by Wesley King
She woke to her mother sitting beside her, the lines of her face glowing in the moonlight, her sad eyes watching Dree without sympathy or love. They looked cold.
“Was I shouting?” Dree asked quietly.
“Yes,” she said. “You were saying his name.”
Dree felt the sweat on her brow, the tears on her cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
“You said that too,” she murmured. “You said you were sorry to him. Why?”
Dree lay there silently. “Because I didn’t save him.”
Her eyes scanned over Dree.
“Is that all?”
Her mother suspected. Even at nine, Dree knew that. She saw her mother’s whispered conversations with her father, she’d heard her parents yelling. Rochin didn’t have nightmares. Or Abi.
It was only Dree.
“Yes,” Dree whispered.
Her mother stared at her for a while and then patted her arm. “Go back to sleep.”
She left without a word, but the coldness remained in the room. It wasn’t always like that, though. Dree’s mother still cooked for her and hugged her before work and washed her clothes.
But there were many other times when Dree was sure her mother hated her.
She shook the thought away. What now?
Dree could go and join her family, and she was desperate to check on Abi. But if the machines returned, even the squat, red-brick school would offer no protection. She had seen firsthand what their weapons could do. There would be no hiding from the machines in the city. If they were still somewhere nearby, they needed to be destroyed so that they couldn’t return and hurt anyone else.
“No,” Dree said quietly, “I need to go see a friend.”
Chapter
11
“Why do you say friend so ominously?” Marcus asked, lowering his phone.
Dree shifted, not meeting his gaze. She was unlike any girl Marcus had ever met—pretty features but hard eyes, cold and aloof and yet bursting with fire. There was something else about her, though, and it had nothing to do with her appearance. It was like he knew her from somewhere. It was impossible, clearly, but he couldn’t shake the feeling.
“He’s not . . . friendly to strangers,” she said slowly, not willing to trust Marcus with too much information. “Which is why we have to part ways here. I’m sorry.”
Marcus was taken aback by the sudden change. He had seen so many horrors in the past hour that he didn’t really want to be left alone, especially since he blamed himself for all the destruction. He felt nauseated again, and more importantly, he felt angry.
“Are you going to find a way to stop the drones?” he asked.
“I’m going to try,” Dree admitted. “But it’s too dangerous—”
“I’m coming,” he interrupted.
She frowned. “No, you’re not. My friend doesn’t like new people.”
“Well, tell him to get over it. I want to help.”
“Why?”
Marcus wondered if he should tell her the truth. He had a feeling that if Dree knew it was his fault the drones had just destroyed half her city, she would either leave him behind or kill him on the spot. Looking at her calloused hands, scorched almost black, he doubted that she would even break a sweat. Besides, he was increasingly certain that the drones were somehow related to his father’s disappearance. If he was ever going to have a chance at finding his father, he would have to find the drones first. And that meant following Dree.
“Because it’s the right thing to do,” he said firmly.
Dree wasn’t convinced. She imagined what Lourdvang would say if she showed up at his cave with this bizarre foreign boy. For one, she had never brought another human to see Lourdvang before. He was a secret from everyone, and she liked it that way. But things had changed, and she needed all the help she could get—even from Marcus. She looked him over as he fidgeted and quickly crossed his arms, trying to press them across his chest so they didn’t look so skinny. Dree couldn’t help but smirk.
“Fine,” she muttered. “But if you get killed, it’s your own fault.” She turned and started for the downtown core. “There’s something we have to get you first.”
Marcus hurried to catch up with her long strides. “Is it a gun?”
Dree looked back at him, confused. “No. Is that what those weapons were called?”
“The drones are armed with them, yes,” Marcus explained. “They fire bullets. We’re going to need them.”
“We have other weapons.”
“Does your friend have the weapons?”
“He is the weapon,” she said quietly, looking around. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
She hesitated, still unsure if she should tell him. But there wasn’t much choice.
“How do you feel about dragons?”
Marcus stared at her, waiting for her to laugh. Or at least smile. But there was just a burning intensity in her blue eyes that didn’t wane for a moment. She wasn’t joking.
“I think they’re cool. . . .” he said hesitantly, not sure what she was getting at.
“Why would they be cool?” Dree asked, confused.
“I mean I like them.”
“Oh. Good.” She looked both ways. “My friend . . . he’s kind of a dragon.”
“Like . . . a real one?” Marcus asked, lowering his voice.
“Yes. His name is Lourdvang. I found him when he was an infant.”
Marcus tried to make sense of this new information. Considering he was in some sort of fantasy alter-world, it shouldn’t have been surprising that there were dragons. But the logical part of his mind was still trying to catch up with all this, and dragons were just a bit much.
Of course, so was everything in Dracone. As they left the decimated south end, a full, breathing city materialized around him. His eyes fell on bizarre horned red birds perched on flagstone roofs, lizards on leashes like dogs, and wooden stands with all kinds of odd things for sale: fangs and eyes and organs. Ancient structures stood next to rudimentary steel buildings, matching the disparity in the people: peasant to beggar to garishly dressed aristocrats. It seemed that Dracone itself was caught between two worlds.
