by James Maxey
“Started to think you weren’t coming,” said a ragged voice from the fog. Jandra strained her eyes to see a figure emerging from the wispy cotton of the air. Vendevorex flinched.
“You’re not Simonex,” he said.
“Simonex?” said the sky-dragon who approached them, still half-veiled by fog. “Oh, you mean this fool?”
The sky-dragon now stood mere feet from Vendevorex’s doppelganger. He lifted a severed head high, revealing the tortured visage of a sky-dragon, eyes open and dull, the tongue hanging limp from its slack jaw. In her horror Jandra noticed a second detail—the sky-dragon who stood before Vendevorex’s double had only tatters for wings. The membranes that stretched between the extended fingers that formed his wing struts had been slashed, a punishment reserved for sky-dragons convicted of property crimes such as the murder of humans. This irreversible injury crippled the sky-dragons, severing them from their namesake element. It also marked them permanently as outcasts; she’d heard rumors that these tatterwings would retreat to the wilds and band together into thuggish gangs.
As she recalled this a second sky dragon appeared beside the first, then a third. From the edges of the stone two more appeared. She held her breath as she heard a rattle in the bushes next to her. A tatterwing carrying a long, crude spear crept no more than five feet to her right, crouching as if to spring.
With a final one stepping out from the other side of the stream, she counted seven tatterwings, all armed. Poor Simonex never stood a chance.
The lead tatterwing dropped Simonex’s head and rested his fore-talon on the hilt of the sword he had slung to his side. “Before your friend died he told us you work for the king,” the tatterwing said, sounding smug. “Said there’d be quite the ransom for you. In the meantime, those fancy jewels in your wings will make a good down payment.”
“You’d not live to spend your ransom,” Vendevorex said calmly. “There’s no corner of the earth you will not be hunted if you attempt to harm me.”
“We’ll take that risk,” the leader said, drawing his blade. The steel edge was jagged, more saw than sword. Suddenly, three large rope nets swirled from the fog, flying over the area. Two nets fell over the spot where Vendevorex’s doppelganger stood. They fell harmlessly to the ground, causing the illusion to flicker and shimmer. The leader drew back, eyes wide as if he’d realized that he was standing before a ghost.
Alas, the third net was badly thrown. Jandra leapt away as it headed for them. The tatterwing to her right rolled out of the path of the spreading hemp.
Vendevorex proved to be too slow. The net hit the edge of the circle of invisibility, then wrapped around her mentor. Vendevorex gave a mumbled curse as the illusion fell away, his concentration broken.
“By the bones!” the tatterwing across the stream exclaimed when Vendevorex’s double vanished. “What’s happening?”
“It’s the king’s wizard!” the lead tatterwing shouted. He sounded panicked and was swiveling his head, searching the shadows. Suddenly, his eyes focused on the wizard’s netted form. He pointed his jagged blade toward Vendevorex as he cried, “He’s too dangerous to hold hostage! Kill him!”
The nearest tatterwing rushed forward, his spear held level with Vendevorex’s heart. Invisibly, Jandra dove into his path, tripping him. This ruined her invisibility; she gambled that there would be a moment of surprise in which she might dart back to safety and vanish once more. Unfortunately, the tatterwing fell on her. She fought to get out from under him. She rolled to her back to find a second tatterwing rushing at her with a spear.
Before the dragon reached her, a loud sizzling sound, like bacon in a skillet, drowned out even the water in the stream. The net that covered Vendevorex flared in a searing flash, disintegrating and freeing him. All the tatterwings reflexively raised their talons to shield their eyes.
Vendevorex pointed his left wing toward the dragon with the spear that had been charging Jandra. The dragon yelped in shock as his spear crumbled to ash and took a large chunk of the flesh of his talons with it.
“You murder my associates?” Vendevorex said, his voice trembling with rage. “You threaten me and my companion, attacking us with ropes and pointed sticks? Fools!”
Vendevorex drew his shoulders back seeming to double in size. “I am Vendevorex! I control the building blocks of matter itself! Know that your actions have brought my judgment upon you!”
