Dragonseed

by James Maxey

  Behind Ragnar were two more Mighty Men, Joab and Adino. They, too, wore chainmail vests and helmets, but carried flintlock shotguns. Burke felt a mixture of pride and consternation when he realized that the guns were both double-barreled and incorporated the back loading design he’d created for the Angry Beetle’s weaponry. This meant someone had found and decoded his notes, or else extrapolated cleverly from the plans he’d already shared. His pride came not because the weapons were ones he’d designed, but from the realization that he wasn’t the only smart man in the fort. These rebels who surrounded him were good men, brave, and clever. It would be an honor to die by their side in battle.

  Of course, dying by their side had never worried him. Dying at their hands was what kept him awake at night.

  The crowd drew back even further as Ragnar marched within a yard of the well. He glared up at Burke, studying him closely. The prophet’s beefy hands squeezed tightly around the cross.

  A thick vein beside the prophet’s left eyebrow pulsed strongly enough that Burke could count the big man’s heartbeats. Ragnar’s mouth opened. Burke braced himself, certain that he was about to be condemned as a witch or a devil.

  Instead, the prophet asked in a voice that was little more than a whisper, “Are you dead?”

  Thorny glanced up at Burke, his eyebrows raised. The question had taken him by surprise as well.

  Before Burke could answer, Ragnar continued, eying Jeremiah. “This was the boy sick with yellow-mouth.”

  Jeremiah nodded. “I’m not sick anymore,” he said.

  The hairy man studied Vance’s face, then Thorny’s.

  “These were the men who fled town,” he said, quietly. “You perished in the explosion.”

  Now Jeremiah, Vance, and even Poocher were looking to Burke to see what he would say next. Only Anza didn’t look at him; she kept her eyes fixed firmly on the Mighty Men with the guns. For the moment, Burke felt bulletproof.

  He shook his head. “We aren’t dead,” he said, firmly, making certain the crowd heard his words. “I know I could play upon your superstitions and claim we’re specters, or angels. I could claim it was God who healed our wounds and gave us wings of silver. But these are all lies. I’m a man who values truth.

  “Our presence here has nothing to do with gods or magic. The wings that hold me in the air are machines, better machines than I know how to build. Jeremiah’s yellow-mouth was fixed by machines, tiny ones, smaller than I can design. Vance can see because of them; Anza can talk. Thorny had lost most of his teeth over the years. Smile for the crowd, Thorny.” Thorny gave a broad grin to the men who stood before him, displaying his restored choppers.

  Ragnar’s face twisted into a snarl. “Witchcraft explains all these things.”

  “Witchcraft explains a lot of things,” said Burke, again speaking loudly enough for the crowd to hear. “It can explain how black powder ignites and pushes lead balls from an iron tube. You can explain how fire changes some rocks into metals by chalking it up as magic. And if you need to understand why crops sometimes fail, or why some men die in battle and others don’t, or why plague besieges a city, it doesn’t take a lot of thought. You can explain it all as the will of God.”

  He swept his gaze across the crowd, at the countless eyes fixed upon him. “All of these explanations have one thing in common,” he said. “They’re wrong.”

  “Blasphemer!” Ragnar barked. His knuckles turned white as he gripped his cross more tightly. He looked coiled to spring.

  Anza shifted her stance, maintaining her look of casual readiness. Ragnar glared at her. “I do not fear your daughter,” the prophet growled.

  Joab and Adino lifted their guns to their shoulders, taking aim. Burke crossed his arms and patiently waited for Ragnar to make his move.

  The prophet’s eyes smoldered like droplets of molten steel. “Fly away,” Ragnar said. “You are five against thousands.”

  Burke wondered who he wasn’t counting. The pig? Jeremiah? It was time to find out if the prophet’s math was fundamentally flawed.

  “Perhaps it’s the four of you against thousands,” said Burke.

  The prophet’s mouth twitched.