“Is that . . . normal? To have a dragon?” he asked.
Dree laughed for the first time since they’d met. It was surprisingly warm, like running water, and briefly distracted from the harshness in her eyes. “Of course not. You really are from far away, aren’t you? Do you know anything about dragons?”
“Not really.”
Dree sighed. She figured now was as good of a time as ever to explain Dracone’s history with dragons to Marcus.
“Ten years ago, it may have been considered somewhat normal to have a dragon. Humans and dragons . . . we coexisted peacefully. Some dragons were even close friends, particularly the Nightwings and Sages. Dragon riders protected the kingdom and kept the peace. They were men and women chosen as kids—usually ten years old—to face the dragon elders. If they were deemed worthy, they would be allowed to meet dragon youths. If a bond was made between a human and a dragon, they trained together for many years to become warriors. They protected Dracone from wild dragons and attackers from the east, and they were symbols of hope. There were incidents between humans and dragons, of course . . . Outliers are wild and sometimes attacked humans, and if a Flame ever came down from the Teeth, entire villages could be destroyed. But that was very rare, and for the most part, we lived in peace.”
Marcus nodded, though some of the story made no sense to him. He didn’t want Dree to stop talking, though.
“So what happened?” Marcus asked, watching a soot-covered child run past. He hoped the boy’s family was nearby—he didn’t want to think that he could be an orphan.
“We changed, I guess. There was an attack once, by the Flames. They burned a v
illage called Toloth to the ground, and public opinion turned against the dragons. The newly elected prime minister, Francis Xidorne, was especially angry. Apparently he had a close friend there, a scientist who had helped design many of the new technologies that Francis was promoting. Most of his platform was about advancing Dracone into a new age, and when his friend was killed in the attack, it ruined his plans. So he instituted new laws banning humans and dragons from interacting. He started the hunts, and humans started to shoot Outliers down from the sky. Once a human killed a Sage—the kindest and most peaceful of the dragons— the lines of war were set. The dragons turned their backs on us. Even the Nightwings, our closest friends.”
“And the riders?” Marcus asked.
“Branded traitors,” Dree said bitterly. “Stripped of their fortunes and forbidden from seeing even their own dragons. The penalty for befriending or helping a dragon is still death. My father was a dragon rider. . . . He was never the same after.”
She paused.
“I was seven when I found Lourdvang. Even then, I knew the rule about dragons, but I couldn’t leave him. He was scared, and so small. The hunters would have killed him, or he would have died of starvation. So I raised him in a little hidden cave outside the city, and as he grew, we became very close. I still see him as much as I can.”
Marcus rubbed his forehead, bewildered. Something occurred to him.
“So what do we need to get?” he asked.
Dree looked at him. “Armor.”
A few minutes later they were staring at a little smithy with an old wooden sign reading WILHELM’S FORGE. It was tucked onto the side of a busy street, still bustling with the strange array of people. The attacks had been far enough from the city center that people there were largely continuing with their daily routine. Marcus focused on the strangely dressed ones—they were wearing everything from gleaming black armor to sleeveless shirts to suits, all adorned with fang necklaces and earrings and other unusual accessories. Their faces were even weirder: eyebrows shaved or scorched off, strange tattoos, and hair that was buzzed or shaved into Mohawks.
“What’s with the punk rockers?” he whispered.
“The what?”
“The weird ones,” he said.
Dree scowled. “It’s the new trend,” she muttered. “Killing dragons became a symbol of the new Dracone, and so people started buying fangs and scales. The hairstyles and eyebrows and everything else followed. It’s all supposed to symbolize a mastery of fire. Fire was the age-old enemy of humans when dragons attacked, so mastering it is supposedly a sign of our progress.”
Dree seemed to be getting angry, so Marcus decided to change the subject.
“So what are we doing here again?”
Dree suddenly cut into the crowd. “Borrowing armor.”
As they crossed the street, Marcus noticed a lot of people giving him very curious glances. Some looked confused, others alarmed, and some of the young people with the crimson Mohawks and shaved heads almost looked like they admired Marcus, like he was on the cusp of some new fashion statement. They were pointing at his clothes and whispering to one another, smiling and giving him approving nods like he had done something clever. He felt uncomfortable with so many eyes on him. Maybe he needed to find some new clothes. Dree didn’t even notice; she was focused on the shop.
They cut through an alley that ran beside the forge and emerged onto a dingy backstreet where there were far fewer wealthy young Draconians and more people begging in the corners, nothing but crumpled robes and frail, grasping hands. It was the other side of Dracone—so close to the shiny exterior. The forgotten underclass.
Dree led him to a small back door with a massive iron padlock.
Marcus frowned when he saw it. “How are we going to—”
Before he could even finish, Dree withdrew a slender piece of metal from her pack and started picking the lock. It didn’t take long. Her fingers were deft and clever, and in a few seconds the padlock popped open. Marcus looked at her, raising his eyebrows.
“I made it,” she said simply.