White balls of flame engulfed the tips of both wings. Vendevorex lunged out and touched the flame to the snout of the dragon near Jandra, who stood staring at his damaged talons. Shrieks echoed from the hills as Vendevorex pushed the dragon’s suddenly limp body away. The tatterwing fell to the stone, his face boiling to pink mist, revealing his skull.
Jandra kicked free of the dragon who had fallen on her as Vendevorex leaned and plunged the flame into the dragon’s spine. This one didn’t even have time to scream before he died.
Jandra struggled to her feet. She rose to find herself face to face with Vendevorex who said in a firm tone, “None can escape.”
Jandra understood. A single survivor could reveal their location to the king. And who knew if Simonex had told them about Chakthalla? As Vendevorex turned to face the leader of the tatterwings, Jandra grabbed the fallen spear of the dragon she’d tripped. She set her sights on the tatterwing on the far side of the stream who’d turned to run. Luck was with her; he tripped on a root, hitting the ground hard.
Jandra had never killed before. She’d never even carried a spear. But there are moments in life when one discovers the most primitive actions are built into the very muscles. She jumped the stream, the spear tucked tightly against her body, both hands gripping with all her might. With her full weight she drove the shaft into the back of the tripped tatterwing, feeling the slips and snaps as the stone tip worked its way through hide and muscle and gristle to the ground beneath.
The tatterwing thrashed and gasped, its talons scraping the earth, still struggling to rise. The air suddenly smelled of urine. Jandra released the shaft and staggered back, unable to believe what she’d done. She turned to find Vendevorex surrounded by a mound of charred corpses. His foes all died so quickly and quietly. The smoke from his victims wafted across the stream; she braced herself for a horrible scent. Instead, the aroma reminded her of roast venison.
The weak, wet calls for mercy from her victim lingered for several long moments until Vendevorex caught his breath, crossed the stream, and silenced him.
Jandra sat down by the stream, her eyes closed, her cheeks wet with tears. She grew sick to her stomach; her hands felt slick with blood, though in truth, there wasn’t a spot on her.
Vendevorex placed a fore-talon on her shoulder.
“It had to be done,” he said.
“I know,” she sobbed, wiping her cheeks. “I know.”
“I apologize. I failed to train you for a moment such as this,” said Vendevorex. “I’ve sheltered you from the darker side of our arts. I’ve showed you illusion and minor transmutations. As you’ve seen, there are more… aggressive skills to be learned. In the morning we’ll begin your lessons.”
Then he left her and began to dig through the satchel of the fallen leader. She went to the stream and splashed water on her face. It helped; she no longer felt quite so close to losing her dinner. Her body trembled as the adrenaline worked through her. She looked at her hands. Had they really killed someone? Though it happened only a moment before—the corpse of her victim was in the edge of her sight, the spear thrusting up like a young, straight tree—it all felt so distant. Like a memory from years ago, a different life.
She wiped the tears from her cheeks. She could kill if she needed to. The knowledge gave her a grim strength. It was good to know, in a way. She’d wanted hope earlier in the evening; now, in the least expected fashion, she’d found it.
Vendevorex rose with a folded sheet of paper in his claw. He opened the paper, agitating the molecules of the air above it to create a soft light by which to read.
He nodded his head slowly as he studied the words.
“It’s from Chakthalla,” he said. “These tatterwings had no idea the treasure they carried. Albekizan would give half his kingdom to know the contents of this letter.”
ALBEKIZAN STIRRED FROM his sleep, sensing an alien presence in the room. He opened his eyes to the dim light of the chamber. Among the shadows something rustled like dry leaves. He raised his head for a better view. A shadow moved toward the large table on the far side of the room.
Then, a scratch, and a spark. A match had been struck. An oil lamp flickered to life revealing the dark-scaled hide of Blasphet.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Blasphet said, placing a roll of parchment on the table. “I confess, I feel rather giddy. I’ve been contemplating the task you gave me. Quite a thorny problem. I now have a solution.”
“Blasphet,” Albekizan said, standing, stretching, fighting off the stiffness of interrupted sleep. “It’s late. Why did the guards let you in?”