  Burked looked at the crowd. “I’m not here to take command of this fort by violence. I didn’t come here for revenge against Ragnar, or to inspire you with wonderful words of how your struggle is part of God’s plan. I’m here to offer to lead you in a struggle that’s far more selfish in nature. I want to one day plant a garden on land I’ve plowed without some dragon king claiming the harvest. I want my grandchildren to live in a world where they won’t be sold as slaves or hunted as prey. I want freedom. I’m willing to die by your side to earn it.”

  Ragnar looked at the crowd. His voice boomed like thunder: “Do not listen to this devil! Freedom is not the cause! We do not make war for land or riches! We fight for a greater glory! We are created in God’s image, and the wrath of God is great and righteous! We struggle against serpents! We are the light in a world of darkness! Together, we will drive the dragons into the sea! Remember the Free City! Remember the Free City!”

  As always, the utterance of these words was followed immediately by their repetition. Yet, it wasn’t the crowd that cried out the words: it was the echo of Ragnar’s own voice bouncing from the stone wall of the foundry behind Burke.

  The crowd was silent. Some men watched Ragnar carefully, even fearfully. Some looked at Burke with the same fearful eyes. Others looked at the ground, as if they wished they were someplace else.

  “You heard the man. He offers you wrath. He offers you a holy struggle. He offers you the promise of a wise and knowing God who will bring you victory in battle.” Burke slowly shook his head. “If you follow me, no higher power will guide us. If we have a hope of winning, it will be because we go to war with better weapons and better tactics than our enemies. I was miserly with my knowledge before. Now, I vow to teach all I know to anyone who listens. I cannot offer you a god. I can only give you machines. The choice is yours.”

  “This isn’t a democracy!” Ragnar snapped.

  Stonewall placed his hand on the prophet’s hairy shoulder. The holy man jerked his head toward his bodyguard. “Respectfully, sir,” said Stonewall, his voice calm, almost gentle, “why isn’t it?”

  VULPINE HIMSELF HAD surveyed the fort and witnessed the winged men who stood near the well. He even spotted the pig. Though he kept his distance, he was certain the boy with wings was Jeremiah. He didn’t know what to make of this. The timing was right; the boy could be dead by now. But he wasn’t quite ready to accept the validity of human mythology regarding the afterlife. He was certain there was a logical explanation for the newcomers’ wings. He was confident he could solve the mystery if he could examine their corpses.

  It looked as if the entire population of the rebels had massed around the central square. They were, he thought, a wretched looking lot, standing around with hunched shoulders and sagging heads. No doubt few men wanted to look up when the roofs were thick with corpses.

  Thus, when the council of war was called, there was little time wasted in debate.

  These men were bent. It was time to break them.

  He stood by Sagen at the northern catapults as the sun inched higher in the sky. There was a pile of human bodies in various stages of decay nearby. The smell should have been horrible; save for buzzards and insects, there were no beasts that found the stench of rotten flesh appealing. Yet, Vulpine had been in the presence of so many corpses over the years, he was surprised to find that he barely noticed the odor. It was like the restorative tea he drank each morning; he’d grown so accustomed to the scent he sometimes forgot that others might find it unpleasant.

  Beside the corpse pile was a larger heap of rusted scrap metal, salvaged from the gleaner mounds. Vulpine went to this mound and picked up a short shaft of iron about an inch in diameter. He couldn’t begin to guess its former purpose. No matter. It was shrapnel now.

  “Have you ever thought much ab
out the year?” asked Vulpine. Sagen looked bewildered by the question. “Why do we number the years as we do? The earth is incomprehensibly older than eleven centuries. Do you ever contemplate the empires that rose and fell and vanished with barely a trace?”

  “Occasionally, sir.”

  Vulpine dropped the scrap of iron and picked up a much bigger, heavier piece. It was an open box with rounded corners, mostly white, about two feet wide and a foot deep; the steel at its core was coated by a thin glaze of ceramic to protect it from rust. The glaze had failed. There was a hole in the bottom he could have stuck his snout through, and bubbles along the rim showed that the iron beneath the glaze had succumbed to rust in numerous spots. Still, it was a hefty object, mostly intact despite having been buried in the ground for centuries.

  “The archeologists at the College of Spires would weep if they saw what we were about to do to these treasures,” he said.

