"She is a dragonheart," Arlian said quietly.
"So I see," Black replied, taking Ithar in his arms. He looked down at those calm, softly glowing blue eyes, then at Brook's cold brown ones.
Then, without another word, he turned away and headed for the far end of the cellars, where the children were calling to one another.
Brook watched him go, then asked, "What if the dragons can sense Ithar, as they sense us?"
"Let us hope they cannot. Ithar is a creature of magic, yes, but unless there is some far deeper game here than I can comprehend, he bears no dragonspawn. You took that upon yourself for him. Still, it is possible, and we can just hope for the best."
For a moment they were silent, and then Brook asked quietly,
"What if there is no tunnel?" Arlian noticed a quaver in her voice, and looked down to see a tear welling in her eye.
"Then we all die," he said. "I'm sorry, Brook." He glanced up at the ceiling, then after Black's retreating figure. "I'm sorry for everything." Somewhere above them a wall collapsed with a tremendous crash, and Arlian could hear the crackle of flames. He hefted the spear in his left hand.
"Brook," he said, "do you want to stay down here, or should I carry you up to the kitchen? I'll need to make a second trip for your chair."
"I'll stay here," she said. "I am trying my best to be brave, my lord, but I am not ready to deliberately go any closer to the monsters that have come to kill me."
"Fair enough. I intend to go up there, though, to hold them off as long as I can." He turned toward the stairs.
At the bottom step he paused, listening, as he realized that he could no longer hear the girls' voices. "Black?" he called.
"We found it, Ari," Black's distant voice replied. "Good-bye, my lord—and Alliri. May the dead gods keep you safe."
Then he heard a faint thump—a door being closed.
Arlian swallowed.
Behind him he could hear Brook weeping, but he did not look;
instead he turned and marched up the stairs, the spear ready in his left hand.
48
A Final Meeting of Old Foes
A Final Meeting of Old Foes
The Grey House was afire—but this was hardly the conflagration it might have been elsewhere. There were no wooden beams here, no tarred roofing; the entire structure was stone and metal, down to the mullions in the windows. Even when dragon venom had been liberally sprayed in every direction, all that burned were the doors, the draperies, and the furnishings. The walls might be blackened by soot, but they did not burn.
All the same, it was scarcely a pleasant environment Arlian found when he emerged into the kitchen; the acrid smoke blinded and choked him as he tried to locate his enemies. Sound was no help, as the roar of the flames and the crashing of stone was all around him; he could smell nothing but smoke; his eyes stung and his vision blurred. Still, he squinted into the gloom.
Streaks of burning venom were seeping through cracks in the ceiling, like streamers of orange fire; smoke swirled and danced overhead.
The table was smeared with soot and char, but had not yet ignited; so far, of the kitchen's substance and contents, only the doors were burning, a slow, smoky smolder—but through the one door that stood open he could see the dining hall awash in flame, the tapestries and chairs ablaze, the ceiling fallen in.
For a moment he wondered what he was doing here. What could he hope to accomplish, one man against a horde of dragons?
He could buy time for Black and Ithar and the others, he told himself. He could buy a little time for Brook. And he could perhaps take one or two dragons down with him.
And then the world seemed to shake, and one corner of the ceiling fell in, a great black claw smashing down into the kitchen. Arlian turned, spear raised, as the talons ripped at the stonework, crumbling solid limestone as if it were cheese.
Then an immense black head thrust into the opening, filing it completely and widening it further, and two golden eyes stared down at him from an all-too-familiar face. Arlian stared back, and then said, "You!"
I know you, the dragon replied soundlessly. You carry my seed.
"Damn you, yes! You killed my family, burned our home, and poisoned me!"
The dragon seemed utterly undisturbed by this accusation. If you would flee, flee. I am not here for you this time. I would prefer to let you live to bear my offspring.
"I won't flee—don't you and your kind know me better than that after all these years?"
The dragon's eyes seemed to smile at that, and for a horrible instant Arlian thought he recognized something of his grandfather in that smile. All these years? it said. Your entire life has been just a few heartbeats.
You are a child. A troublesome child, but still merely a child.
"A troublesome child?" Arlian asked, lifting the spear in his left hand. "Well, at least I've troubled you!"
Indeed. The smile vanished. You have helped to create a godling.
"I have helped to butcher more than four score of your foul breed!"
The old and infirm—and our numbers were higher than was entirely wise, in any case. We permitted ourselves such excess when we first conquered this land that we diluted our own magic through overbreeding.
"What?" Arlian was distracted by a crashing somewhere nearby—
clearly, other dragons were in the area. He was also having difficulty breathing as the stench of venom mingled with the smoke, rendering the air even more toxic, and thinking clearly was becoming a challenge.
" When you first conquered this land? When was that?"
When we took it away from your gods—the sort you hope to restore. And where is the godling?
"That was ten thousand years ago!"
Yes. I remember. Where is the child?
"Gone. Somewhere safe. Somewhere you can't find him-"
The dragon stared wordlessly at him for a moment, but did not seem to be seeing him; Arlian looked for some way to get the spear at its heart, but could not find one. Only the monster's head was in the kitchen; the rest was still apparently on the next floor up, in what Arlian estimated had been the servants' quarters before this invasion—though it surely would not all fit there, and its tail might extend almost anywhere in the house.
