Dragonseed da-3

by James Maxey

  He joined Anza and the others on the elevator. As it began to lower, he caught the grim, worried look in Burke's eyes. He had a feeling that there was some secret Burke was keeping from them.

  Jandra waved and said, "Thanks, Burke."

  Lizard waved as well, and said, "Strong boss."

  Anza didn't wave. She stared ahead, her face unreadable, as the elevator carried them down.

  BURKE SAGGED AS the elevator lowered Anza and her companions from his sight. He'd been in pain ever since his thigh had been broken, but the stress of his confrontation with Ragnar had pushed him to a new level of agony. It had taken all he had to hide his suffering from Anza. He'd always taught Anza to bear her wounds stoically and never surrender to pain. He was glad he hadn't broken.

  Biscuit stood by the window, watching as the four adventurers left the foundry and marched toward the North Gate.

  "They're on their way," he announced. "Let's get you started on the whisky."

  Burke flung back the heavy wool blanket that covered his lap. His right leg was thrust straight out before him, naked save for bandages securing it to a splint. The entire limb was blue-gray with bruises. Large chunks of his foot were now black, the flesh dead and stinking. Vicious red streaks ran up his hip into his torso. His fever had been rising every day. If he didn't act now, the infection would spread into his entire body.

  "The whole leg has to go," Burke said flatly, as if he were discussing a broken wagon wheel.

  "I sharpened the saw," Biscuit said, handing Burke a brown ceramic jug. Burke uncorked it. The fumes made his eyes water. "Drink until the bottle falls out of your hands. It won't take me ten minutes once you're down."

  Burke tilted back the jug. Even though it was ice-cold, it burned his throat going down. He wiped his lips after the swig, not looking forward to how many more times he'd need to do that before he passed out.

  "This might take a while," he said, then hiccupped. "There's some paper on the desk there. I have something important I need you to take down."

  "Sure," said Biscuit, grabbing a quill jutting from an ink bottle. The quill was fiery red and almost 18 inches long, not a true feather but a feather-like scale from the wing of a sun-dragon. In the recent battle, the sky-wall archers had killed dozens of the great beasts as they'd attacked Dragon Forge. An unanticipated consequence of victory was that Burke always had a pen nearby when he needed one.

  "You got some new orders for the boys on the floor?" Biscuit asked.

  "No," Burke said, taking another swig. He belched in the aftermath. "I might not survive this."

  "I appreciate the vote of confidence in my surgical skills," Biscuit said, a wry grin wrinkling the leathery skin around his eyes.

  "There's something I know that shouldn't vanish from human memory. I don't want Ragnar to learn the secret-it's my only real leverage over him. But I also don't want this secret to die with me, or with Jandra should she not survive. So listen closely. I'm going to tell you how to make gunpowder."

  THE FORGE ROAD ran through a landscape of rolling hills and farms, one hundred eighty miles to the Dragon Palace. In normal times, it was considered a safe road, heavily trafficked by the king's armies. Human villages were abundant along the Forge Road. The one nearest Dragon Forge was Mullton, a hamlet of two hundred souls, only ten miles distant. Jandra was in the lead as she and her companions approached the town. In the weeks before Hex had stolen her genie, her senses had been fine-tuned by the device, so she still had excellent night vision. A cloudy sky without a hint of stars hung over them. They'd ridden slowly for the last few hours; it was too dark to ride a horse at a gallop.

  They traveled in silence. Outside the walls of Dragon Forge they'd encountered the worst of the aftermath of the battle; week-old decaying corpses of sun-dragons, the stench of rot thick even though the cold snap of recent days had frozen the bodies. Lizard had clung to her tightly as they'd passed through the killing fields, trembling, from the cold or from fear she couldn't guess.

  She'd half expected to find the town of Mullton razed by the retreating dragon armies. Thousands of earth-dragons and dozens of sun-dragons had fled in the aftermath of defeat. Burke had said there would be reprisals, earth-dragons attacking undefended human villages for revenge or banditry now that law and order had broken down. Yet, as they crested the top of the hill, she was relieved to see the village a few hundred yards away. Little stone cottages were interspersed with log cabins in a model of rustic serenity.

