by James Maxey
Vendevorex was puzzled by this revelation. Earth-dragons could, plausibly, be evolved dinosaurs. They definitely weren’t part of the genetically engineered lineage that had produced sky-dragons and earth-dragons. But, as a race, they hardly seemed advanced enough to create the miraculous technology Atlantis commanded. However, if the quinveris had relied on this technology for millions of years, was it possible that their minds had devolved? Were they near-sighted, cannibalistic dullards when stripped of their technology?
“There are earth-dragons on the planet now,” said Vendevorex. “Why didn’t you assist them instead of humans?”
“Because they weren’t here when I arrived. I was drawn to this world by a false signal. I arrived at the correct place, but almost a century earlier than my coordinates indicated. I didn’t know this; I thought I’d arrived on the wrong world, with no way of turning back. By the time the quinveris colonizers arrived, I was already imprinted on humanity.”
Vendevorex shook his head. As clever as he was, he couldn’t begin to fathom time travel. “How is it possible to arrive a hundred years ahead of schedule?”
The boy’s white toga slipped on his shoulder as he shrugged. “I got lost.”
“He’s the lost city of Atlantis,” said Zeeky.
Vendevorex knew the girl had said the words innocently. She didn’t possess the cultural background to understand the joke. Vendevorex turned and said, “I’ll leave you to your work.”
“Thank you,” said Atlantis.
He walked away. Zeeky hopped down from the planter and followed him. When they were far out of the range of the boy’s hearing, she whispered, “You’re figuring out if you should kill him.”
Vendevorex looked down at the strange little blonde girl. As Shay was recovering, Jandra had filled him in somewhat on the powers of perception that had resulted from the goddess’s genetic engineering.
“This is a curious notion,” he said.
“You’re afraid of what might happen if he gets his powers back. You think mankind—and dragonkind—are going to be better off without him. You already know how to use his tools. You think you can teach folks to use these tools in a less dangerous way.”
Vendevorex stopped. “You know a lot for a girl whose main claim to fame up to now was an ability to talk to pigs.”
“I was born with some gifts,” she said. “When I was a captive, Jazz gave me others.” She bit her lip after she said that. “Don’t tell Jandra. She’ll be worried.”
“Should she be worried?”
“No,” said Zeeky. “Jazz was a bad woman. I’m a nice girl.”
“I see. As a nice girl, tell me your opinion. Should I kill Atlantis?”
“Could you?” she asked.
He clenched his jaw and took a long breath. He knew she wasn’t asking if he had the ability. She was asking if he had the coolness of thought to take the life of a being who had reverted, in appearance at least, to a five-year-old child.
“Yes,” he said.
“Will you try to help the people here with their new lives?”
“Of course.”
“Bitterwood wouldn’t,” she said.
“Did you have this talk with him?”
“No. I don’t want him to have to make this kind of choice. He’s been nice to me. He’s really brave. But I’ve watched his face when he’s sleeping. He doesn’t need any more bad dreams.”
“You should go find him now,” said Vendevorex. “I have other matters to attend to.”
“I don’t think you do,” she said.
He stared at her.
“You don’t have to go back,” she said.
“We both know what’s at stake,” he said.
“You don’t need to do anything,” she said.
“If I don’t, who will?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know.” She shook her head slowly and started to walk again, with her hands clasped behind her back. “All I know is, if you don’t watch a long-wyrm every minute, it’s likely to eat just about anything.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO:
MORNING MEDICINE
ANZA LED THE way as they came in low and fast from the east, the rising sun at their backs. Burke watched her with pride as she moved confidently through the air like some mythic creature.
Burke followed closely behind his daughter with Vance and Jeremiah flanking him. Far behind, almost hidden against the brightening horizon, Poocher and Thorny were mere specks. Burke didn’t care about leaving the pig behind, but felt bad for Thorny, who complained that when they flew too fast he couldn’t breathe. The flight that Shay had made in two hours had taken them all night. Still, that was far swifter than Burke had imagined possible.
