by James Maxey
Adam released Jandra. "Welcome, brother," he said, and wrapped his arms around Shay. "You're an honored guest here."
The hug lasted for a few seconds longer than Shay felt it needed to. Within the temple, he could see a life-sized statue of a nude woman carved from mahogany. The goddess, he supposed. Chapelion had never educated him much in the various human faiths, but he'd picked up some knowledge from his fellow slaves.
Adam finally released Shay from his embrace. "What brings you back to these mountains?"
"I'm returning to Jazz's kingdom," said Jandra.
Adam frowned. "For what purpose?"
Jandra started to speak, then stopped. She finally said, "I think Hex might be going back underground to find the goddess heart. I have to stop him. I could use your help."
Shay wondered why Jandra was lying. This wasn't her true motivation. She was going because she wanted to reclaim her magic.
"I won't go back into the underworld," said Adam. "My days as a warrior are behind me. After seeing the scars my father bore upon his soul after a lifetime of fighting, I've taken a vow of non-violence. I intend to serve the goddess in more benign ways. It is a path, I pray, that will spare me my father's fate."
"The goddess is dead," Jandra said. "You watched us bury what little remained of her. How can you serve a dead goddess?"
Adam waved toward the town of Winding Rock and the valley beyond. "Winter has gripped this valley. The fields are brown and barren. Yet is the earth dead? Spring will awaken the sleeping land. So, too, shall the goddess wake from her slumber."
"Bitterwood stabbed her in the heart with Gabriel's flaming sword," said Jandra. "She was burned to ash. I don't think she's waking up, Adam."
"My father slew only an aspect of the goddess. You'll see. She'll rise again."
"Speaking of your father, he's down in Winding Rock. Do you want me to let him know you're here?"
"No," said Adam. "My father and I have said all we need to say to one another. In the years we were apart, I dreamed of reuniting with him. I imagined him as a hero, and imbued his dream with all the best qualities of humanity. The man I met was a cruel monster who was only happy when he was fighting. Perhaps I'm to blame as well. No doubt our reunion was poisoned by my own idealism. No flesh and blood man could have ever lived up to my vision."
"I understand," said Jandra. "I always wanted to find my human family. I longed for relatives more than anything else in the world. Now, I've finally met my brother. His name is Ragnar. He's a wild-eyed, naked, long-haired prophet of the Lord who wants to burn me at the stake. It's really made me miss Vendevorex. I wish I'd understood how important he was to me while he was still alive."
"The kindest thing my father ever did for me was spare my life after he'd slaughtered my companions and my mount," Adam said. "Contrast this with the compassion of the goddess in taking me in as an orphan and giving me a life filled with wonders. It's not mere blood that defines a family."
Jandra's hand dipped into her coat pocket and pulled out a square of folded paper and a pencil. She circled something on the paper.
"What are you writing?" Shay asked.
"This is something I've started doing to organize my thoughts," said Jandra. "I'm keeping lists of all the things I need to do. To be honest, I think this was one of Jazz's habits-she called these 'to do lists'. All this talk about Vendevorex reminded me that I still have to find his stolen body."
She unfolded the paper. There were at least two dozen items on her list. "Find Ven's body" was now circled. Two slots above it, "Get back genie!" was underlined several times. Near the bottom of the page was written "Find Atlantis." This had three question marks off to the side. Lizard leaned down to study the paper. Of course, earth-dragons couldn't read. Could they?
"The evening is growing cold," said Adam.
"It looks like snow," Shay said, glancing toward the clouds.
"It won't snow," said Adam, with a curious certainty. "Still, I have a small cabin not far from here. You can spend the night there. Tomorrow I'll send you on your journey with fresh provisions and my best wishes."
"Thank you," said Jandra. "I appreciate your hospitality." She smiled. "You really didn't turn out a thing like your father."
"That means a lot to me," said Adam.
AS DAWN CAME to the village of Winding Rock, Zeeky waited patiently on the edge of the well. Skitter was curled around the stone structure. He snored as he slumbered, a sound like gravel pouring from a wheelbarrow. The poor thing needed his rest. They'd really put him through his paces over the last few days. Poocher was already awake. He was snuffling around in the flower beds, pushing away the mulch and dirt, digging up the bulbs he found and wolfing them down. He didn't offer any to Zeeky.
