Dragonforge

by James Maxey

  Still, there was an atmosphere of optimism about the palace. The red and gold flags that served as the banner of Albekizan fluttered everywhere. Earth-dragon guards in crimson uniforms stood at each door, and above the towers of the palace the brilliant blue figures of the aerial guard could be seen. The aerial guard were those rare male sky-dragons who had chosen lives of combat over scholarship. Graxen himself had wished to join the guard when he was younger. He’d trained his body to endure the hardship of combat, and his childhood as an outcast had toughened him for a life of constant vigilance. Yet, his letters of application to the commander of the guard had never been returned. No matter. As messenger of the king, his life at last had purpose.

  The one dark spot on the landscape of this historic day was a literal one—the Burning Grounds, the blackened funeral field still smoking with the pyres of the previous night. Many noble dragons who had valiantly given all in the battle of the Free City still awaited the ceremonial cremations. All winged dragons were due this honor; it would be a long time before any hint of grass returned to that charred field.

  Beyond the Burning Grounds, almost hidden by the long shadow of the palace, stood the Free City itself, the cause of much of the recent trouble. This city had been built as a trap for humankind. Albekizan had promised a life of luxury and ease to its chosen residents, a reward, it was said, for their faithful service. In truth, the city had been designed by Albekizan’s demented brother, Blasphet, to serve as an abattoir. Albekizan had authorized the genocide in order to produce a definitive end to the legendary dragon-hunter Bitterwood. Of course, in the end, Albekizan had underestimated the humans; on the day the residents were to be massacred, a rebellion had spread. What was to be a day of human slaughter turned into a day of human victory.

  The Free City was empty now. Graxen wondered what would become of it. It seemed pointless to tear down the structure after so much wealth and effort had been expended to construct it. The Free City could house thousands of people. Perhaps humans would one day settle there peacefully, if they could overlook its sinister origins.

  Graxen’s reverie ended as he passed over the palace walls. He tilted his body toward a balcony, angling his wings to slow his descent. He gracefully lit on the balcony then walked into the marble-tiled hall beyond. The murmur of voices told him many of Shandrazel’s guests had already arrived.

  This was the Peace Hall. Albekizan had always referred to it as the war room, but Shandrazel had renamed the chamber as a sign of his intentions. Yet, despite the room's new name, its history still hung on the walls. Tapestries depicted a dozen scenes of Albekizan’s conquests. Even the floor of the room was inlaid with a map fifty feet long showing the entirety of Albekizan’s kingdom, laid out in precious metals and polished stones of exotic colors.

  Groups had gathered in the four corners of the chamber. Four enormous sun-dragons leaned in closely with one another in conference in the corner nearest the balcony. Graxen knew them all as dragons he’d personally summoned. In the opposite corner, a crowd of humans stood. Graxen recognized a few: the mayor of Richmond was noteworthy for being unusually squat and round, and the mayor of Bilge he remembered due to the fact he only had one arm. Few of the other humans looked familiar. Graxen prided himself on his eye for details and his excellent memory, but he still had difficulty telling one human from another. It wasn’t that they all looked alike, rather, there was too much variance. It was impossible to catalogue all the countless configurations of the human form. Adult sky-dragons varied little in color and size; adult human came in hundreds of shades of tan, and could vary in height by several feet and weight by hundreds of pounds. Their faces were an equally exasperating mish-mash—some hairy, some hairless, some with hair on their scalp and none on their cheeks and jaw, some with the pattern reversed. And that hair could come in an array of colors: white, black, gray, orange, brown, and gold, each in dozens of shades and mixtures.

  With a fellow dragon, there were only a few simple identifying cues: the bumps of the snout; the curve of the jaw; subtle variations in the shape of the eyes; the way that no two sky-dragons scale patterns were ever exactly alike. A sky-dragon face instantly triggered recognition as the mind filtered through the logical system of organizing who was who by these differences. With humans, most identities were drowned out by the cacophony of possible features.