  She felt a tension she hadn't been fully aware of until now pass from her body. She breathed a little easier to find this vision of peace so close to Dragon Forge. Except, as she took that easy, deep breath, she couldn't help but taste rotting meat in the air, the same battlefield stench she thought they'd left behind. She noticed that there wasn't a single light in the village. No candle, lantern, torch, or fireplace burned anywhere that she could spot. As they rode past the silent farm houses, no dogs barked as they caught the scent of strangers passing by.

  Anza quickened the pace of her horse and caught up to Jandra. She held the reins in one hand, in her other she held a drawn sword.

  Jandra asked, "Do you think-?"

  Anza brought her fingers to her lips and guided her horse into the lead. She sat tensely in the saddle, her head turning back and forth as she watched the shadows. They rode toward the center of town, toward a stone well. Behind the well was some sort of monument, like a small pyramid of piled round stones. As they drew closer, Jandra realized they weren't stones.

  One by one the four riders drew up in a line, halting before the well. All eyes were fixed on what lay beyond-a neatly stacked pyramid of heads, mostly human, a few dogs. The eyes were all hollow-the ground was littered with the black feathers of buzzards.

  Vance was the first to speak. "I've been to Mullton once or twice. My village used to trade with them." He paused, swallowing hard. "It's… it's only half a day's ride from here."

  Jandra noted that the heads were mostly women and children. All the adult men, no doubt, had been pressed into service by Ragnar for the invasion of Dragon Forge. His army had roamed the countryside, raiding villages, offering all men a choice: Join or die.

  "There was a girl here named Eula," Vance said, softly. "She smiled at my brother Vinton last spring and he spent all summer thinking about her. I kept telling him he should ride up here and court her if he was that crazy about her."

  "Guess he missed his chance," said Shay.

  Jandra thought this was a particularly callous sentiment, but Vance didn't seem to take offense. "Vinton died the night we took Dragon Forge. In the end, I guess it don't matter if he'd talked to her or not." He shook his head. "Looking at this, it's hard to know. Did we do the right thing? Was taking Dragon Forge worth this price?"

  Shay said, "I was taken from my family when I was four. Chapelion selected me because he thought the color of my hair went well with the decor. I've been whipped a hundred times, for little things, like getting ink smudges on a sheet of parchment. I can't pull my shoulders all the way straight because of the scars."

  He looked at Vance. "I'm one of the men your brother died to free. If I ever have children, they'll be free because of him. I promise every one of them will understand the price that was paid."

  Vance responded with a brave, thin smile.

  Anza raised her hand toward her cheek, as if to wipe away a tear, but turned her face away before Jandra could focus on it.

  Jandra looked back at the mound of skulls. She felt the pressure of all their empty stares, accusing. Bitterwood had tried to tell her that peace with dragons wasn't possible. Even Pet, before he died, had preached that war was the only answer. Burke, the smartest man she'd ever met, didn't believe that dragons and men could ever share the earth.

  So why was she cradling a dragon as if it were her own blood? Why, with the world so obviously split by this enormous rift between men and dragons, was she still straddling the chasm?

  The world was broken. This p
yramid of death bore plain testament to that. And yet, some tiny, small voice inside whispered that if she could only get her powers back, it wasn't too late to fix the world, to patch back together all the broken pieces and spare both man and dragon from the dark days coming.

  "Let's ride on," said Jandra. "I'm not tired at all."

  BURKE WOKE TO feverish heat and darkness. He felt as if his brain had swollen to three times its normal size and was threatening to split his skull. He was awash in sweat. Invisible ants were crawling over his whole body, from scalp to toes.

  Toes.

  Since Charkon had broken his right leg, he'd not felt the toes of that foot, or anything much below his hip. Now, his leg felt restored-not good, for it was subject to the same fevered agony that plagued the rest of his body-but at least it felt like part of his body once more, not simply dead meat hanging from his hip.

  Why hadn't Biscuit performed the amputation? He ran his hands beneath the heavy wool blankets down his right hip. The steel splint he'd fashioned was gone. His fingers traveled further, and found bandages.

  His leg ended only six inches below his hip.