He is still nearby, but... hidden.
"You're lying. You don't know where he is."
Oh, but I do. I can sense every sort of magic, not just my own.
Arlian's heart sank, but he bluffed, "No, you cannot—we have magicks you cannot imagine!"
No.
"Yes!"
You have the black stone. You have sorcery. You have some simple magic brought from the southern wilderness, and you have your godling. That is all.
"It's enough!"
It may be. I cannot feel exactly where the child is—you have indeed hidden it well. Beneath the ground? In a cavern, like our own?
"A deep one."
No. Rather, one so narrow I could not fit through it. To reach the child we would need to dig through the stone of the earth.
The entire house shook, and somewhere an avalanche of crumbling stone roared; dust sifted through the smoke. Something screamed, a deep, inhuman shriek.
Arlian trembled; he could see the point of his spear wobble. The smoke and venom were sapping his strength; his eyes were tearing so much he could hardly see. His imagination supplied all too vivid a picture of the dragons ripping up the streets and digging down to Enziet's tunnel. "If you do that you'll be trapped," he said. "Easy targets for our spears. You would be digging through your own dead before you reached the child."
There is considerable truth in that. Already more than a score of us have been struck down by your missiles, and twice that number injured but not fallen. Some have already turned and fled. To land in the streets, relinquish the freedom of the skies . . . The dragon's expression turned thoughtful. It would seem we may be defeated. I had not thought it possible.
"It is inevitable!" Arlian shouted, trying to sound
as if he believed it.
Listen, man, the dragon said, you know not what you are doing, protecting this creature.
"We are freeing our land of evil and chaos—the evil of your kind, and the chaos of wild magic."
And what are you imposing in its place? Do you have any idea what this godling will become?
"Not really," Arlian admitted. "But we still swear by the gods you destroyed, while dragons are so feared and hated that our ancestors were reluctant to even say your name. The child's first act was to heal a wounded man, while a dragon's birth kills its host. I think we have reason to choose the child."
And what if you are wrong? No black stone will pierce its heart.
"Silver will."
Silver will not. Those pitiful half-formed creatures you created were mere twisted shadows of the power that dragon venom and a human womb produce.
The godling is not so easily slain as they.
For a moment Arlian wondered whether the dragon was lying. Did the creature hope to play on the human fear of the unknown, and coax Arlian into letting it reach Ithar for fear the child would be otherwise indestructible? "Yet you propose to slay it; what weapons do you carry?"
he asked. "I see no dagger in your talon."
We have ways.
"And you will not tell me what they are? Why do you fear this child so?"
The gods were our . . . our rulers. We prize our freedom.
"As we prize ours—and while you live, and the gods do not, we have none."
So you would rather be the gods' cattle than our prey?
"If the gods prove worse than you, we will have time to change our minds."
Not if you have slain us all.
"We can still choose chaos!"
No. Who will tell you how to kill the gods, when we are gone?
"We will find a way. Perhaps the thing in Tirikindaro will tell us—
it was there, it knows what you did."
And if it did that would not help you. You do not have that which can kill a god.
"We'll find it."
No. Not if we are gone.
"Why not?"
Perhaps if I tell you, you will let a few of us live, the dragon mused. Perhaps you will allow my spawn in your heart to live to maturity.
"Why should I?"
Because only dragonbone can harm the gods, the dragon said. Our teeth.
our bones—nothing else. As we alone can create them with our venom, we alone can destroy them. We came seeking this little one ourselves. rather than sending our human servants, because once it had been born they and their weapons could not harm it. We can.
"Then why do you fear the gods so? If your teeth can tear their flesh, why should you risk your own lives to attack Manfort? Why would you fly directly into a wall of obsidian blades to get at a single child?
Why is it so very important to you that no gods should exist?"
They are our natural enemies, our antithesis.
"Your rulers, you said—but if you can harm them, how could they rule you?"
The dragon hesitated—and as it did the house shook again, and a wall of the kitchen was torn open. Arlian fell backward, away from the cloud of dust and the rush of air—air that could not be called anything but hot, but that was nonetheless cooler than the sweltering heat of the smoke-filled, flame-riddled kitchen.
A second dragon's face appeared in the opening, its attention focused on the first. Arlian blinked at it through the smoke and haze.
What are you doing? it asked. Have you found the abomination?
It is in a tunnel beneath the earth, where we cannot reach it.
Where? We can dig it out.
Arlian recognized this new arrival. This was another of the three that had destroyed the village on the Smoking Mountain—he had glimpsed its face as it flew by.
If we dig, men with spears will slay us while we work, and it will flee f a r -
ther down the tunnel.
Then are we doomed? The fatalist faction was correct ?
This human can fetch it for us.
The second dragon turned its head toward Arlian. It is the boy from the volcano. The heir to the bargainer. The killer. The maker of the godling.
He will not aid us!
He may be convinced.
How?
He prizes freedom, and truth, and justice. Perhaps if we tell him the truth he will understand our own need for our freedom and our justice.