  As he mused on identity, Graxen cast a glance toward a third cluster of gathered guests—sky-dragons like himself, all male—the biologians, the scholar-priests that guided the intellectual life of the kingdom. A few cast glances toward him with suspicious eyes. Graxen felt a sense of shame. Did the dismissive attitude he felt toward humans mirror the feelings the biologians had about him? Too different to ever be worth the effort of knowing? No biologian ever studied his face for his identifying features. He was forever marked as "other." Something deep in the brains of sky-dragons would never accept him as a fellow member of the species.

  In the final corner of the room sat Shandrazel, resting upon a throne pedestal topped with a large golden pillow. The young king looked quite noble: his red scales freshly groomed, golden rings decorating the edges of his wings. Before him stood Androkom, the high biologian. Androkom wasn’t much older than Graxen. It was odd to see a dragon of his youth wearing the green sashes that denoted such important rank. Androkom’s most notable feature, however, was his lack of a tail; he’d lost most of the appendage after an encounter with Blasphet. Normally, sky-dragons placed great emphasis on physical perfection; the worst punishment any sky-dragon could face was to become a tatterwing. Graxen wondered if having an amputee dragon holding such high rank might lead to greater acceptance of deformities among sky-dragons.

  Graxen approached as Shandrazel and Androkom quietly conferred. The king glanced up as he neared.

  “Welcome, Graxen,” Shandrazel said. “Thank you for your work in summoning everyone. They day is still young, but already many of the guests have arrived. However, I won’t need your services today. You’ve worked hard these past weeks. You should take today to rest. Tomorrow as well.”

  “History will unfold here today,” Graxen said. “I can think of no other place I’d rather be.”

  “Understood,” said Androkom, sounding impatient. “However, you can’t stay here. The talks must remain closed. Everyone who isn’t a representative of their race must leave the chamber.”

  Graxen looked toward Shandrazel. The sun-dragon looked apologetic as he said, “He’s right, I’m afraid. You can remain while the guests arrive, but I must request that you leave when the discussions begin.”

  Graxen nodded. He could see the logic of having the talks be private, but there was still something condescending about Androkom’s emphasis on the words “representative of their race.” Graxen looked around the room. If he couldn’t remain, he still might play one small role in helping the talks succeed. The historic tapestries on the wall may have been effectively invisible to Shandrazel; no doubt he’d seen them his whole life, and paid little attention to their contents.

  “Before I leave, may I assist in removing the tapestries?” he offered.

  “Why?” asked Shadrazel.

  Graxen motioned with his gaze to a tapestry behind Shandrazel’s left shoulder. It showed a young Albekizan with a human body crushed in his jaws and a severed human head hanging in his left fore-talon. The glorified dragon stood upon a mountain of dead men.

  “It hardly seems fair to the humans to negotiate a new government under such a reminder of the power of dragons,” Graxen said.

  “I understand your concerns,” Shandrazel said, contemplating the image. “However, I value truth above all other virtues. My father was known for his blind spots. He acted as if Hex had never been born. He claimed that the map inlaid on the floor showed the entirety of the world when it actually only shows the narrow sliver he conquered. My father erased history as it suited his needs; I prefer to let the evidence of the past stand. Perhaps these glorifications of violence will
inspire us to greater fairness.”

  Graxen thought this highly unlikely. He said, “But what if the humans—”

  “The tapestries will stay, Graxen,” Shandrazel said. “There’s no point in arguing with me. You know that during my time at the College of Spires, I never lost a debate.”

  Graxen himself had witnessed many of these debates. Did Shandrazel truly believe he’d always won due to his superior intellect? Was he blind to the fact that he owed his victories to being Albekizan’s son more than to any special gift for logic?

  “Of course, sire,” said Graxen.

  He glanced once more at the growing crowd of humans, wondering what their thoughts on the matter were. He took note of a tall young man with long blonde hair dressed in silk finery—he’d seen this human before, often in the company of Shandrazel. It was the one Albekizan had labeled as Bitterwood. Perhaps Shandrazel was right about Albekizan’s blindness to truth. The man was obviously too young to be the source of the original Bitterwood legend.