  While his mind felt ghostly toes wiggling, his fingers revealed the truth. Biscuit had done what needed to be done. Burke let out a long, slow, shuddering breath. He felt a pang of loss as sharp and clear as if he were at his own funeral. He swallowed hard, feeling tears rising. He hadn't cried since he was six. His brothers had long ago pummeled this weakness out of him. He sniffed and clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to surrender to the grief. He closed his eyes tightly, grateful that he was alone in his bedroom. He was certain that if anyone had been here with him, he would have burst into tears. This feeling turned out to be wrong.

  "It's been a long time, Kanati," a raspy voice said by his bedside.

  Burke sucked in a sharp gasp of air; his heart jumped around in his chest like a startled rabbit. He sat straight up, his eyes wide, searching the darkness for his mysterious visitor. By his bed sat a figure in a dark cloak, his face hidden by a hood. Burke was a rational man; until this moment he'd had no fear of some anthropomorphic manifestation of death coming to carry him away. His throat, wet with unshed tears only seconds before, went as dry as the parched fields around Conyers in the decade of drought.

  "Who are you?" he tried to say. His lips moved, but only the barest sound came out.

  The figure pulled back his hood, revealing an old man, his hair thin and gray, his skin wrinkled and leathery. "Have I changed so much?"

  Burke stared at the visitor. There was something familiar about his eyes. "Bant?" he asked, his voice cracking. He swallowed and tried again. "Bant Bitterwood?"

  "I always wondered if you'd made it out of Conyers in one piece."

  Burke stared at the flat spot on the blanket where his leg should have been. "Defeat left me with a few scars. It's taken a victory to rip me in two."

  "Not a bad victory," said Bitterwood. "The fields around here are full of dead dragons. The stench for miles is unbelievable. I was walking by buzzards too fat to flap away. You did good, Kanati."

  "I did what I had to," said Burke. "Ragnar had no plan; he had passion and an army, but I knew that wasn't enough. If I'd let him take this fort, then allowed the dragons to crush him, the dragon's grip on this world would only be stronger. This wasn't a battle I chose. Still, I admit, watching those dragons rain from the sky made it worth it." He looked down at his missing limb. "It was worth even this."

  Bitterwood face went slack. It looked as if Burke's words had triggered some distant memory. Burke thought he might be about to speak, but when he didn't, Burke chose to break the silence.

  "You've been busy yourself. Jandra tells me you killed practically the entire royal family, including Blasphet. And, you took down Jasmine Robertson, the so-called goddess. She was the real threat to humanity, even more than the dragons."

  Bitterwood scratched the raspy stubble under his chin. "You know me," he said. "I've never been good at nothing but killing. Killing the goddess wasn't a big deal. Once I saw past her tricks, she was only a woman." His shoulders sagged. His voice was softer as he said, "If you'd told me twenty years ago I'd one day kill a woman, I'd have said you were wrong. I thought there were some lines even I wouldn't cross." He wasn't looking directly at Burke as he spoke. As he finished, he slowly shook his head.

  "Don't beat yourself up over killing that monster," said Burke.

  Bitterwood looked him in the eyes. Something hardened in his expression. "I did what I had to. I don't regret it. I'd do it again."

  "I'm sure you would," said Burke. "I didn't mean to imply that you wouldn't."

  "Blasphet claimed he was the god of murder. He believed it, I think. He thought he was a god."

  "I never met him," said Burke, uncertain where this change of subject was heading. "I always did admire the body count he racked up among dragons, though. You too, by the way. You put the fear of God into every dragon in this kingdom, Bant."

  "No," said Bitterwood. "That wasn't who they feared. There is no god, Kanati, to dispense vengeance upon the wicked. I had to do the job myself. I am the Death of All Dragons. I am the Ghost Who Kills."

  Burke studied the lines of Bitterwood's face. There was a haunted look to the man's eyes. Something about dragon-hatred eventually broke the minds of almost anyone it seized.

  "What brings you here, Bant?" asked Burke.

  "A girl who talks to ghosts."