Dragon Forge lay before them, the rust-mound surrounding it glittering beneath a sheen of morning frost. The trees beneath them were stunted parodies of healthy forests. Burke wondered if they suffered from a lack of light due to the brown clouds that normally hung over the area, or if trees no more enjoyed breathing smoke than men did. If he continued to run the foundry after this morning, he’d already thought of several improvements to the furnaces and smokestacks that would allow them to operate more efficiently. His intent was to make the atmosphere within the fort healthier; perhaps the forest would enjoy the benefit as well.
A mile from the town, they passed over the ring of encamped dragons enforcing the blockade. Several catapults had been brought into range. He wondered why Ragnar hadn’t used the cannons to discourage this. The big guns had a far greater range than any catapult.
Below, a few bleary-eyed earth-dragons stood near a blue silk tent. He recognized the tent style as the work of the valkyries. The earth-dragons looked up, squinting, shielding their eyes as if trying to make sense of what they were seeing. He wasn’t terribly worried. Earth-dragons were notoriously near-sighted. They probably would be mistaken for sky-dragons.
With the wind in his ears, Burke barely heard their shouts. He grimaced. Perhaps they hadn’t been mistaken for sky-dragons. He saw the flap of a tent flutter open and a lone valkyrie poke her head out, craning her neck skyward. She looked only half awake, but alert enough to have thought to have put on her helmet.
Suddenly, the valkyrie’s eyes popped open.
He hoped that Thorny and Poocher would be okay if the sky-dragon managed to summon her sisters to the air, but there was no time to slow down. The walls of the fortress were approaching fast. He scanned the battlements, looking for any sign that the sky-wall archers had seen them. He looked again, his heart sinking. No archers had seen him because none were on the walls. No living man could be seen anywhere within the city.
The same could not be said of dead ones.
As the walls flashed beneath them, he saw a severed human head in a state of advanced decay sitting on the wooden walkway inside the battlement, gazing up with crow-plucked eyes. All around the roof tops were other remains, legs and arms and torsos, along with whole bodies wedged up against chimneys or dangling limply from rain gutters.
His first instinct was that they were too late. The rebels had already been slaughtered. Logic kicked in and he understood what the catapults had been used for. The rain of corpses had been meant to soften up the rebels for an attack yet to come.
Again, he wondered why the cannons hadn’t been used. Even before he left, the big guns had been rolling off the production line. By now, the construction needed to mount them on the walls should have been completed. Had Ragnar not read any of his battle plans?
Anza tilted her feet down, her long braid trailing behind her as she dropped toward the broad lip of the well at the center of town. She seemed to be going too fast, but in the final seconds her speed dropped as if a net had caught her, and she lighted on the stone rim as gently as a fallen leaf. Burke hadn’t told her of the fate Shanna had suffered at the well, and the well made an inviting target for landing, given its central location and the way it rose up like a stage from the packed earth surrounding it.
Vance and Je
remiah landed beside her. Burke drifted down and then stopped, hovering above the center of the well. He nearly gagged at a human ribcage caught in the bucket that dangled a few yards down the shaft. Rats crawled over the tatters of its desiccated flesh. He hoped a lucky shot had placed it there. They were in trouble if the dragons possessed catapult marksmen capable of intentionally scoring a bulls-eye on the well. He didn’t point it out to the others, who were looking around the city. There were more than enough horrors to gaze upon.
“Why hasn’t anybody pulled those corpses from the roofs?” Vance asked, as he looked around the abandoned streets. “Where is everyone?”
Burke held the shotgun Shay had given him over his head. “Let’s find out,” he said, pulling the trigger. The bang echoed through the empty streets.
Seconds later, a few guards appeared along the city’s walls. Had they been sleeping? He counted only seven. This, compared to the hundreds that should be at their posts.
Up and down the street doors creaked open. Shadowy faces with wide eyes peeked out. Slowly, voices began to call back and forth.
“Burke!” someone yelled.
“Burke,” others echoed.
“Burke’s ghost!” a voice shouted.