"I don't know why you've been acting so bratty lately," she said. Poocher looked up. It was harder to read his expressions while he wore his visor. She couldn't see his eyes. Still, his overall posture conveyed offense at being called a brat.
"You used to be sweet," she said.
He snuffed, then thrust his face back into the dirt, declaring the conversation over.
She turned her gaze toward the cottage. The curtains in the window moved slightly for the tenth time since daybreak. The smoke rising from the chimney carried the scent of baking biscuits. Her stomach grumbled. Those would really taste good.
She waited patiently as the sun rose higher into the sky. Poocher finished digging up the last flower bed. Looking content, he climbed up onto his saddle. He did so with gentle, sure-footed movements. Even though he was now quite portly, Poocher still possessed a certain gracefulness. Skitter didn't even stir.
Long after the smell of biscuits had faded, the curtains pushed aside for one more peek. When they fell, she heard muffled voices from inside.
Here and there around the village, there were signs of life as the other houses woke. A few heads poked from doorways from time to time to stare at the well and the snoring long-wyrm. From the backs of the houses, Zeeky could hear doors opening. She caught glimpses of old men and young children as they tiptoed to reach the outhouses by the creek. The doors were swiftly pulled shut behind them.
At last, the rear door to Barnstack's cottage creaked open. From where she sat, she could see Barnstack's outhouse if she leaned a bit to the left. She saw the old man skulking toward it. He glanced back over his shoulder. Seeing that she could see him, he broke into a jog. He yanked open the privy door.
A man's arm reached out from the darkness of the outhouse and grabbed Barnstack by his collar, yanking him from his feet. The door slammed shut and Barnstack shrieked. His high-pitched cries lasted for several minutes. Around the village, dogs began to bay. Skitter lifted his head at the sound of the dogs. He let loose a low growl and bared his teeth. Instantly, all the village dogs fell silent.
Barnstack's screams faded. They were followed by incoherent sobbing as a gruff voice shouted out questions. The occasional brief, sharp, shriek of pain caused Skitter to jerk nervously. He uncoiled from the well and looked at Zeeky with anxious eyes.
Poocher stood up in his saddle. The bristles on the back of his neck stood on end. He glanced at Zeeky with a look that said, "Say the word. I'm ready for action."
"Patience," she counseled.
Several long minutes passed where no sounds at all came from the outhouse. Finally, the door swung open and Bitterwood stepped out. He marched to the cottage, disappearing from sight. Skitter flinched as a loud WHAM erupted from behind the house.
"It's okay," said Zeeky, stroking his neck. "He just kicked in the door."
Ten minutes went by without a sound coming from the cottage. At last, Bitterwood stepped out, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the morning sun. His knuckles were bloody. He carried a wicker basket with a bright yellow towel draped over it.
"Got some biscuits and boiled eggs," he said. "Took a crock of jam and some flour. A block of salt. Couple of onions. Some dried beans we can fix up later. A big slab of salt pork, thoug
h I guess you and Poocher won't want any of that."
"Toss me one of them biscuits."
Bitterwood pulled back the towel and tossed her a hard, brown, lumpy disk of bread. Zeeky snatched it from the air. It felt heavy as a rock. She bit into it; it was almost as hard as a rock as well. It sucked all moisture from her mouth as she chewed. After her first swallow, she took a long drink from the well bucket. "I'm going to need some of that jam," she said.
"Eat as we ride," Bitterwood said, tossing her the basket and hopping up onto his saddle. Skitter swayed to compensate for the sudden weight. Unlike Poocher, Bitterwood didn't mount the long-wyrm with any hint of gentleness.
Zeeky climbed onto her own saddle. "Which way?"
"North," said Bitterwood. "You were right. Jeremiah did come here. Barnstack found him hiding in one of the empty houses and sold him to a slave-trader nine days ago."
Zeeky clenched her jaw. No wonder the voices in the crystal ball had hidden this from her. "Did you break any of his bones?" she asked.
"Probably," Bitterwood said. "Four, maybe, not counting fingers." The number brought her grim satisfaction.