  Sagen shrugged. “They strike me more as trash than treasure.”

  “They read trash as if it were a book.” He rotated the white box in his hands. It weighed at least twenty pounds. The glaze on the interior had been crafted with greater care than the glaze on the outside. “No doubt, they would unravel the function this object served, long ago.”

  “I heard two of the guards debating this very artifact, sir,” said Sagen. “They concluded it was a sink.”

  “Hmm,” said Sagen, tossing the object back onto the pile. “That seems plausible. All that matters, I suppose, is that it will leave a nice dent in the skull of anyone it hits.”

  “I think a human would need an especially thick skull to only suffer a dent,” said Sagen.

  Vulpine looked across the rolling hills, over the jagged ravines carved into the red clay by erosion, to the fort beyond. “I want every scrap to land in the square. They’re packed in so thick we’ll kill half of them with our initial salvo. Sawface and his Wasters are ready to lead the charge. Let’s finish this. We had breakfast in our tents. We’ll cook our lunch in the furnaces of the foundry.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE:

  FREEFALL

  Before Burke could say another word, Ragnar gripped the cross of swords with both hands and swung it with an angry grunt. Stonewall lifted his heavy steel shield to catch the blow with a loud CLANG.

  Stonewall looked anguished as he gazed into the prophet’s eyes. “Sir, I don’t want to hurt you,” the giant man said.

  The wild-haired prophet released an incoherent cry of rage, spinning around, clearing a broad circle as men jumped back to avoid the arc traced by the sharp-edged cross.

  The giant raised his mace and blocked the weapon again.

  Anza glanced at Burke. Burke nodded. She leapt from the wall, raising her sword overhead as she dove at Ragnar’s back.

  A fraction of a second before she reached him, a large rusty cylinder that Burke recognized as the piston of an ancient engine flashed down from the sky and caught Anza on her left shoulder. The blow spun her in the air. Her sword flew from her grasp as she crashed into the center of Ragnar’s back.

  The broad-shouldered prophet barely flinched from the impact.

  An instant later, the entire crowd began to scream. Countless bits of random metal, ranging in size from fingers to fists, rained down on them. Burke’s heart froze as a hundred men dropped, victims of the falling debris.

  “Don’t panic!” he shouted, praying he could be heard above the din. “Don’t panic! Grab the injured and carry them! Everyone into the foundry!”

  With its sturdy brick walls, the foundry could withstand anything the dragons cared to throw at them.

  Ragnar looked down at Anza, sprawled at his feet. “See the evil you have brought upon us with your blasphemy! The Lord strikes down all unbelievers!”

  At that moment, a big white square of ceramic-glazed steel slammed into the back of the prophet’s shaggy skull, bouncing off. The prophet’s eyes narrowed as he remained on his feet. The sink clanged on the hard-packed earth behind him.

  The look of perpetual rage on the prophet’s face vanished as his brow and jaw went slack. His eyes rolled up into his head and he dropped to his knees, falling forward over Anza’s legs. Anza kicked herself free and sprang to her feet, clutching her limp left arm with her right hand.

  Panic spread through the crowd like a wave, even though the initial volley from the catapult was spent. The skies were empty for the moment.

  Burke fired his shotgun into the air. “Listen to me!” he screamed so loudly he was certain he tore something in his throat.

  Stonewall leapt over Ragnar to stand on the lip of the well. He shouted with a voice that rivaled the fallen prophet in both volume and authority: “Pay attention!” To Burke’s great relief, it worked. The crowd turned their eyes toward Stonewall.

  “You heard the man,” said the giant. “Everyone into the foundry. Carry the wounded. No one gets left behind.”

  Anza looked up. “Fadder!” she shouted.

  More shrapnel was darkening the sky.

  “Take cover!” Burke barked out, though there was precious little cover to be had in the middle of the town square. The men nearest the foundry peeled off, vanishing into its shadowy reaches. Jeremiah flew toward the foundry and Poocher darted after him. Vance shot skyward, and Thorny hopped down and pressed himself against the wall of the well. Stonewall held up his shield like a giant umbrella.