Burke grimaced. Convincing men he wasn’t dead while floating a yard above the well could be tricky. But he still wasn’t planning to land. He patiently reloaded the shotgun. Anza folded her wings back into the disk and drew her tomahawks. She stood in a stance that was both relaxed and impatient. Men began to cautiously step into the streets.
Vance followed her lead. He folded up his wings and drew his sky-wall bow, placing an arrow against the string and waiting, watching. Beside him Jeremiah drew Vulpine’s knife, but kept his wings spread wide.
A moment behind them, Poocher and Thorny drifted down from the sky. Poocher let out a small grunt; all four of his cleft hooves touched the rim of his well at once. He stood next to Jeremiah. The pig also left his wings open. Burke wondered if he knew how to close them.
Thorny folded his wings in while his feet were still a foot above the well. He let out a loud “oof” as he landed. He looked up at Burke and said, “I’m your friend, and I’d die for you, but I’ll be damned if I’m ever going to fly for you again. I’m giving my wings to Bitterwood next chance I get.”
“I don’t think he needs them,” said Burke as he finished loading the shotgun.
“No man needs these things,” Thorny grumbled.
“Is it my imagination, or are you in a bad mood?”
“I feel like a cranky baby. Sixty is too old to be teething again.” To show what he meant, he pulled back his lips and revealed his gums. Where once there had been more gaps than teeth, there were now freshly minted chompers, ten times whiter than the old teeth that surrounded them.
By now, the square around the well was filling. The crowd was full of men shouting Burke’s name—not cheering him, or greeting him: merely announcing his presence to others.
Burke looked down the avenue to the red brick house at the end.
He clenched his jaw as the door opened.
VULPINE WAS IN the habit of waking at dawn. In the quietness of the morning, he pondered the words he’d said to Balikan only a few weeks before. The world was in no danger of running out of days, or years. Yet, Vulpine was keenly aware that he was not the world. His body possessed a sluggishness in the chill of the morning that reminded him that his youth had long since vanished.
His kettle whistled upon the small oil burner. He picked it up, welcoming the warmth of the wire handle in his stiff fore-talon. He poured the oily brown contents into a tin cup. He sniffed it, savoring the complex sharpness of the odor. The soup was a mix of shaved barks, roots, and organs. The bark of the willow tree was especially bitter, but there was no questioning that it soothed the aching of his muscles. The root of the sassafras offset the bitterness somewhat with a medicinal tang and a touch of sweetness that prodded his thoughts into clarity on cool mornings. Alligator testicles, dried and powdered, ensured his continued virility and gave the whole mix a musky bouquet and salty aftertaste.
He crouched by a low table and sipped his morning medicine, reading the letter that had been delivered yesterday by Chapelion’s messengers. He ground his teeth at Chapelion’s incompetence. More of the aerial guard had abandoned the palace. Some new charismatic prophet had apparently established a base in the Free City and was drawing a following of both humans and dragons. Worse, Cragg, the beastialist who had inherited Rorg’s abode, had announced that his tribe was seceding from the rest of the kingdom. There were reports that Verteniel, who oversaw the coastal abode that included the Isle of Horses, was prepared to do the same. This had always been the true danger of the empty throne—not that the other sun-dragons would try to conquer the kingdom, but that they would simply decide they could manage the affairs of their own small fiefdoms better without the interference of a king.
Faced with all this bad news, he welcomed the interruption when Sagen pushed aside the flap to his tent.
“Sir? May I speak with you?”
“Please come in,” said Vulpine. He motioned toward the kettle. “May I offer you a cup of my daily elixir?”
Sagen’s nose wrinkled as he contemplated the oily fluid.
“I promise it grows on you,” said Vulpine.
“Breakfast can wait. I was awakened with news only moments ago. I felt it was important that I consult with you at once. There’s been … activity… at Dragon Forge,” said Sagen, sounding hesitant in his choice of words.
“So they’ve poked their heads out again after yesterday’s bombardment?”