“They didn’t. I killed them,” Blasphet said with a shrug. “It was depressingly simple. No challenge at all in killing such a dim-witted lot. Try to replace them with something a little brighter next time.”
“I assigned all my best guards to cover you,” Albekizan said.
“Oh dear,” Blasphet said. “I have more bad news for you then. But that can wait. This can’t. Come. Look. Isn’t this the most marvelous thing you’ve ever seen?”
Albekizan glanced at the parchment. Blasphet raised the lamp to cast a better light. A nearly impenetrable maze of parallel and perpendicular lines covered the surface of the parchment. Albekizan looked closer. Slowly the lines began to make sense. They were roads, buildings, walls, aqueducts, and sewers. It was the map of a grand city.
“What is this?”
“This is the ultimate destination of mankind,” said Blasphet. “Their final home. Do you like it?”
Albekizan rubbed his eyes. His brother was insane; this was a given. Albekizan normally wasn’t surprised or disturbed by Blasphet’s odd tangents and flights of fancy. But this?
“I asked you to plot the destruction of all mankind and you design a housing project. This is unexpected, even from you.”
“Yes, well,” said Blasphet. “If the humans expected this it could never work. But I took inspiration in your words. I thought that was a very insightful thing that you said, telling me that freedom would be my shackles.”
“Hmm,” said Albekizan. “I suppose I did say that.”
“This is the Free City,” said Blasphet. “It’s the city of humanity’s dreams. What they will never know, until it’s too late, is that it is the city of our dreams as well.” Blasphet ran a claw dreamily along the lines of a major street.
“If you say so,” said Albekizan.
“You can’t see it, can you?” Blasphet said. “Let me explain the beauty of this plan.”
Albekizan said, “Go on.”
And, come the dawn, Albekizan considered the inky paper stretched out before him to be the loveliest thing under all the sky.
PART TWO: CROWS
For man also knoweth not his time:
as the fishes that are taken in an evil net,
and as the birds that are caught in the snare;
so are the sons of men snared in an evil time,
when it falleth suddenly upon them.
Ecclesiastes 9:12
PROLOG PART TWO: SPEAR
1078 D.A. The 47th Year of the Reign of Albekizan
RECANNA PLACED BANT’S breakfast before him; a large, flat golden biscuit covering half the plate beside a scramble of eggs, the yellow flecked with diced green onion. A black-rimmed sliver of orange cheese leaned on the edge of the plate. As Recanna poured him a mug of white, frothy buttermilk, Bant looked around the table to the bright eyes of his two beautiful little girls. They lowered their eyes respectfully as Bant said, “Let us pray.”
“We give thanks, oh Lord, for the bounty before us,” Bant said. “We give thanks for the new day.”
He continued the prayer for some time before concluding, as he always did, with the things he was most personally thankful for: his newborn son, his beautiful daughters and, most of all, for Recanna. His son Adam gurgled and mewed throughout the prayer as if offering his own thanks.
When Bant finished his meal he kissed Recanna’s cheek and then stepped from his cabin into the soft dawn light. He faced a busy day. He needed to complete his chores and prepare for tomorrow’s sermon. He smiled. Knowing how every moment of his day would be spent gave him a warm feeling. He felt very much at home in the world. He found joy in his labors, whether tending to the orchards or aiding his fellow villagers.
The morning light danced through the peach orchard, causing the dew-covered leaves to sparkle with a million tiny jewels. Truly, he dwelled in the new Eden.
He couldn’t know, yet, that today the serpents would arrive.
BY MIDDAY, THE southern sun pressed down on Bant like a giant hand, making the slightest movements laborious. If the rains had been steadier last spring, he might have avoided working in the heat of the day. All the cooler hours of the morning and evening were spent tending the fields. The village couldn’t afford to lose a single plant. This left the middle part of the day to such drudgework as reshingling a roof. Bant hadn’t planned to spend this long on the task; it was only a few wooden shingles that needed replacing after wind damage from the previous week’s thunderstorm. Bant lay his hammer down and wiped the sweat from his eyes. He would welcome a thunderstorm if it came along now, wind damage or no. He glanced toward the distant stream, longing for a dip within its cool waters. A cloud of dust caught his eye; someone was approaching from the northern road.
