by J. F. Lewis
Glayne had spotted them clambering along the ceiling toward the two of them, claws scratching and scraping along the minute irregularities in the ceiling that survived the bone-steel plating.
Amber repaid the favor by detecting a fourth and a fifth sliding up the walls behind them. Subtle as ever, Glayne, though they were within earshot, showed his appreciation with a green aura around his symbol on her mental map and a matching aura around her own.
He was nothing if not old guard to the bone metal.
Glayne held the shard he’d caught in his palm, testing its weight, its balance.
What? Amber thought at him.
Wondering what, if any, effect these would have on the dead.
The Life Forge was devastatingly effective against Aern, because they had been forged upon it. Amber did not see the link.
It was called the Life Forge, Glayne thought at her. These enemies are dead. I’m going to test it.
Turning for the nearest of the wall-crawling corpses, the two behind them, Glayne did a somersault along the ceiling and came up on one knee, shard plunged into the skull of his target. It fell lifeless, without any signs of further animation, to the floor, knocking over a few dead beneath it.
Glayne, Amber thought, that’s—
Promising and interesting, but largely immaterial unless we find more shards.
What if it works on Uled? Amber asked.
*
Zhan, Rae’en growled as she plummeted toward the ground, I thought we were past this.
He laughed in her mind, a single, dry cough of a laugh. It did not sound like the laughter of a mad Aern, but more friendly, like a . . . joke?
Does Zhan even have a sense of humor? Joose had asked, so long ago.
Halfway down, teeth bared, doubled-canines ready to rip into Zhan if she and Bloodmane could even move after a fall from this height, the First of One Hundred felt a sudden pain, as if an iron mitt had seized her right shoulder, the thumb biting into her skin, then a matching impact connected unseen with her left shoulder, and she was . . . slowing.
Half expecting to see Tsan’Zaur awake and flapping, gaining altitude, having grabbed her shoulders with one huge talon, Rae’en had glanced up and back, but there was nothing there.
The dragon had fallen past Rae’en in the air.
Bloodmane, what in Torgrimm’s name?
Keeper apologizes on behalf of the Ossuarian, the warsuit thought. Many fail to share Zhan’s sense of humor, possibly because it only appears to rear its head in dire situations.
Stepping out onto the molten earth, Zhan had run to take up a position as close as he could get to Rae’en’s most likely point of impact. Tsan’Zaur struck the ground nearby, with an unearthly crack, gouts of flaming bile vomited forth from her unconscious maw.
How did he do that? Rae’en had stopped in the air, Zhan’s arms upraised, holding her a few hundred feet aloft. I can pull my warpick to me from a few feet away, but this . . .
Every Aern is best at something. Bloodmane had never sounded more like her father than he did with that single sentence.
A low laugh so deep it rattled the bones in her chest erupted from the other, very conscious dragon. Tsan had frozen in a blast of cold. Rae’en plummeted again, wind whistling past, striking the ground a hand past the lines of molten earth and fused glass. She struggled to her feet quickly, bruised and battered but not broken.
*
Coal loomed over kholster Rae’en, his chest open, ribs splayed, the cavity within ablaze with crawling blue light, ghoulish and pale, refracted by icicles descending from his scales.
“Kill her,” the parboiled Sri’Zaur on his back roared.
“Shut up, Dryga,” Coal drawled, slinging the Sri’Zaur from his back with the flick of a hind leg, like a dog scratching at a flea. “You can try to kill her if you like. I have more important things to do; it seems there is a lady dragon present.”
“Daughter of Kholster.” Coal bobbled his head at her in rough approximation of a nod. His eyes raked over Zhan. “Talk amongst yourselves.” Then he was moving past, clawed paws steaming where his path crossed the trail cut by Tsan’Zaur’s breath.
What is Coal going to do? Joose asked.
From the carnage, M’jynn thought, I would venture to guess nothing good.