  Burke furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"

  "I'm not traveling alone," said Bitterwood. "I'm the guardian of a girl named Zeeky, and her brother, Jeremiah, once I find him. Their family was killed by the goddess. The ghosts of everyone from their village are trapped in a crystal ball. Zeeky can hear them whispering to her. They've told Zeeky we need to save Jandra."

  "You're here because you're guided by ghosts?" Burke asked. Saying it out loud didn't help it make more sense. "I'm afraid the ghosts have led you astray. Jandra was here, but she left at sunset. What time is it?"

  "Almost dawn," said Bitterwood.

  "She's miles away by now."

  Bitterwood sighed. "In fairness to Zeeky, the ghosts didn't say Jandra was here. We followed her first to the Nest. We learned that she'd come to Dragon Forge. I should have come straight to the gates yesterday. Instead I wanted to investigate the area. It wasn't a waste of time. I killed a few slavecatchers."

  "Did the ghosts say what you're saving Jandra from?"

  "No," Bitterwood said. "I can't hear them myself. Only Zeeky can. She says they're tough to figure out. They all talk at once."

  "I don't place any faith in the words of ghosts, but if you want to chase after Jandra, she's heading up the Forge Road. My own daughter, Anza, is with her."

  "You have a family now?" Bitterwood asked.

  "Only Anza. Biologically, she's my niece, but I've raised her as my own. She's definitely my child in spirit."

  "How so?"

  "Do you remember what they called me at Conyers?"

  "Kanati the Machinist."

  "Now I'm Burke the Machinist. My name I wear lightly; the Machinist is my true identity. I've always been comfortable working with cogs and clockwork and springs, far more than I have with my fellow men."

  "What's this have to do with your daughter?"

  Burke lowered himself back down onto the bed, his weight resting on his elbows. Perhaps it was the pain in his head that weakened him. Perhaps it was the presence of the man who'd shared in his darkest defeat, long ago. Whatever the source of the weakness, there was something he had to confess: "From the day Anza was old enough to pick up a dagger I've been… programming her. When she was five, I captured a young earth-dragon and had her kill it."

  Bitterwood didn't look shocked by this confession. Somehow, this caused Burke's guilt to well up even faster. "I've raised her with a single-minded focus on combat. I've taught her to think of her body as a weapon, precise and tireless. She fights like nothing you've ever seen, Bant. She's my ultimate w
eapon. But there are times when I look into her eyes, and there's something cold and mechanical staring back at me. Fate gave me a daughter. I turned her into a machine."

  Bitterwood winced as Burke's words triggered memories. "I had daughters once," he said, softly.

  "I remember your story. Albekizan killed your wife and children and burned your village. It was the spark that brought flame to that time of drought."

  "I was wrong," said Bitterwood.

  "About what?"

  "My family hadn't been killed. They were taken captive and sold as slaves. They lived another twenty years, beyond the day I believed they'd died."

  "Oh," said Burke.

  "They were executed the day after I killed Bodiel, Albekizan's beloved son. The king ordered all the palace slaves slain in retribution."

  "Oh," Burke said again. What else was there to say?

  "It'll be light soon. I should leave."

  "I hope you find Jandra," said Burke. "Do you… do you need anything before you go? I've made a new type of bow that's going to be far superior to whatever you're using."

  Bitterwood grinned. It was an unsettling expression. "I doubt that."

  "How about fresh horses?" asked Burke. "We don't have many to spare, but I…" He let his voice trail off. Bitterwood was still grinning.

  "What's so funny?" he asked.

  "I was thinking of what you would say if you saw my ride. I won't be needing a horse."

  Burke lay back on his pillow. The movement made his brains slosh. He closed his eyes, fighting back a wave of nausea. A cold draft washed over him. He welcomed its cool touch. "If you don't need anything from me, I guess you should be on your way."

  Bitterwood didn't answer. Burke opened his eyes. He was alone in the room. For a moment he wondered if he'd dreamed the whole encounter, a phantom companion to match his phantom toes. But he could still smell Bitterwood's distinctive smell, a mixture of stale sweat and dried blood. Not for the first time in his life, Burke wondered if he'd done the right thing. He hadn't known Jandra long, but he liked her, and judged her to be competent and sane. Had he done her any favors by putting this strange ghost onto her trail?