The skin around Sagen’s eyes bunched up as if he were pondering how to say his next sentence. “There are reports that the blockade has been breached, sir.”
Vulpine sighed. “Let me guess. The earth-dragons got so twisted on goom they fell asleep at their posts and let more refugees into the fort.”
“No sir,” said Sagen. “It was breached by the air. By angels.”
Vulpine tilted his head, not quite certain he’d heard this correctly. “Angels,” Vulpine said calmly. “Men with wings.”
Sagen nodded. “And a pig.”
“A pig?”
“Yes sir.”
“With wings?”
“Yes sir.”
Vulpine closed his eyes and rubbed his brow with his fore-talon. His scales felt especially dry this morning. Sagen, as a product of his bloodline, was designed to be among the most sane and intelligent dragons who’d ever flown above the earth. He was certain his son wasn’t deranged. So, angels. And why not? He’d never believed in their reality, but the Ballad of Belpantheron spoke of them, and there had reportedly been an angel who'd come to the defense of the Nest during the recent nastiness with Blasphet. Perhaps that angel still lingered in the area, along with a friend or two.
“How many?” he asked, opening his eyes.
“Counting the pig?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Six. The pig, a woman, and four men, ranging in age from a boy to a wizened old man.”
Vulpine took a sip of the hot elixir. He swished it around on his tongue for a moment, allowing the heat in his mouth a few extra seconds to warm his brain.
“Who reported the sighting?”
“Arifiel.”
“Ah,” said Vulpine. He didn’t especially like the female, but she’d shown no tendency toward exaggeration or fantasy.
“Her sighting was confirmed by a score of earth-dragons, though given the weakness of their vision I’m not certain we can give much credence there.”
“The word of Arifiel is enough,” Vulpine said. “It’s an odd development, I’ll grant you, but we’ll manage it. I’m familiar enough with human mythology to know they associate angels with death. Perhaps they’re harbingers that the end is near.”
“Is the end near, sir?” asked Sagen. “Many of the guard have noticed the lack of activity within the fort in recent days. The
walls are practically undefended. We could be at the town center within minutes. Why must we tarry?”
Vulpine started to mention the wheeled-bows and the guns as good reasons, but held his tongue. He looked at the correspondence before him. Had he miscalculated the greater danger? He thought he was keeping chaos from spreading by containing Dragon Forge. But what if, by focusing on the few square miles of earth within the circle of the blockade, he was ignoring the greater danger at his back? What if they won Dragon Forge, but lost the kingdom?
“Summon Arifiel and Sawface,” said Vulpine. “Let us hold a council of war.”
“Why Sawface? You know his opinion. He will want to charge the walls of the city and rip the limbs from every living thing he encounters.”
“True,” said Vulpine. “And I’m intrigued to see if I can find any reason to argue against his doing so. Have them here in five minutes. I’m going to take a quick flight to survey the area.”
Vulpine sat his tin cup onto the table, gazing at the gray and brown dregs at the bottom. His medicine looked no better than it tasted.
A CROWD OF at least a thousand men surrounded the well, their eyes fixed upon Burke. Most had rags covering their mouths and noses. The stench of rot and sewage grew as the morning sun climbed above the eastern wall. Steam rose from the skin of a corpse on a nearby roof.
No one said a word. Ragnar, prophet of the lord, was approaching.
Ragnar looked particularly wild this morning. His mane of black hair and chest-length beard clung to his leathery skin in oily, tangled locks. He carried the cross he’d had welded together from swords before him in both hands. The whites of the prophet’s eyes glowed in the dark shadows beneath his bushy brow.
The crowd parted as Ragnar stalked forward. Behind him was Stonewall, also armed. He carried a mace and a heavy steel shield that Burke recognized instantly. It was one of the armored plates from the Angry Beetle. The giant wore a vest of chainmail and a steel helmet that covered most of his skull, but left his eyes and mouth exposed. Burke expected to see hate in Stonewall’s eyes after their rather abrupt parting of ways. Instead, Stonewall looked more worried than vengeful.