Dryga sprang up, fire licking up his back. He charged, Skreel knife in either hand, as if summoned there by magic. In death, he was fast. In life, he may have been fast enough. As it was, Bloodmane struck the Sri’Zaur once in the head with his right gauntlet, catching his throat with the other and separating the brain box from the trunk with workman-like disdain. Rae’en’s attention never left the dragon. Unlike Coal’s chest, the expanse of his back scales were a wall of unbroken armor, the edges ice-rimmed and flickering with an inconstant blue.
I’m searching every Aern’s memory for something about how dragons interact, Kazan thought, but Coal has been the only one alive since before Kholster was forged.
Not strictly true, Glayne thought to the group, but the memory would not help you.
“You should have slain me with your First Breath, Little Firestarter,” Coal cooed. “To come flying into my presence with my spark of Jun’s fire burning in your breast and not consider me—ME—your first priority . . . I have borne many indignities, biding my time until I could get to Uled and show him face to maw why I was called the Betrayer, but this . . .” Coal spread his wings, one broken and frayed, the other marked by a massive hole in the dark membrane. “THIS I cannot ignore and yet consider myself a dragon!”
Coal drew in a deep breath, lungs whining like dying bellows, a wave of heat pouring off of him in all directions, the blue on his scales a bright, piercing azure, steady and flaring.
Corpses caught like matchsticks, drying, steaming, and bursting alight in an uneven gyre as Coal expelled heat to make ice.
Warmth coursed over Rae’en’s skin, evaporating as Bloodmane cut off the sensation from his exterior, then finding her again as it worked through the warsuit’s metal. Skin began to cook, searing through, pulling away from the flesh beneath.
Do you want me to let you out, or— Bloodmane’s thought, worry, and fear hit her, the edges colored by the panic of a memory, of Bloodmane acting as unintentional conduit for Ghaiattri fire, the flames burning Kholster, driving him into the water, too late . . . too late.
No, she thought, keep me safe. This is only normal fire—
Pain blanked her mind. No data. No input. No mental field of vision. No Overwatches, but . . . wait . . . not completely alone. Never completely alone. Never again.
Bloodmane?
A strip and dip will be required, kholster Rae’en, he thought.
“Blast,” Rae’en whispered, the words deeper than if they’d come from fleshly lips.
So many Aern.
So much blood needed to restore them.
On the other hand, most of the dead were burning, their bodies weakened. Given time, they would all burn down to ash if the strange wave of heat acted anything like normal dragon’s fire.
To her left, Coal loomed over Tsan’Zaur, the prone dragon’s scales shimmering brightly. Making sure she had a good grip on her warpick, Rae’en ran toward the dragons. Bounding over the patches of heat Bloodmane thought hot enough to melt or scorch bone-steel, Rae’en charged at Coal’s back.
Bloodmane, Rae’en thought, tell Keeper I thought Zhan said his Bone Finders came for the bones.
Bone Harvest would like—
Quick thoughts.
Bone Harvest. Alysaundra. Right.
Put her through.
Zhan didn’t die, but he’s unconscious, Alysaundra’s voice hit her mind, which means, for the moment, I’m the Ossuarian.
And?
Are you going to help me end this dead dragon or not? Alysaundra Bone Harvest shot past Rae’en Bloodmane, running backward and waggling the little finger of her right gauntlet at Rae’en like she was some inexperienced Eleven on her first outing, still
hacking her little fingers off for the extra bone metal.
Bone Harvest’s crystal eyes shone a twinkling red, but even through the faceted eyes, Rae’en saw the lifeless body behind them . . . loose, dead, eyes boiled in their sockets.
Were I not Armored, I’d be dead now, Rae’en thought to no one beyond her own mind. Riding in Bloodmane, however, her thoughts were too close to go unheard. He tried to lean clear of them, but she was his occupant in a way a physical being could never be. Like two dogs in a one-dog kennel, there was only so much space they could cede to one another.
I will not let you die, Bloodmane thought. You need no longer concern yourself with—
You let Dad die.
No. Bloodmane’s thoughts were iron. True, I made a mistake . . . but he chose to die rather than make me pay the price for it. He should have destroyed me, kholster Rae’en. He should have torn my consciousness out of my bone-steel hide and inhabited it himself . . . leaving a new piece of his spirit behind when he was stripped and dipped.