Easing the door open, Dree put a finger to her lips and crept into the shadows. It was morning, and Sasha would already be working in the forge. Master Wilhelm was probably helping, unless he had managed to find himself a new apprentice already. Wilhelm wasn’t the type to close the forge for a day, even if the city was under attack. Especially since they were making weapons—if anything, they would be working longer hours to meet what surely would be increased demand.
Marcus took an anxious look around the backstreet and followed Dree inside. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be caught stealing. . . . The penalty could be cutting off his hand or something. He swung the door shut behind him, noticing a beggar staring.
As usual, the inside of the forge was scorching hot and stained with soot, like the inside of a coal-fired barbecue. Marcus’s eyes stung against the pressing heat, and he could just make out Dree as she quietly snuck through the hallway and into a side room. Up ahead he saw an orange glow and a large silhouette. Someone was working.
Marcus nervously followed Dree into the room and realized it was an armory.
Racks of swords and spears and jousts lined the blackened walls, while shields and armor hung between them. Great crossbows and lances sat in the corner along with steel arrows that were three feet long and barbed. It was an impressive collection, but Dree knew exactly what she wanted. She hurried straight to a chainmail, ebony outfit on the far wall. Grabbing it off the rack, she gestured for Marcus to put it on.
“What is it?” he asked, eyeing the strange material.
“Fire-resistant armor,” she said. “You’ll need it to ride Lourdvang.”
“Where’s yours?”
“I don’t need it. Now hurry up!” She turned around to give him privacy.
Marcus hesitated and then quickly took off his pants and shirt, sliding the strange black outfit over his boxers. It was made of hard steel, warmed up in the heat of the shop, but it was oddly light and flexible, like a fine mesh. There was a shirt to slide on and matching ebony pants, and once they were on, he put his jeans and T-shirt over them. There were matching gloves as well, and he shoved those into his pockets.
“Okay.”
Dree turned around and looked over him, nodding. “How does it feel?”
“Weird,” he said. “Very light.”
She grinned. “Of course. I made it. Now let’s get out of here before—”
They were too late. They heard heavy footsteps and turned to see Sasha walk into the armory, sweating as he lugged a clump of freshly forged swords. Sasha’s jaw dropped when he saw them, and almost instantly, his furious gaze jumped to the exorbitantly priced, fire-resistant armor that was exposed on Marcus’s arms, and the empty spot where it had been hanging on the wall.
Dree knew exactly what Sasha was thinking. And they were in trouble.
“What is this—” he started.
“It’s not what it looks like, Sasha,” Dree said, moving toward him. “We just need to borrow the armor. The city is under attack, and we need to stop the drones before—”
He scowled. “Nice try. You’re going to sell this on the street. I don’t think so, Dree. Tonin!” he called down the hall. “Come here!” Sasha turned back to Dree and smirked. “Your replacement. He knows how to actually do the job, which is a nice change. Let’s go—we’re taking you two to Wilhelm. He might take a hand for this.”
Marcus blanched. The boy was huge—they’d never get past him.
“Fine,” Dree said, putting her head down. “Take us.”
Marcus was about to argue that maybe they were giving in a little too easily, when suddenly Dree thrust her knee hard into Sasha’s groin, who swore and dropped the pile of swords. Before Sasha could react, Dree punched him across the face, sending him toppling backward to the floor. Dree’s fist throbbed
as she turned back to Marcus.
“Run!”
Marcus quickly followed her down the hall and back into the blinding daylight, still stunned by her unexpected attack. But Sasha was quick to recover. He and Tonin burst from the forge behind them, both wielding swords, Sasha looking murderous.
“We’re heading for the mountains!” Dree shouted to Marcus. “Stay close.”
“Yeah,” Marcus managed, trying to keep up and already feeling his sides burning with cramps. “How far are the mountains?”
“Just run!”
Marcus took a look back and saw that the two barrel-chested boys were closing in. They looked like defensive tackles. He was just turning back to Dree when his left foot hit an exposed edge in the cobblestone. Pain flared through his big toe and he went flying forward, crashing into the road and skidding along the weathered gray stones.
He groaned and rolled over onto his back.
Dree slid to a halt and turned around, cursing. Sasha was closing in fast, and she remembered his violent temper: He might just cut them both into ribbons without thinking. She sprinted back to Marcus and yanked him up, knowing that she was too late. Sasha was already lifting the broadsword before them. He looked crazed.
Dree was preparing to push Marcus out of the way when Sasha and Tonin abruptly dropped their swords, as an enormous winged shadow fell across the street. Marcus slowly turned around, feeling all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
There, swooping to a landing directly behind them, was Lourdvang.
The heat swept through Marcus again, and he took a step back, raising his hands in terror. The color drained from his cheeks. The dragon was enormous—as big as a two-story house and nothing but black scales and claws and teeth the size of Marcus’s forearm.
Lourdvang took up half the street, blocking the sun completely until his huge, membranous wings curled up onto his back. The beggars all disappeared into the shadows, shouting warnings. Marcus was tempted to join them. His knees shook.
Dree looked up in shock. “Lourdvang? What are you doing here?”
