Dragonseed da-3

by James Maxey

  "No!" said Jandra. "I mean… I didn't know. I hadn't been… I'm just… I've never been taught how to look for the, uh, signals. The only man who ever showed interest was Pet, but I always found his attentions… creepy. I felt like a mouse under the watchful gaze of a hungry cat. He may have given me a false sense of what indicates a man's interest. Since you weren't constantly leering, I just didn't suspect."

  "I didn't… I don't know the signals either," said Shay. "Among slaves, we're usually matched with whoever our masters choose. Courtship isn't something I've had any experience with. When I look at you, I do feel… it's something like hunger, but nothing like hunger. It's… It's-"

  "Lizard hungry," said the earth-dragon, tugging on Jandra's sleeve.

  "We should eat," said Jandra, welcoming the change of subject. This wasn't a conversation she felt ready to have. She turned her back to Shay. She flipped open her back pack and reached in for the hardtack inside. "We have a long way to go."

  CHAPTER TWENTY:

  SWIFT DECISIVE ACTION

  JEREMIAH'S HANDS TREMBLED as he cut away the watery black rot from the soft, lumpy potato. He dropped the remaining white chunk in the large iron pot he crouched over. He felt sick to his stomach. No doubt the stench of the mound of partially rotten potatoes he sat next to was the blame. It didn't help that his head was throbbing from his earlier "training," or that his arms and legs were covered with knots and bruises. These same knots and bruises had kept him from sleeping much at all the last few nights despite his exhaustion. His bed was a pile of empty potato sacks, and he was still using the same filthy blanket he'd been wrapped in by Vulpine. He wiped his brow with a burlap rag. He was sweating, despite the chills that shook his hands.

  When Jeremiah had arrived at Dragon Forge, he'd been hungry, weary, and freezing. He'd possessed a half-formed dream that he would be welcomed into town by some kindly woman who looked like his mother. She would give him soup, clean clothes, and put him to bed in a big, soft mattress with clean sheets.

  Instead of a kindly woman, he'd been met at the gate by a pair of thuggish teenagers who'd taunted his thin limbs and the tear-tracks down his filthy face. He later learned their names were Presser and Burr. They'd finally allowed him in, and brought him before a frightening man named Ragnar, who looked like a wild beast with his mane of hair and leathery skin.

  Ragnar had made the rules of Dragon Forge clear: If you wanted to eat, you had to work, and, what's more, you had to fight.

  "Can you do that, boy?" Ragnar had demanded.

  "Y-yes sir," he'd answered. He'd never fought before, but he had Vulpine's knife still tucked into his belt. He imagined it might be satisfying to bury that knife into some dragon, though the exact details of how that might happen were fuzzy in his mind.

  "Find a job for him," Ragnar had told the guards. "He looks too scrawny to be of much use, but get him outfitted with a sword, at least. Can you use a sword, boy?"

  "I-I've never tried," said Jeremiah.

  Presser chimed in, "There's a sharp end and a dull end. Once you learn which end to grab, it's not so hard."

  Jeremiah wasn't sure if he was joking.

  Burr added, "We'll get him trained, sir. Make a regular soldier out of him."

  Ragnar grunted his approval, then dismissed the boys with a wave.

  Presser and Burr had pushed Jeremiah before them out into the street. In the sunlight, the two guards' youthfulness was apparent-though both were taller than Jeremiah by a head, he doubted either was older than fifteen. They swaggered as they walked in their chainmail vests and iron helmets, sky-wall bows slung over their backs.

  Once they reached the middle of the street, Burr said, "Presser, give me your sword. Leave it in the sheath."

  Presser had complied. It was obvious that Burr was the leader of the pair. Burr gave the sheathed sword to Jeremiah. The weapon was only a short sword, two feet long at most, but it was still heavy. Jeremiah looked up quizzically, not certain what he was supposed to do next.

  Burr removed his own sheathed sword from his belt and swung it, slapping Jeremiah hard on the back of his right hand, knocking the sword from his grasp.

  "Ow!" said Jeremiah. "What did you do that for?"

  "You heard Ragnar. We've got to teach you to fight. The first thing to learn is don't drop your sword. Pick it up."

  "You'll hit me again!"

  Burr swung his sword, attempting to slam it into Jeremiah's thigh, but Jeremiah jumped out of the path of the blow. He had good reflexes, and eluded Burr's next two swings as well.