He could have done that?
Yes.
Could I?
You are not yet strong enough to force me to depart, but I would allow it.
Why?
Armor may be reforged to suit its wearer many times, Bloodmane thought, but a warsuit does not attempt to reforge its occupant.
Another flash of remembrance clicked in place, a quick sensation of Bloodmane molding his shape to accommodate the differences in size between Rae’en and her father. She briefly pondered what would have happened if the warsuit had merely pulled her taller, stretched or bent her body until she fit instead.
Gruesome thought, Alysaundra sent. Stop dwelling on it and fight, unless you want your brand new-shiny dragon to get eaten by the old stinky one.
Rae’en blinked, or felt like she had—her eyelids were totally gone—before centering herself, committing to the battle, shoving aside the concerns at Fort Sunder, the worries about Bloodmane’s willingness to sacrifice himself, her father’s sacrifice, his godhood, Wylant, Vax, even Zhan and the relationship between the main army and the Bone Finders.
Left or right? Alysaundra asked.
You’re already on the right, Rae’en sent back, so I’ll go left.
Bone Harvest sent an image of two warpicks swinging at opposite sides of a melon.
Meet you in the middle, Rae’en agreed. Then she was running up a dead dragon’s back, its scales slick and black beneath her feet. A pull came from Alysaundra, and Rae’en matched it, the two of them pulling on each other’s bone-steel, opposite gauntlets extended toward one another as if they were attempting to draw a weapon to them that lay only a few inches away. It was enough to keep them from sliding off of the dragon, enough to give them purchase as they sped straight up Coal’s back on their way to his massive head.
*
Warleader Tsan stirred, her body slow and cold, thoughts fuzzy. A sharp stab from her ribs told her they were broken, her left foreleg, too. Her ears thrummed. Surely they should have been ringing, should they not? And why did the thrums sounds so much like words?
Wake up, One-Headed Kilke hissed in her thoughts.
Fool. Did he not realize she was awake already? Had been for several heartbeats. Ah, she thought, the thrumming. Of course.
Great warmth had made her stir, and she had sucked at it greedily, wanting more, yet it had all but run out. Why not just lie here until there was more heat? The suns emitted enough that, given a good, hot noon, she might want to start thinking about trying to stand . . .
A sound like rippling sailcloth. A smell like . . . dragon.
Tsan, Kilke thought, you have to wake up.
Did you know that would happen with the Breath? Tsan rose with grace despite her injury, keeping all of the weight on her three good— No, the rear left leg felt weak and shaky, the pain deep and sharp—two good legs and as much as she could tolerate on the rear left. Did you? Her thoughts slid cold and calm toward One-Headed Kilke as she tested her wings. They felt intact, but she’d wrenched the muscle—left side again—and doubted she could stay aloft long.
I did, Kilke thought, but I had not expected you to—
Give me power.
Tsan, Kilke purred, it is not that simple. I need—
Are we two allies or enemies? Tsan’s massive head turned toward the scent of the other dragon. Because allies can have little misunderstandings, missteps requiring amercement, yes, but excusable at the end of the day. Penalty paid; no need to discuss it further.
She felt a trickle of power, eyelids closing for a few beats of her tremendous heart as the world spun tail over tongue. A head injury, too, then.
More, she demanded.
You’re a dragon already, Tsan, Kilke said. Once your metamorphosis was complete, there was little that I could offer. You will heal more quickly, but even Gromma would have—
Blast and damn then, Tsan thought.
I—
My enemies, Tsan directed.
What? the god asked.
A tinge of fear set off the train of instinctive reevaluation Tsan could not help but entertain whenever she detected it in an ally. Kilke feared Coal. By extension then, did he now fear Tsan herself? Her mind muzzy, she tabled the equations until a later date . . . a date, for example, when she was the only dragon remaining on the Last World.
My words were a call to action, not a curse, Kilke, Tsan thought at him.
What?
