Dragonforge

by James Maxey

  He felt himself relax a bit at the sight of this unspoken emotion between the two dragons. He stopped worrying about Ragnar and felt a flicker of hope. Dragon’s weren’t so unlike people. They had the same basic needs—food, clothing, shelter—and an all-consuming desire to mate. As long as he could help insure a world where those basic needs were met, perhaps it was possible for all the species to live in harmony.

  “…which brings me to my next demand,” Zorasta said. She’d been talking this whole time, Pet realized, he just hadn’t been paying attention while he was focused on reading Graxen’s body language. He suddenly wished he’d been listening, though, as Zorasta swung toward him and extended her wing in an accusatory fashion.

  “Bitterwood cannot be a representative of the humans. No dragon can know peace until this man has been brought to justice for his crimes. If these ‘talks’ are to take place at all, he must be arrested and taken to the executioner’s block without delay!”

  Blasphet, the Murder God, rested upon a giant cushion stitched together from the hides of sky-dragons. The Sisters of the Serpent demonstrated remarkable aptitude for tanning and taxidermy. The only downside was that Blasphet’s temple reeked of the tanning solutions. Huge vats of brine and urine and various tree saps gave off fumes that permeated the air.

  Perhaps another god might have taken offense that his temple had such a foul atmosphere, but Blasphet was too impressed by the ingenuity of his worshipers to judge them harshly. From the air, Blasphet’s temple was indistinguishable from the thousands of abandoned and derelict buildings scattered through the kingdom. It had been a warehouse in centuries past. Now it was almost completely buried beneath a tangle of vines and brush; there were low, gnarled dogwoods growing upon the roof. Yet, somehow, the warehouse had survived the assault of centuries of vegetation and remained mostly intact. The vast, open space within proved comfortable for a creature of his stature. The Sisters of the Serpent had painted the walls of the place black. The floor was carpeted with the hides of various beasts; even the skins of sun-dragons. His followers had been busy. Colobi, the human leader of this sect, said they had worked on the temple for some years, long before he’d been released from his first imprisonment to design the Free City. He was touched that they had shown such faith in his eventual return.

  The temple was lit by the light of a thousand candles; the scent of burning tallow mixed with the tanning fumes. In this candlelight, a score of his followers were guiding a flat-bedded wagon drawn by an ox-dog. Upon the wagon lay the immobile form of a sun-dragon. Blasphet knew him: Arvelizan, a distant cousin, and the sun-dragon charged with the administration of the territory of Riverbreak, a rather poor and unimportant domain on the edge of the Ghostlands. Arvelizan had been captured within sight of Shandrazel’s palace. He now lay paralyzed by Blasphet’s poisons, though Blasphet could see the slight rise and fall of his belly that signaled he was still alive.

  Colobi, the serpent of the first order, approached him. She was dressed in robes created from the soft leather of a sun-dragon’s wings, stained black. Her face was in shadows below a broad hood, revealing only her blood red lips and pale chin in the candlelight.

  “We have captured a live sun-dragon as you commanded, O Murder God,” Colobi said, kneeling before him. “Two sisters were killed in combat with his guards; no one who traveled with him escaped. His absence at the talks will be a mystery.”

  “Well done,” Blasphet said. “Have the sisters administer the antidote. I wish to speak to Arvelizan.”

  “At once, my Lord.”

  Arvelizan was now only a few yards away. Blasphet watched as Colobi issued her orders and one of the sisters injected the antidote into Arvelizan’s long, scaly neck using the fine tip of a hollow dagger. Moments later, the sun-dragon’s eyes opened. His deep green irises were still dilated, leaving his eyes mostly black.

  “W-where…” he whispered, still too weak to lift his head.

  “Hello Arv,” Blasphet said. “Remember me?”

  Arvelizan’s gaze drifted toward the voice. Suddenly, he jerked his head up, the motion halted by the sturdy hemp ropes that bound him to the wagon’s bed.

  “Blasphet!” he cried.