  The young Bitterwood was leaning in close to talk to a shorter man. The second man was bald save for a few whispery gray hairs, and sported a long braided mustache. In contrast to the robust form of Bitterwood, the man was stooped and thin, supporting himself with the help of a gnarled stave. Watching the two whisper to each other, Graxen was struck by a possibility. What if the older man were the original Bitterwood?

  “I’m glad to see you again,” Pet said, keeping his voice low as he leaned in to confer with Kamon. Kamon was a prophet from the town of Winding Rock. His people had been among the first brought to the Free City. Kamon was well known throughout the kingdom; for decades he had preached a philosophy of subservience to dragons, telling men they must not take up arms until the arrival of a nameless “savior.” Kamonism was a popular philosophy. It promised better days coming, without requiring any immediate action on the parts of his followers.

  Kamon nodded. “It was my duty to answer this call. For over half a century I’ve preached of the day when men would be free. I’m glad I lived long enough to see this day.”

  “You certainly had a loyal following in the Free City,” said Pet. “Speaking of loyal followings, any idea where Ragnar is?”

  Ragnar and his men had been the most ferocious fighters in the battle of the Free City. Pet owed his survival to Kamon and Ragnar. Both were genuine leaders, while Pet knew, deep down, he was a fraud. People believed him to be a fearsome dragon-slayer. In truth, even during the heavy fighting of the Free City, he’d never so much as scratched a dragon.

  Kamon lowered his eyes at the mention of Ragnar. His lips trembled as if he was about to speak, but after several long seconds the old prophet merely shook his head.

  “You don’t know?” Pet asked.

  “The most accurate answer is, yes, I don’t know,” Kamon said.

  “What’s a less accurate answer?”

  “All I’ve heard are rumors. It may amount to nothing.”

  “I’ve always listened to rumors,” said Pet. “What’s going on?”

  Kamon’s voice fell to a whisper that Pet strained to hear. Kamon’s breath smelled like sour milk as Pet leaned closer. “After the fall of the Free City, many of the captives returned to their homes. But I’ve heard that some of the men have formed a small army led by Ragnar.”

  “Small army? How small?”

  “A few hundred. Perhaps a thousand at most.”

  Pet silently contemplated the news. Maybe this wasn’t so bad. One right that was going to be discussed was the right for humans to assemble militias to defend themselves. Just because Ragnar had an army didn’t mean he planned to go out and kill a bunch of dragons.

  “According to rumor,” Kamon said, so close now his mustache touched Pet’s cheek, “Ragnar plans to capture the Dragon Forge and kill all the dragons within it.”

  “I see,” Pet said neutrally. He kept his face impassive as various scenarios boiled in his mind. Ragnar would launch a war and lose, showing humans to be both hostile and weak. Or, Ragnar would win, showing humans to be hostile and dangerous. Neither was a good position for negotiating peace. Pet thought of informing Shandrazel of the rumor and possibly halting Ragnar’s army before it did real harm. Yet, on a gut level, this felt wrong. He’d be dead if not for Ragnar. He couldn’t just betray him. Where was Jandra when he needed her? She was the one with the brains. Not to mention an actual sense of right and wrong. Pet’s moral compass normally steered him toward the path of least resistance. He wasn’t entirely without his limits; having been the victim of torture, he’d had no trouble standing up to Androkom when he’d suggested torturing the captured assassin. Right now, however, he didn’t know what to do, so he decided to do nothing.

  Before he could confer further with Kamon, the doors of the Peace Hall swung open and six earth-dragons marched in, clanking and clunking as they advanced toward Shandrazel. Most earth-dragon soldiers wore light armor, but these were arrayed head to tail in elaborate steel exoskeletons, the individual pieces polished to a mirror finish that reflected the room's vivid colors. The earth-dragons snapped to a halt before Shandrazel. They saluted crisply and, in unison, removed their helmets.

  Pet couldn’t help but stare at the one in the center. The dragon’s face was horribly disfigured, with a crack in his beak large enough that Pet could see his tongue even with his mouth closed. All that remained of the eye above this gash was a horrible tumor of scars.