"The slave-trader is a tatterwing called Nub-tail. He works the whole valley. Prices are high for healthy slaves at the moment. The south is half-empty due to Albekizan's carting off folks to the Free City, and apparently there's a big yellow-mouth outbreak up north. I've a hunch we'll find Jeremiah in Rorg's cavern. Beastialists go through a lot of slaves. Jeremiah is too small for field labor, and too skinny to be purchased as food. He'll probably wind up as a mucker. Let's get going."
Zeeky gently nudged Skitter with her heels. The giant beast slithered forward on its many claws. As they crossed the stream, Zeeky looked toward Barnstack's outhouse. The water beneath it was pink, and dark red drops plinked down from the wooden floor. It wasn't something she wanted to think about any more, so she wouldn't. She instead lifted up the yellow towel and found the crock of jam.
In the saddle bag by her left leg, from inside the clear orb, she could hear the distant murmurs coming from a place that was not a place. She couldn't make out the words, but the mood of the voices struck her as angry. This too, she didn't want to think about. She uncapped the crock of jam, filling the air with the scent of blackberries.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN:
DRAGONSEED
SWEAT POURED OFF Burke's face as he shoveled coal through the iron door beneath the boiler. The glow of flames painted the confined space hellish red. Burke closed the furnace, darkening the interior, but he still felt like he was sitting in an oven. He was working in the belly of a low, squat wagon, with iron walls and an iron roof. He'd salvaged the wagon's oak platform, the boiler, and the steel treads on which the whole device rolled from Big Chief, the war machine that had helped repel Shandrazel's army. Big Chief had served its purpose, but had obvious shortcomings as a practical engine of war. It had been too tall to be armored properly and still roll without toppling. The consequence of skimping on armor came back to him as he reached down to scratch the itch on his right knee and found his fingers touching air.
Burke was a rational man; he'd never believed in ghosts. So what was the source of this phantom that haunted him? What was he to make of the fact that he could feel his absent toes? If he could still feel a missing leg, would the same be true if he lost his arm? Or even his head? How much of him could be cut away before he'd stop feeling everything? Or, was it true after all? If you destroyed a man's body, was there still some spirit that lingered, invisible, intangible, yet capable of feeling the world, just as his missing leg was now feeling the heat?
Could Ragnar be right? Did he, in fact, have a soul that would one day be judged by an unseen God?
Burke shook his head and reached for the greasy towel he used to clean his tools. He found the cleanest swatch on it and mopped up the sweat stinging his eyes. He scooted across the oak platform on his butt, opening the gun slits to let in air, then slid onto the squat wooden stool that served as Big Chief's new driver's seat. Of course, Big Chief was no longer an apt name. The war machine was no longer humanoid in shape. The wagon was now twenty feet long from end to end, and five feet tall at its highest point. It looked more like a turtle than a man now. In fact, given that it was more oval shaped than round if seen from above, and was solid cast iron black, it looked more like a beetle than a turtle. An angry beetle, bristling with spikes to discourage any dragons from trying to land atop it, assuming they made it past the twin cannons, or the alcohol-based flame-thrower, or the small guns that could be aimed out the gun slits.
The Angry Beetle. Burke smiled. After he worked on a machine long enough, it would eventually tell him its name.
Feeling confident, Burked released the clutch to engage the low forward gear. He let it out carefully-he only had thirty feet to roll without crashing into the door of the warehouse he'd commandeered for the Angry Beetle's construction. Alas, thirty inches would have been enough space. Burke winced as metal ground against metal. The machine lurched barely a foot before something in the underbelly popped. The steel walls of the structure rang as if they'd been struck with a hammer.
"Wonderful." Clenching his teeth, he stepped back onto the clutch and pulled the lever to shift power to the reverse gears. He laughed, amazed, as the machine lurched again and rolled backward. He quickly knocked the machine back out of gear.
"If the dragons attack from behind, I'm golden." The machine's weight brought it to a halt after a few inches. Setting the brake, he flipped the release switch to vent the steam. He slid over to the hatch and pushed it open. The cooler air of the warehouse washed over him. He sat at the edge of the hatch, stretching both his good leg and his phantom one, and looked around the warehouse. Once, the earth-dragons of the foundry had filled this place with swords and shields and other armaments. He'd ordered them all melted down, turned into sky wall bows, shot guns, and cannons. Now teams of men were already at work building components for a fleet of Angry Beetles, even though no one but himself had any idea what the final project was.