  “Here in the temple, I prefer to be addressed as Murder God,” said Blasphet. “Lord is acceptable as well. My true name is sacred, you see.”

  Arvelizan responded by increasing his struggles. His tail came free and whipped around blindly, catching one of the sisters off guard and knocking her from her feet. Other sisters leapt back and drew daggers as the ropes groaned and the wood creaked.

  “You’ll only injure yourself if you keep struggling,” said Blasphet.

  Arvelizan showed no fear of self-injury. He kicked and strained and wriggled, working slack into the ropes. Suddenly his left wing extended, now free of its bonds. Three more sisters were thrown to the ground by his struggles.

  “Colobi,” said Blasphet. “Feed him this paste.” He held out a gallon-sized iron pot. Colobi grabbed it and removed the lid. In contrast to the background stench of the room, a pleasing aroma of orange scented honey rose from the oily yellow paste within.

  Colobi grabbed the iron pot and fearlessly jumped onto the bed beside the thrashing dragon. He turned his jaws to snap at her; she crouched down inches from his teeth. She calmly slipped on a waterproof leather glove that covered her slender arm up the elbow. Arvelizan snapped his jaws again, straining harder to reach her as she dug her hand deep into the pot. The paste within was the consistency of dung; she lifted a large fistful. Arvelizan opened his jaws to attempt to bite her a third time and she flung the golden gunk toward the back of his throat. Arvelizan coughed, spraying Colobi’s black robes with flecks of yellow. She readied a second handful, then a third, tossing it with expert aim into the creature’s gullet as he strained to reach her with his teeth. Soon the sun-dragon’s entire tongue was coated in the stuff, and his saliva dripped like mustard-colored paint. His struggles slowly calmed. Colobi reached out and placed her hand upon his snout, then nudged his lower jaw open as he stared at her vacantly. She rubbed the last few scoops of paste directly onto his tongue.

  “There,” said Blasphet. “Isn’t that better?”

  Arvelizan turned toward Blasphet once more. “Yes,” he whispered.

  “Yes what?”

  “Yes, Murder God,” said Arvelizan.

  “Untie him,” Blasphet said.

  Colobi looked calm as she stood and removed her paste covered glove. She tossed it aside as the other sisters ran forward and cut away Arvelizan’s ropes.

  “Rise,” Blasphet said.

  Arvelizan stood, looking more alert than Blasphet had suspected. Save for the yellow spittle dripping from his jaws, he showed no obvious signs of having ingested the powerful drug.

  “Now bow before me,” said Blasphet.

  Arvelizan dropped to all fours, lowering his chin to touch the floor. He spread his wings like giant red carpets to his side as he pressed himself into a pose of unquestioning submission.

  “Truly, your works are mighty, O Murder God,” said Colobi, staring at the now obedient dragon.

  “I won’t deny it,” said Blasphet. “However, I’m not certain how long our friend here will be useful to us. The paste has dissociative properties; Alvelizan is obedient because his own sense of identity has been suppressed. Alas, the paste rots the brain. He’s functional now, but he’ll grow increasingly drowsy and clumsy in the coming days. Hopefully, a few days will be all we need. Take him outside and fit him with the harness. Make sure all the sisters on the sky team get a chance to practice riding. I’ll guide the kitchen in preparing more paste. I want you to select the stealthiest crew you can assemble. Soon, I’m sending you back into the belly of the beast.”

  Chapter Twelve:

  Traces of Kindness

  The valkyries lowered their spears and advanced toward Pet. He’d long suspected he’d meet his end facing a mob of vengeful females, but somehow he hadn’t seen it playing out l
ike this.

  “Halt!” Shandrazel shouted, his voice booming through the Peace Hall. “Stand down, valkyries!”

  The valkyries stopped in their tracks, looking back toward Zorasta. The valkyrie diplomat turned toward the king.

  “Bitterwood’s sins demand justice,” Zorasta said firmly. “He killed your father and your brother. Why would you taint these talks with the presence of a confessed murderer?”

  “This man did not kill my father,” said Shandrazel. “His whereabouts are well known at the time my father died.”