  Anza grabbed her fallen sword with her good arm and leapt into the air, her wings unfolding, as the second volley smashed into the crowd. Sparks flew as a large rusty bolt ricocheted from Anza’s wings. She flashed toward Stonewall and pressed herself against him, pushing him over a few inches. Stonewall let out a loud grunt as a fist-sized chunk of scrap banged off his shield.

  Men dove into any doorway available. Anguished howls of pain rose from those struck by the falling metal.

  Luck alone spared Burke. “The foundry! The foundry! You’ll be safe in the foundry!”

  More men began to run for its darkened interior.

  Stonewall looked up as the rain of metal died off. “What about the defenders on the walls?” Almost simultaneously, Vance, fifty yards above, shouted, “The earth-dragons are charging the gates!”

  “Get the men off the walls,” said Burke. “Let the dragons in.”

  “Come down from the walls!” Stonewall shouted. “Everyone into the foundry!”

  “You too, Vance,” said Burke. “Get down here.”

  “Someone has to go stop those catapults,” said Vance.

  “You won’t stop them with a bow and arrows,” said Burke. He glanced at Anza. “Despite what you’re thinking, you won’t stop them with a sword.”

  She grimaced.

  Joab leaned over Ragnar’s form. “He’s still breathing!”

  “Get him into the foundry. We only have a minute before the next volley.”

  “Seconds,” Vance shouted down. “Here it comes!”

  Burke didn’t look at the sky. Instead, he shouted, “Take cover!” aand he, too, darted for the foundry. As he zoomed toward it, he saw that the normally shadowy interior was bright as day. He remembered that the visor he wore allowed him to see in darkness.

  He hovered above the crowed huddled into the foundry. “You men in back!” he shouted. “Get into the store room and bring out every gun you can. I know some of you have been trained in how to use them. I’m sorry more of you haven’t. If we live through this, I promise that every single one of you will be given a gun and taught to use it.”

  “I’ve already got a gun!” a man shouted.

  “Me too,” echoed at least a dozen others.

  Burke nodded.

  Vance and Anza drew up beside him in the air.

  “I could… break… a cat-uh-polt,” she said, sounding out her words carefully as she held up her sword.

  “I have no doubt you could do real damage to one if you got up close,” said Burke. “But you’re not getting up close. You and Vance are going wipe out the catapults from
the air. Thorny, too.”

  Thorny shook his head. “I can’t fly again, Burke. I’m just not built for it.” He reached behind his back and pulled the silver disk free.

  “Give it to Stonewall,” Burke said.

  Stonewall was just entering the open door of the foundry. He carried two fallen men over his shoulders, and was helping a third man limp along on a bleeding leg.

  “These are the same sorts of wings Shay used,” said Stonewall, eying the disk he was offered. “Is he with you?”

  “He had business elsewhere,” said Burke. “You’re now drafted to the air team.”

  “I don’t—”

  “You’ll figure it out. The wings respond to thought. You seem good at thinking.”

  Stonewall placed the men he carried onto the ground. Thorny handed him the silver disk.

  “Get the doors closed,” Burke snapped as metal once again rained down onto the streets outside. He felt sick at all the bodies left behind. Aside from the dead and dying, the square was now empty.

  Suddenly, the ground beneath them trembled as a loud WHOOM! rang from the northern gate.

  “Battering ram,” said Stonewall.

  “Hammer,” said Burke, remembering the beast that had broken the bridge.

  Jeremiah moved among the wounded men and offered them the dragonseeds. Burke could think of no rational reason he should be afraid of the seeds, but he still couldn’t help but wonder if this was all part of some greater scheme of Blasphet’s. It was a bad moment to be having doubts.

  Guns were handed out from the door in the back of the room that ran to the warehouse. Below him, the men gazed up with hopeful eyes.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, as a second WHOOM! rose from the northern gate, “Let’s go over the plan.”

  “There’s a plan?” asked Vance.

  Burke allowed himself a small grin. “There’s always a plan.”

  SAWFACE STRUCK THE northern gate a second time, with a shout that would have made an ox-dog flee with its tail between its legs. He didn’t like to have to hit things a second time. It made him angry.