  Unfortunately, with his attention focused on Burr, he hadn't seen Presser slip behind him. Presser grabbed him, pulling him to his chest in a bear hug.

  "Damn, this boy thinks he's a jackrabbit," said Burr. "You can't be a soldier if you're afraid of getting hit, Rabbit."

  To prove his point, Burr punched Jeremiah in the stomach. After that, the lesson had devolved into a rather thorough beating that drew a crowd. No one intervened. In the end, they'd tossed Jeremiah, half conscious, into the kitchen and said, "This is your new home. We'll come around in a few days to train you some more. Next time, don't drop the damn sword."

  LIFE IN THE kitchen wasn't completely miserable. It was warm, at least, with the wood-fired ovens churning out endless trays of cornbread. On the stoves, pots of beans and potatoes simmered night and day. Thankfully, no one tried to talk to Jeremiah other than the occasional grunted command. No one cared who he was or where he'd come from. Jeremiah took comfort in this, since he was certain that, if he did talk about everything that had happened to him since the night the long-wyrm riders attacked Big Lick, he would cry. That could only result in further beatings from Presser and Burr.

  Even without talking, he still found tears welling up in his eyes, which was odd. He wasn't always the bravest boy in the world, but he wasn't a crybaby. The only times he normally felt weepy was when he was getting sick. Maybe it was more than the stench of rotting vegetables that made him queasy, or the heat of the stoves that made him feel feverish. His sweat smelled funny. He was so tired. He wondered if anyone would notice if he crawled into the back room and took a nap.

  Before he could act on the impulse, the door to the kitchen burst open. He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the bright winter sunlight outside. The chill wind cut right through him. Two shadows stood in the doorway.

  "Rabbit!" one of the shadows shouted. "Time for another lesson!"

  Jeremiah blinked, bringing Burr and Presser into focus.

  "I-I've got to peel potatoes," he said, his voice faint and quavering.

  Presser stomped inside and grabbed him by the wrist. He dragged Jeremiah toward the open door and threw him into the street.

  "Everyone fights! You don't fight, you don't eat!" Presser yelled.

  Jeremiah lay on the cold, packed earth of the street. A crowd was already starting to gather. Burr's feet came round to his face. His boots were scuffed and worn. The right sole was peeling away at the toe, revealing a gray wool sock.

  A sheathed sword dropped to the ground next to Jeremiah's hand.

  "Get up," said Burr.

  Jeremiah shook his head.

  "Get up or I'll kick the snot out of you," Burr said.

  "I feel sick," said Jeremiah.

  "You feel chicken," said Burr. "Presser, help him up."

  Presser leaned down and grabbed Jeremiah by the hair. He pulled and Jeremiah found the motivation to rise to his hands and knees, then to his feet. Presser let him go and Jeremiah stood, swaying in the bright sunlight, feeling the world spinning beneath him.

  "Pick up your sword, Rabbit," Burr said.

  Jeremiah didn't move. It wasn't fear that held him motionless. In truth, he didn't feel anything at all beyond the terrible dizziness. It took all his will to stay on his feet.

  "He looks like he's about to faint," Presser said with a giggle.

  Jeremiah felt like he was about to faint.

  "This will wake him up," said Burr. He ch
arged forward and delivered a powerful punch to Jeremiah's gut. Jeremiah instantly vomited, spraying a jet of thin yellow fluid as he doubled over.

  Burr cursed as he staggered backwards, wiping the vomit from his face.

  Presser giggled as Jeremiah fell back to the dust. He vomited again, heaving and heaving. He was stunned by the amount of liquid pouring from him. He hadn't eaten a thing all day, and had only taken a few sips of water.

  Presser continued to giggle, but the rest of the crowd grew deathly quiet. The circle of men drew back further, dispersing. Some of the men took off running. Only as he watched the frightened reaction of the crowd did Presser's giggles trail off.

  Jeremiah stared with unfocused eyes as a pair of black boots came up from behind the crowd. The crowd parted at their approach. The man who wore the boots fearlessly approached Jeremiah, kneeling before him, rolling him onto his back. The man was white haired, his face dimpled with countless scars. His left ear was nothing but a mess of scabby ribbons. The white-haired man looked down with concerned eyes. On one of his hands, several of the fingers were set in splints. He pressed the back of this hand to Jeremiah's forehead. He pulled open Jeremiah's mouth with his good hand, tilting to better see inside, and frowned.