  “What of your brother, Bodiel? This man confessed to the crime.”

  Which was true. Pet had confessed; he’d even bragged about it. He just hadn’t actually done it. He’d confessed because the king’s army had been slaughtering the people of his home village one by one until they produced Bitterwood. He’d confessed and stopped the slaughter, partly driven by some faint flicker of courage within him, partly driven, he would admit, by a desire to finally impress Jandra. If she hadn’t been chiding him for his cowardice all day, he doubted he would have made the decision he did. Acting and deception were Pet’s innate talents; it hadn’t been that hard to play the role of hero. Still, perhaps now was a good time to come clean? Perhaps he’d calm things by claiming his confession had been a lie. Or would that only make matters worse?

  Before he could answer, Shandrazel rose from his golden cushion. He strode toward the center of the room, taking a stand in the middle of the world map. He was silent, as if gathering his thoughts as he looked down at the inlaid gemstones beneath his talons. Everyone grew quiet as they awaited his words.

  Shandrazel lifted his head. “My honored guests,” he began, in a thoughtful voice. “I’ve summoned you to this Peace Hall for a noble cause. Four intelligent species share this world.” He motioned toward the map beneath him with a sweep of his wings. “This is our common wealth. We hunt in the same forests, we drink from the same rivers. I was born to a family that viewed this land as our domain, and ours alone. Everything on this map was the property of my father; by law, it now belongs to me. The labors of humans, earth-dragons, and even sky-dragons are never truly their own. If a human planted a crop, my father could claim the harvest. If an earth-dragon smelted gold, my father could claim that treasure. Any book a biologian wrote was instantly considered the property of the king’s library. This is the history we share.”

  Pet looked around the room. Everyone stood in rapt attention at Shandrazel’s words. Even Zorasta seemed to be attentive.

  “As of this day, the book of the old world is closed,” said Shandrazel. “We in this room must turn to a new page, and write the history of a reborn world. Let them remember me as the king who brought an end to kings. After these talks, dragons and men will no longer live in a kingdom; we shall all dwell together in a Commonwealth.”

  Pet noticed that, as Shadrazel spoke, Graxen the Gray gave a nod toward the valkyrie with the teardrop scale on her cheek. The valkrie gave a subtle nod back.

  “We have a golden future ahead of us,” Shandrazel continued. “Each of us can leave the Peace Hall knowing we’ve made the world a more just place. To do this, we must free ourselves from old hatreds and grievances. I know that every race in this room has suffered in some way; I don’t wish to diminish the injustice that has occurred in the past. As of this moment, however, we must turn our eyes away from our yesterdays and face our tomorrows. To make a world that is truly free, we must release ourselves from the chains of memory.

  “Will you do this? Will you join me in drafting the future? Can I count on your hard work and dedication to ensure the birth of this Commonwealth?”

  Shandrazel’s stirring words echoed through the hall. He’d delivered the speech with a voice that rang with confidence and leadership. Pet applauded enthusiastically, his long-practiced response to any speech a sun-dragon gave. The humans around him clapped in more sullen fashion.

  Charkon and his guards slapped their gauntleted claws against their breastplates, then unleashed a single cheering syllable: “WHOOT!” which sounded to Pet like a noise of support.

  Even the biologians broke out in scattered applause.

  Only the valkyries remained stock-still. Zorasta glowered at Shandrazel with eyes that could have shattered stone.

  Pet left the Peace Hall twelve hours later. He was giving serious consideration to finding a fast horse and being far away come dawn. Shandrazel had neutralized the demand for his execution with his speech, but that was about the only positive thing accomplished with the day. Once all the representatives had arrived, the room had quickly fallen into bickering over such trivial details as which part of the room each delegation was to stand in. It wasn’t an auspicious start.

  While Pet had been the immediate beneficiary of Shandrazel’s insistence that the talks wouldn’t dwell on the past, Pet found himself disturbed by the logic. Centuries of oppression of humans were to be dismissed as no worse than the murder of a few dragons. As attractive as it was to focus on a better future, Pet couldn’t forget the things he’d witnessed in the Free City. But, was it necessary to forget? Or only to forgive? Was one the equal of the other?