Was Stonewall right? Was his distrust of Ragnar leading him to levels of secrecy that would damage the chances of not only holding onto Dragon Forge, but of projecting force outward, letting humanity win the ultimate war against the dragons?
He was confident the Angry Beetle was worth his time and energy. These mobile platforms of war wouldn't roll far given the restraints on fuel storage, and they wouldn't move fast given their weight, but they'd still cut down earth-dragon armies like a scythe through wheat. As a mobile platform for cannons, they'd also remove the aerial advantage of the dragons. The cannons could hurl steel balls over a mile nearly straight up; he was confident he'd soon solve the problem of how to make those balls explode at their apex, filling the sky with shrapnel that would devastate the winged beasts.
Yet, with Anza gone, was this too much of a project for him to tackle alone? He wasn't daring to make eye-contact with Biscuit now, let alone consult with him. After admitting to Stonewall that he'd taught someone else to read his coded notes, he didn't want to give Ragnar any reason to suspect Biscuit was his confidant.
He grabbed the steel crutch that leaned up against the armored vehicle and winced as he placed it beneath his raw and blistered armpit. His armpit was proving ill-designed to provide support for half his body weight. Once the wound of his amputated leg finally healed, he looked forward to fitting himself with prosthesis. He already had in mind a design that would incorporate a leaf spring to serve as his new foot, and a self-adjusting gear and ratchet device that would make a passable knee.
Burke limped around to the rear of the Angry Beetle, to the big sliding doors that closed off the warehouse. He slid one open a crack and raised a hand to shield his eyes. He'd come to work while it was still dark outside. He guessed it must be noon by the way the shadows hugged the buildings. As his eyes adjusted he saw a crowd gathering further down the avenue, in the big central square.
Three of Ragnar's Mighty Men loped past th
e warehouse with Frost at their side. Frost cast a menacing glare toward Burke, but said nothing. As they passed, Stonewall stepped from a nearby doorway, raising a hand to greet Frost and the others.
Burke lingered in the shadows of the barn, straining to hear the conversation.
"What's going on?" Stonewall asked.
"It's Shanna," Frost answered. "She's back. And she's… different."
Stonewall looked confused. Burke wasn't sure what Frost meant either. Shanna was one of Ragnar's spies. She'd had the dangerous task of infiltrating the Sisters of the Serpent and stealing Blasphet's secrets. Burke liked her for her daring and her intelligence, even if she was fiercely loyal to Ragnar. They owed their possession of Dragon Forge to the poisons Shanna had stolen perhaps even more than to the sky-wall bows. Shanna had left Dragon Forge shortly after the dragon armies fled to try to reconnect with the remnants of Blasphet's cult. Blasphet was dead, slain by Bitterwood, but the worshippers of the Murder God still possessed knowledge of vast stocks of poisons that would be useful in the coming war. Burke leaned onto his crutch and swung out into the street, following the crowd.
Soon he could see the central square. A woman draped in a heavy white cloak stood on the thick stone rim of the town well. Burke assumed this was Shanna, though the sun reflecting off her pure white cloak made it difficult to look at her. Her face was hidden by a deep hood.
Hundreds of men gathered in the square. Who was watching the foundry if everyone was out here? He looked around and saw that the bowmen standing watch on the walls were facing inward, curious about the commotion, paying no attention to potential sneak attacks by dragons. What was Shanna doing making such a splashy entrance? She was a spy, after all. She should appreciate the value of subtlety.
"Stand aside." The crowd parted as he hopped along on his crutch. Even half-crippled, he was still a respected figure in Dragon Forge. He'd proven his value with the sky-wall bows; dozens of these men had trained with the shotguns, or witnessed the blasts of the first cannons off the line. Still, perhaps it was his imagination, but he felt a sense of unease when the crowd looked at him. "They say you don't believe in God," Stonewall had said. It wasn't a healthy rumor to have whispered in the midst of a holy war.