"Perhaps I will," Arlian said. "But I will never give up the child until I know why you fear him so!"
We fear what he will become, a year from now.
" A year? He's a newborn babe!"
In a year he will walk and speak.
" B u t . . . what of it?"
Do not tell him.
We have little choice. If we do not, how can we reach the godling?
"You said something of freedom and justice . . . "
We cannot be free when a god lives. They are our masters.
"I don't understand—you can destroy them. Why would they be your masters?"
We were their pets, their playthings, their slaves, the second dragon said. We will not be slaves again.
"Slaves?"
Slaves.
Slaves.
When a god speaks, we must obey. We have no choice. It is a part of their magic.
In the old days they allowed only a handful of us to exist. Once every thou -
sand years a young woman would be chosen to bear a godling, then to serve a thousand years as their high priestess until the dragon burst from her heart.
One, only one at a time. Only when the dragon's red had faded to gold was the next woman chosen.
And that handful was kept as half-starved servants, allowed nothing to eat but the souls of those few who had offended the gods. The gods ordered us about as if we were dogs guarding their thrones.
Do you wonder that we do not wish to return to that?
"And do you wonder that we do not want to be your slaves, any more than you wished to be theirs? We do not wish to be your prey, your food supply, your playthings."
Then you will enslave us?
The question shook Arlian's conviction.
"How did you free yourselves? If you're telling me the truth, if a god's word could not be defied, how did you ever escape from this bondage?"
We waited and planned for centuries until we could strike at all of the gods at once, so none had time to speak, to order us to stop. We lured them into position, and then we struck.
We rebelled, as slaves will anywhere.
And that reaffirmed Arlian's own position. Humanity had been
slaves to the dragons, and had rebelled against them—as the dragons had rebelled against the gods.
To force the dragons back into slavery would be wrong—but must the gods enslave them?
For centuries, under Enziet's bargain, the dragons had allowed humanity its freedom. Could not the gods do the same, forever?
"We will teach him," Arlian said. "We will teach them all. To enslave another is wrong, whether one is a god, a dragon, or a man. To kill an innocent is wrong, as well, and the child is innocent—as I am not, and you are not."
For a moment none of them spoke; then the dragon that had killed Grandsir said, You will not bring the godling to us?
"No," Arlian said. "Perhaps you can live your own lives far from here, if you harm no one; a treaty can be made, perhaps, and we will thereby tell Ithar not to seek you out. But I will not let you kill him."
Then die. And the second dragon surged forward, smashing its shoulders through the stone wall of the Grey House as if it were paper, and spraying flaming venom from its jaw.
49
Vengeance Considered
Vengeance Considered
Arlian dodged the gout of burning poison as best he could, but the flame singed his hair and sleeve and left his eyes stinging. He ducked sideways, into the corner by the hearth. The dragon tried to turn its head to pursue him, but
could not maneuver in the cramped quarters of a human kitchen; Arlian was able to get to one side of its jaw, where it could not turn its head far enough to strike at him with teeth or venom, and the other dragon could not attack him without going through its companion.
That did not stop the dragon's claws, though; a taloned foreclaw smashed through the stone wall and struck at him.
He struck back with the spear, meeting the blow halfway; the obsidian spear-point tore through scale and armor, punching entirely through the dragon's foreclaw, slowing the attack to a mere shove.
The dragon screamed with rage, filling the kitchen with a fog of sparks and toxic vapor, as it tried to twist around to get a look at its foe.
Arlian, meanwhile, tried to pull the spear back out and realized he could not; instead he dove forward, grasped the jagged black spearhead, and pulled it through instead, as the dragon thrashed and squirmed.
Where is he? Help me!
He carries my spawn, the other replied uncertainly.
The spear came free, and Arlian climbed up on the monster's
pierced claw, then scrambled up its foreleg.
Get off!
Arlian had had experience at this—there had been occasions when a dragon or two awoke before he and his men could thrust a spear in its heart. Those dragons, though, had been old and weak with age, and sluggish from their deep sleep and the winter cold. This dragon was young and strong, awake and angry, its blood hot with tire and magic. It jerked and struggled, and at one point would have Bung Arlian aside had he not bounced off a jagged chunk of wall and regained his grip at the cost of a backache and an immense bruise.
His right shoulder was still stiff, as well; he could not raise that hand up to grip properly.
Still, he was able to crawl up the dragon's shoulder and onto its back, and there he raised the spear in his left hand—and jammed it against the ceiling before he could bring it up to a vertical position.
But then the much-abused ceiling gave way completely, crumbling around him; stone glanced from his head, shoulders, and back, and the spear swung upright. He jumped to his feet, grabbed the shaft in both hands, and thrust it down into the dragon's back.
The dragon screamed and thrashed, and Arlian's feet went out from under him, but he kept his grip on the spear, the added weight only drove it deeper into the beast, and his knees scraped on black scales again. He could feel the throbbing of the dragon's heart as a vibration in the spear, deep and strong, slower than a human heart but faster than any other dragon's he had ever felt.
Dragon Venom (Obsidian Chronicles Book 3) Page 40
