.”

  Shay made several exasperated grunts as he tried to find the words to respond to this. “Wha… but… it’s not your fault people have died fighting to take Dragon Forge! You’re not a king, pressing slaves into service. Those men at Dragon Forge were volunteers. Everyone who died, died for a cause. Giving up now means they’ll have died in vain.”

  Anza nodded. “Lissen ta hem.”

  Burke raised an eyebrow. “You agree? I thought you were a pacifist now that you were worshipping Blasphet.”

  Anza cast off her white robe, revealing the weapon-studded buckskin beneath. She drew her sword and said, “Ah ahm a waryor. Ah belif in de cause.”

  “You’re a warrior because I robbed you of a normal life,” said Burke. “I had no right to turn you into a weapon. All those years, Blasphet gathered young women around him and taught them to kill. They called him a monster. How much more of a monster am I to do the same thing to my own daughter?”

  “Father,” she said, slowly, carefully. “I… don’t… want… a normal… life. Ah am … not a muh-sheen. Ah am your daughter. Ah love… my life.”

  “You should hate me,” Burke whispered.

  Anza pressed her lips into a thin, straight line. The muscles in her jaws flinched as worked out the next movements of her mouth in her head.

  “You can use your hand signals to talk if it’s easier,” said Burke.

  She frowned. It was obvious, from her expression, that she was determined to make the muscle of her tongue obey her will with the same precision that the commanded all her other muscles.

  “I love you, Father,” she said, slowly and deliberately. “I’m happy … to fight … because I fight for you.”

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  Anza returned his gaze with intense seriousness. “We must fight… for Drak-on Forge.”

  Burke nodded. He straightened his shoulders. He looked toward Bitterwood. “How quickly can Skitter carry us back to Dragon Forge?”

  Shay said, “Not as fast as wings will carry us. I’ve got more of these in Hex’s bag.”

  Burke nodded, then jerked his head up, as if he suddenly remembered the reason he came out to the street in the first place. “Bant, Jeremiah’s awake.”

  Bitterwood stepped out of the crowded street back into the candlelit barn, leaving Shay to fill in Burke on what he’d discovered at Dragon Forge. Jeremiah was sitting up now. The corpse-like pall that had gripped him was gone; his cheeks had color again. Zeeky sat beside him, her arms wrapped around him, hugging him tightly. Poocher was next to him also; Jeremiah had one hand on the pig’s neck and was scratching him behind the ears. The big pig looked content.

  Bitterwood walked toward Jeremiah. Before he could reach the boy, however, a vertical rainbow appeared in the air in the center of the barn. Several of Blasphet’s followers gasped at the strange apparition.

  A woman, dressed in a gown that resembled the red scales of a sun-dragon, appeared. She had a silver helmet atop her head. Bitterwood recognized her instantly.

  “Jandra?” he said.

  Jandra smiled as she spotted him. “Bant!” she said, sounding genuinely pleased to see him. She turned her head and said, even more joyfully, “Hex! Zeeky! Poocher! You’re all here!”

  Hex snaked his head toward the woman. At first, the swiftness of the motion led Bitterwood to think he was attacking her
. Instead, he stopped inches from her face and sniffed, his nostrils flaring. Her hair fluttered as he inhaled as deeply as his dragon lungs could muster. He stared into her eyes, and she stared back.

  He exhaled slowly and said, “It smells like you. But, of course, with the goddess in your body, I don’t know that I could tell a difference.”

  “Sometimes you have to trust your nose,” said Jandra. “You saw me fighting to regain control. I won. I’ve pushed the goddess out of my brain at last.”

  Hex looked skeptical. “Jandra didn’t know how to form an underspace gate.”

  “I do now,” said Jandra. “I got rid of Jazz’s personality, not her memories. I’ve learned something amazing while I’ve been away. I’ve been to Atlantis.”

  The hair raised on the back of Bitterwood’s neck. He’d encountered Atlanteans before. The technology Jazz had used came from there. Jazz had been his most dangerous fight, ever. It was difficult to imagine a whole city of people with her power.

  Jandra continued, “Now that I’ve been there, I have to go back. I need allies. I plan to destroy the city, and I don’t know if I can do it alone.”

  “Why would you want to destroy the city?” asked Hex.

  Bitterwood was more puzzled by something else. “How did you know we would be here?”

  “Jazz could track her nanites in your quiver, and now so can I,” said Jandra. “Speaking of nanites, I see my original genie has a new owner.” She looked at Blasphet. She didn’t look particularly concerned by his presence. “And who’s using Vendevorex’s genie?”

  “The genie I buried?” Hex asked.

  “It’s not buried any more,” said Jandra. “It’s here, and it’s in use. I can detect its radio pulses.”

  Her eyes fixed on seemingly empty air beside Blasphet. “Come out. If you can use the genie well enough to make yourself invisible, we should talk.”

  For a moment, nothing happened, and then a calm voice said, “Very well.”