Coal loomed closer, babbling about something Tsan could not understand, the words metallic and echoing. Kilke’s fear stained the air, seeping into Tsan’s thoughts unbidden. Fear? No. Tsan declined to share such a useless emotion. She forced her calm into the disembodied god, explanation twinned with it: You have magic, and as power is your purview, you demonstrated the ability to enhance my army, keep them refreshed. Said magic obviously functions on those with some measure of immunity to magic. Given your previous threat to blind me, unless that was an empty threat, you must possess some offensive capability.
Now, rather than forcing to me explain at length . . . Tsan tracked the path of two warsuits as they vaulted the dead wyrm’s shoulders. They blinked from one spot to the next and the world winked, Tsan hovering on the edge of unconsciousness. Breathing deeply despite her ribs, the dragon leaned into the pain, riding it back to full alertness. Use your magic to blast the dead and the dragon. Send them to one of the hells or rejuvenate our allies if you can, but whatever you do, do it now, because—
Because you need me, Kilke purred.
Because otherwise, I will eat you and see if that makes me a god, helps me regenerate, or merely puts a grin on my maw.
CHAPTER 33
BETRAYED
Prismatic sparks became Yavi’s entire world beyond the gentle yet unyielding embrace of Dolvek’s spirit. An old panic woke in her core, not the instinctive fear of being entrapped itself, but a shadow of it. She’d lost an eye, her arms, and most of her legs below the knee, but none of those injuries held the terror for Yavi that being held against her will did.
Come on, Yavi, she thought. Act like a girl-type person, not some scared sproutling.
If she asked Dolvek to let her go and he refused, the panic would take over, but if she declined to ask, the illusion that she was in control could be maintained and the panic kept at bay.
I will not scream.
A series of pops sounded in her ears as the wind vanished, leaving behind a tepid atmosphere like stepping into a cave whose temperature defied the chill without, ever warm.
Sparks faded, gray void replacing them. Nothing in all directions. How could such a place exist?
Where are we?
Combined confusion and physical restraint opened the doorway to instinctive panic.
“Let me go!” Yavi shouted and was instantly falling.
He let me go. Even if she fell forever through whatever this place was, Yavi knew her gratitude for the spirit’s compliance would be eternal, that at least that much of the prince remain
ed even when he no longer knew his own name.
More opaque and solid-looking in this place, Dolvek’s ghost was painted in violet hues. He plummeted alongside her, brow furrowed as if trying to work out a complex equation, one he would not give up on but knew he would never solve.
“Where are we?” Yavi asked. “Where did you bring us?”
“I meant to take you home,” the ghost replied, “but then . . .” his eyes unfocused, form flickering, then regaining stability.
“But then . . . ?” she asked. “No. Before that. Would you catch me, please?” She looked down, seeing the same gray in that direction. “I don’t seem likely to hit anything, but it’s . . .” And his arms were around her waist. “ . . . disconcerting to fall like that, through endless nothing.”
“Not endless.” Dolvek’s voice was stronger in this place, too, less whisper than soft-spoken.
“No?”
“No?”
“Dolvek.” Yavi closed her eye. “Are you saying there is somewhere else here, a way out, or—?”
“Some. One.” Dolvek’s image wavered. “Some. Thing. A . . . life.” Her sense-dulled bark registered a cold wetness where his spectral fingers touched her, had indeed begun to slide through her, his fingers losing more substance as he faded.
“Dolvek?” Jaw slack, eyes vacant, color washed out of his image. She drifted deeper, his arms poking through her, too insubstantial to keep his grip. “Don’t go!”
Desperate, Yavi looked around with her remaining eye, casting wildly about for another spirit, but there was only Dolvek, his spirit torn and frayed. He reminded her of the spirit she’d met at the White Road on her way to meet with the Eldrennai, so downtrodden and worn thin, she had been hard-pressed to tell much about what it might once have looked like.
With Dolvek, though, she knew what he had been like, remembered the look of his face and his spirit. Could she help him regain a portion of his old self? Hadn’t she already? When she called him Dolvek, he answered, but before passing through the Port Gate, he had no longer known to whom that name belonged.