  “My lord Shandrazel,” the earth-dragon said, his voice deep and authoritative, with a slightly wet whistling noise from his injured beak. “I am Charkon, commander of the Dragon Forge, a loyal servant of your father for sixty years. I’ve received your summons and am here to serve you.”

  “Thank you, esteemed guest,” Shandrazel said. “Though, it is not your service I seek today, but your wisdom and counsel.”

  “Sire,” Charkon said, “my wisdom comes from my service. For an earth-dragon, there is no greater purpose than to devote his life to the will of his superiors.”

  “I do not like the word ‘superiors,’” said Shandrazel. “It implies that your race is an inferior one; these talks are to promote the equality of all races.”

  “Yes, sire. So I’ve heard. Let me be blunt: We earth-dragons aren’t the equals of sun-dragons. You winged dragons see the world from up high. You’re dreamers and planners and leaders because of your elevated view. We earth-dragons are simple creatures. We think of little in life beyond what we will eat next. We seldom ponder the world outside our immediate grasp. Our greatest joy comes from hitting things. We make fine soldiers and blacksmiths; we have no gift for politics.”

  “The eloquence of your words argues differently, noble Charkon,” said Shandrazel.

  Charkon started to answer, but his voice was drowned out by a flapping of wings. Pet looked toward the balcony to find a small army of sky-dragons alighting on the marble rail. Pet instantly recognized them as valkyries. He’d never actually been in the presence of these fabled female warriors, but as a performer he knew the ballads that sung their praises, and the valkyries had been popular subjects of the painting and sculptures at Chakthalla’s castle.

  The valkyries quickly fell into formation behind the tallest of the sky-dragons. Their armor and spears glinted in the warm morning light. The tallest valkyrie was unarmed and unarmored, but something about her eyes told Pet she was the most dangerous of the group. Her claws seemed especially sharp as they clacked upon the marble on her march across the room.

  “Sire,” she said, in a short, clipped syllable. Unlike the deferential Charkon, this valkrye showed no hint of submissiveness or even respect as she stared into Shandrazel’s face. “I am Zorasta, commander of the valkyrie legion, the matriarch’s appointed representative for these so-called ‘talks.’”

  “So-called?” asked Shandrazel, sounding somewhat taken aback by Zorasta’s forcefulness. “I assure you these talks are genuine. I hope that all of us working together will be able to form a more perfect union.
”

  “Sire, you’re still quite young,” Zorasta said in a condescending tone. “You’ve led a sheltered life. The biologians who educated you have failed you, filling your mind with unhealthy philosophies. I’ve been sent to bring you back to the sane and rational path.”

  Shandrazel wrinkled his brow, looking quite bewildered by the aggressive manner of a creature half his size.

  Kamon cast a sidelong glance at Pet and whispered, “This is their diplomat?”

  “At least the talks aren’t going to be boring,” said Pet.

  Pet looked at Androkom, trying to judge his reaction, since he was one of the biologians most responsible for Shandrazel’s “unhealthy philosophies.” The new high biologian didn’t look all that worried. Indeed, while dragons could neither smile nor frown, there was a tilt to Androkom’s head and a gleam in his eye that told Pet he was amused by Zorasta’s attitude.

  But the thing that really caught Pet’s eye was the sky-dragon standing behind Androkom—Graxen the Gray. Graxen’s eyes were positively starry as he cast his gaze at Zorasta. No, not Zorasta. Graxen was focused on a different valkyrie, the one standing behind the right shoulder of the diplomat. At first, Pet couldn’t spot anything particularly unusual about this sky-dragon, who stood stone-still, a living prop to symbolize Zorasta’s authority. However, Pet had finely tuned instincts for spotting sexual attraction. There was a flicker in the valkyrie’s eye, a slight change in her breathing, that told Pet that she was fully aware of Graxen’s presence. Did the two know each other? Or was this some kind of love at first sight thing? Pet was an expert in human romance and knew more than he wanted to about sun-dragon affairs, but he had no clue what would stoke the flames of passion for sky-dragons.