Bant squinted, shielding his eyes. Three huge lizards—gray in color save for the rust-red scales along their throats and bellies—lumbered along the dirt road. At first glance they appeared low to the ground, but when Bant compared them to the trees they passed he realized the lizards stood taller than horses, and only their great length made them appear squat.
As the great-lizards grew nearer, Bant could make out the riders who looked like men astride the high-backed leather saddles. But they weren’t men; they were earth-dragons. Their scaly skin was the color of moss. Their heads sat broad and low upon their shoulders, their dark eyes set wide apart. A teal fringe of spiky scales jutted from their necks.
Bant climbed down the ladder, moving to meet the dragons as they rode into the town square. He could only vaguely recall the last time the dragons had visited, well over a decade ago. The dragons had then demanded a tenth of that year’s harvest and the older townsmen agreed to provide it, citing an ancient agreement. The town lay in the land of dragons and the Dragon King had the right to take as much as a quarter of the harvest. The elders said dragons were abundant in the north but ventured south to collect taxes only rarely, seldom appearing more than once in a score of years.
Bant wished some of the elders had survived to advise him now. If the dragons wanted a quarter of the harvest this year, it would be difficult. Christdale suffered from a shortage of men. Only male children his age and younger had survived Hezekiah’s initial teachings unmaimed. Now only a dozen able-bodied men could tend the crops, and they had to provide for a community of nearly a hundred. The Lord in his mercy always provided enough but there was seldom any surplus.
The three dragons rode into the center of the village. They dismounted and spoke to one another in a strange, hissing speech. Two carried long spears tipped with metal. The third dragon, the apparent leader, had a scabbard hanging from his belt from which the bejeweled hilt of a sword jutted. From the windows of their houses the villagers watched but none approached, leaving Bant alone with the visitors.
The sword dragon finished conferring with his associates. He faced Bant and said, “I am Mekalov. You are this town’s leader?”
Bant found Mekalov’s speech difficult to follow. The creature’s hard, beak-like mouth didn’t move as it
spoke; the noise seemed to emanate from deep within his throat. It didn’t help that the dragon’s breath distracted him. Perhaps the heat played tricks with his eyes, but foul, fishy garlic fumes spilled from Mekalov’s mouth in visible waves.
“Well?” Mekalov demanded. “Answer me!”
“We are led by no one but the Lord,” Bant said.
“Bring this lord to me,” Mekalov said.
“He is already here,” Bant said.
“If you are the lord, then gather your subjects. There is work to be done.”
Bant smiled politely. He knew that Mekalov didn’t understand him. He wondered what Hezekiah would have to say about attempting to tell a dragon about God. Would it be a waste of time? Then, setting aside the theological musings, Bant asked what slowly dawned on him as the important question: “What work?”
“A week from now Albekizan’s tax collectors will arrive. By then you will gather in this square half of this year’s harvest along with half of all livestock in the village.”
“Half?” Bant said. “But… but the agreement is for no more than a quarter.”
“Perhaps, in this backwater, you have not heard the good news,” said Mekalov. “Albekizan commemorates the miraculous birth of a new son, Bodiel. This is a celebration tax in his honor.”
“But—”
“Need I remind you that the very ground you stand upon belongs to Albekizan? Anything that grows here belongs to him, and him alone. You live merely as a parasite, feasting upon food that is not your own. We are not taking half your harvest. Instead, Albekizan is allowing you to keep half of his harvest. Be grateful for his generosity.”
“The Good Book tells me give unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s,” Bant said, “but I won’t starve my friends and family. When the collectors arrive we will give them what we can spare.”
“We’re not here to bargain, human. We merely inform you of what will be. You will comply or you will die.”
Bant searched his mind for the proper scripture for guidance. He wanted to follow the will of the Lord, but what was it in this matter? That he yield to authority, obey the dragons, and have faith that all would be well? Or that he oppose the dragons and stand against injustice?