  "Whose son is this?" the man asked the crowd.

  "He arrived alone," said Presser. "Said he'd escaped from Vulpine himself. He's been working in the kitchen since."

  "What's his name?"

  "We've been calling him Rabbit."

  Jeremiah swallowed, then whispered, "Juh…Jeremiah, sir."

  "Where'd you come from?"

  "F-from the m-mountains," he said, his teeth beginning to chatter as chills seized him. "B-Big Lick. I w-was sold into s-slavery."

  "To which dragon?" the man asked.

  "R-r-rorg."

  A second pair of boots approached. These were the biggest feet he'd ever seen on a man. A deep voice asked, "What's happening, Frost?"

  Frost shook his head. "Stonewall, you don't want to know."

  "I'll be the judge of that," said the big man.

  "This boy has yellow-mouth. Probably contracted it in Rorg's cavern."

  "You're right," said Stonewall. "I didn't want to know that."

  "And he's been working in the kitchen."

  "Oh." Stonewall was silent as he contemplated this news. "Can yellow-mouth spread through-"

  "Yes," said Frost. "Since he can still talk, he's not yet in the final phase. He won't live too many more days, though. I had the disease when I was his age, but I was healthy. He's half-starved and infested with lice. He won't make it."

  Stonewall rubbed his eyes. "How widespread do you think-"

  "He worked in the damn kitchen," snapped Frost. "Everyone in Dragon Forge is at risk."

  "You've survived the disease," said Stonewall, sounding calm and thoughtful. "Others have, too. Spread the word that I want anyone who's survived yellow-mouth to gather at the kitchen. The men who this boy has been in contact with will need to be quarantined. We need to find out what his kitchen duties were. If he was in contact with the food before it was cooked, it may be that the grace of God has spared us. Not much survives the cooking here."

  "This isn't something to joke about."

  "Nor is it something to panic about," said Stonewall. "We have to have faith we'll get through this. We'll control the outbreak. We'll isolate those most exposed. We'll start a regimen of checking people's gums daily. Swift action is the key."

  Frost scooped Jeremiah up and slung him unceremoniously over his shoulder. "Swift action works for me. You go update Ragnar. I'll take care of the boy."

  Stonewall looked at Frost. "When you say take care of the boy…?"

  "This isn't the time to argue."

  Stonewall frowned. "After what you did to Biscuit, I-"

  "I know what I'm doing. Go!"

  Stonewall slowly turned away, then loped off on search of Ragnar.

  Jeremiah kicked as Frost turned and walked in the opposite direction, but Frost only grasped his legs tighter. Jeremiah lifted his head, straining to see where they were going. They were heading toward the foundry. The double doors stood open-even in the dead of winter, the interior of the foundry was sweltering. The doors looked like the gates of hell. It was dark and shadowy within. White flames danced above a red stream of molten iron flowing into molds.

  "Put me down," Jeremiah said. "I can walk."

  "You can run, you mean," said Frost.

  "I won't run. I'm sick."

  "I know," said Frost. "Very sick. You're going to die, boy. Yellow-mouth is a bad way to go. It's not a quick death. So, I'm going to throw you in the furnace."

  Jeremiah didn't believe him. "What are you really going to do?"

  Frost chuckled, but didn't answer.

  They passed through the door into the dark interior. The heat jumped dramatically-it was hotter than the kitchen, a dry, parched blast that sopped up the sweat beading on his skin. The noise of the foundry was as hellish as the swelter, with the constant roar of furnaces stoked by mule-driven bellows, and the banging of countless hammers against anvils.

  "Y-you're really going to do it?" Jeremiah asked.

  "I'll snap your neck first. I'm not cruel, boy. Only practical."

  Jeremiah still felt dizzy, but panic sent a surge of strength through his limbs. He beat Frost's ribs with his fists. The man's broad back sounded like a drum. He kicked furiously, but to no effect. Frost didn't even flinch.

  "Open the furnace door!" Frost yelled. "Then, get back! This boy has yellow-mouth!"

  Slowly, the noise changed throughout the foundry. Hammers fell silent and men began to shout, "Yellow-mouth!"