  Pet climbed the stairs to the roof. He walked to the edge and looked out over the Free City, ghostly in the light of a crescent moon. The frigid night air made his lungs ache; it was crisp and clean, yet somehow it couldn’t quite remove the scent of blood and piss and muck that washed through his mind whenever he looked at the wooden palisades surrounding the Free City.

  Pet froze as he heard a loud, long sigh behind him. Turning, he saw Graxen the Gray perched on a wall on the opposite side of the roof. The sky-dragon seemed oblivious to Pet as he stared across the open courtyard toward one of the many towers that studded the palace skyline. Graxen almost looked like a statue, immobile against the backdrop of stars. Pet followed his gaze and saw a valkyrie standing at attention on a distant balcony. Suddenly, the Free City no longer loomed in his mind; Pet was ever the romantic. He couldn’t turn his attention away from a case of unrequited love.

  Pet cleared his throat, startling Graxen from his reverie. Graxen flinched, as if he’d been caught doing something embarrassing.

  “So,” Pet said, hopping onto the wall next to Graxen. From here it was a long, steep plunge into the courtyard. Luckily, Pet was immune to vertigo. “What’s her name?”

  “W-whose name?” Graxen asked.

  “The valkyrie. You know her?”

  Graxen sighed. “Nadala. In truth, I know little more than her name.”

  “I thought that sky-dragons of different sexes didn’t mingle. How’d you meet her?”

  “She tried to stop me from entering the Nest,” said Graxen. “I met her at the point of her spear.”

  “Aren’t they irresistible when they play hard to get?” Pet said with a knowing chuckle.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” said Graxen.

  “Human women don’t like to appear too easy. I assume the same is true with your females. They like to make you work to prove your interest.”

  “I fear you know nothing of sky-dragon propagation,” Graxen said. “My interest has nothing to do with mating. Desire may rule the reproductive choices of humans, but sky-dragons value their species too much to leave breeding to individual whims. Our biological destinies are determined by the matriarch and her advisors. We mate only with whom we are told to mate”

  “Where’s the fun in that?” Pet asked.

  “What does fun have to do with mating?”

  Pet felt a gulf arise between Graxen and himself that he wasn’t sure could ever be crossed. Yet, there was no mistaking the look in Graxen’s eyes. This dragon was lovesick, even if he didn’t know it.

  Pet studied the valkyrie across the way. He could see nothing remarkable about her except, perhaps, that she was standing at such diligent attention.

  “She shows a remarkable commitment to duty,” Pet said.

  “Yes,” Graxen said. “She’s guarding Zorasta.”


  “She’s probably on duty for hours. She might appreciate some company.”

  “I don’t wish to disturb her,” Graxen said.

  “You won’t disturb her. I saw the way she looked at you. She’s as fascinated by you as you are by her.”

  Graxen wrinkled his nose as if the concept disgusted him. “Valkyries are too disciplined to ever be ‘fascinated,’ especially by one such as myself. You know nothing of our ways.”

  “I saw the two of you nod to one another earlier.”

  “It was only a respectful greeting.”

  “If you fly over there, does your conversation carry any danger of turning into a session of passionate mating?”

  “What? No!” Graxen looked genuinely mortified by the suggestion.

  “That takes all the pressure off, then. You can hop over knowing all you’re going for is a polite chat. There’s no risk of anything messy. What’s the harm?”

  Graxen didn’t answer. Pet could practically hear the wheels turning in the dragon’s mind as he allowed himself to be convinced. Pet gave him one last nudge.

  “At the very least, since she’s stuck standing out here in the cold, you could ask if she’d like a cup of hot cider to fight the chill. You can bring her some from the kitchen if she says yes. It’s not flirting. It’s just being kind to a fellow dragon. It’s showing respect and appreciation for her hard work.”

  Graxen’s eyes softened. “It is cold tonight. It would be simple kindness to offer.”