  "Don't panic, damn it!" Frost shouted. "Fear is more dangerous than the disease. We're taking swift, decisive action to stop the spread. Gather round. Watch me. This boy is the only one we know of who's sick. I want you all to see that we're stronger than any disease!"

  There was a horrible groan as an iron door swung open. The roar of flames grew louder, and the back of Jeremiah's legs grew hotter. Red light cast a stark black shadow on the wall behind them.

  Jeremiah screamed, "Please don't-" His hands flailed around. His fingers fell onto the scabby strips of flesh that had once been Frost's ear. He gripped these shreds of skin for all he was worth.

  Frost screeched, pulled Jeremiah from his shoulder, and threw him to the hot brick floor. Jeremiah rolled onto his back, skittering and kicking to get away. He scooted backward until he was pressed against a low brick wall.

  "Until now, I wasn't planning on enjoying this," Frost said, rubbing his ear nub with his good hand. He pulled his fingers away; they were orange with blood and puss. He reached toward Jeremiah's face. "Before I throw you in, I'm going to break every last damn fi-NNNG!"

  Frost cried out in pain as an arrow erupted from his good hand. He drew back, staring at the missile that had entered the back of his wrist and passed through to the skin on the other side, pushing it out in a little pointy tent. The arrow was fletched with fresh green leaves that wilted in the sweltering heat of the foundry.

  Frost craned his neck. "Who?" he screamed. "Who did this?"

  From above, a voice answered. "The boy is mine. You may not touch him."

  Frost and Jeremiah both looked into the shadows of the rafters. A human figure could barely be seen, the contours of his body distorted by a cloak. It was apparent, however, that he held a bow before him, with a second arrow aimed at Frost.

  "This boy has yellow-mouth!" Frost protested. "He's dying anyway!"

  "We're all dying," said the shadowy archer. "Some of us today, perhaps. Step away."

  Frost walked backward, clutching his bleeding wrist with the thumb and splinted fingers of his other hand. The arrow swayed when he walked.

  The archer dropped a pink rope down from the rafters. He slid down, landing at Jeremiah's feet. Jeremiah recognized the man; he'd traveled with his sister, Zeeky. It was the old man who'd claimed he was Bitterwood. But Bitter
wood and Zeeky were dead, killed by the demons in the mines. Did this mean that Zeeky was also alive?

  "I'm taking the boy," Bitterwood said. "We're leaving Dragon Forge. He won't spread the disease further."

  "You can't leave," Frost said. "There's a blockade of dragons."

  "They didn't see me come in," said Bitterwood. "They won't see me go." He looked down at Jeremiah. "Stand up. We're leaving."

  Frost snarled. "Who are you to come here and start issuing demands?"

  Bitterwood held his hand down to meet Jeremiah's outstretched grasp and help him to his feet.

  "My name isn't important," said Bitterwood. "If you're going to order your men to stop me, do so. Their blood will be on your hands."

  Frost glared at his assailant, studying his face. Bitterwood met his gaze with an icy stare. At last, Frost looked away.

  "Let him go," Frost said to the men who'd gathered between Bitterwood and the door.

  Bitterwood tugged at the rope in the rafter. The pink cord snaked down, shrinking as it fell into his gloved hand. He turned, prodding Jeremiah with a nudge between his shoulder blades. Jeremiah scuffled forward. When they reached the street, Bitterwood slung his bow over his shoulder then picked up Jeremiah. Jeremiah draped his arms around the old man's neck and was carried toward the city gates. He rested his head on Bitterwood's shoulder.

  "Is Zeeky here?" he whispered.

  "She's near," said Bitterwood. "Poocher, too."

  "Will she catch yellow-mouth from me?"

  "Don't know," answered Bitterwood.

  "That man said I was going to die."

  Bitterwood continued to walk, without saying another word.

  SHAY'S FEET WERE sore. He'd lost track of how many days they'd been walking underground. He had no idea how many miles they'd covered. Since this morning when he'd confessed his attraction to Jandra, they'd walked without conversation. He followed behind her has she led the way. Lizard scrambled along like a faithful dog at her heels. The little dragon had a strange walk. He was bipedal, but he didn't really stand erect like a human. His torso leaned forward as his tail jutted out beside him. He bounced along in a gait resembling some flightless bird.