by James Maxey
“Are you an Atlantean?” Jandra asked.
“Lord no.” The goddess rolled her eyes as if it was an absurd suggestion. “I’m the exact opposite of an Atlantean. An anti-Atlantean, if you will. I crippled the damn city when it first came to earth. If the Atlanteans ever figured out how badly I screwed them I’ll be the one who ends up as a skid mark in underspace. I’ll be… You don’ t have a clue what I’m talking about, do you?”
“I confess, I’m having a difficult time following what you’re saying. Your accent is odd to me. And you really expect me to believe you’re a thousand years old? And you kept the human race alive to grow tobacco?”
“1174, with a birthday just around the corner. The candles on the cake will be seen from Mars. Just kidding. About the cake. God, you have the glassiest expression when I’m talking over your head. You should work on that. Make your default listening face kind of a grin. Seriously, you’ve got good teeth for a girl living in an era without dentistry. Show them off.”
The goddess walked closer to her again. Jandra started to back away, but found herself paralyzed. She couldn’t move a muscle as the green-haired woman came to within a few inches of her.
“Know what I’m doing?” the goddess asked.
Jandra couldn’t speak.
“Oh, sorry, let me give you back your jaw.”
Jandra’s mouth returned to her control. “Why can’t I move?” she asked.
“You haven’t put any locks on your genie, sweety,” the woman said, reaching out and rapping Jandra’s helmet with her knuckles. “You really don’t know how to use this thing at all, do you?”
“I’ve survived this far,” Jandra said, straining to even wiggle her fingers. The same tingling sensation inside her skull she’d felt fighting the statue returned, only now a hundred times as intense.
“For starters, wearing it as a helmet isn’t terribly flattering. You have nice hair. Don’t hide half of it.” The goddess ran her fingers through Jandra’s locks. Jandra’s head felt suddenly lighter. The helmet seemed to be melting off her scalp and dribbling down her spine.
“Reconfiguring it to run along your spinal column will make you modestly faster and stronger,” the goddess said. “The real benefit is appearance, though. You have a lovely face; this will let people see more of it. I like the natural, no make-up look. Fresh and healthy, almost virginal. Still, you could benefit from a little tarting up. Lower the neckline on that fancy blouse of yours. Show some cleavage and you could make men stupid.”
At the mention of the word cleavage, Jandra couldn’t help but think of Pet.
“The men in my life are stupid enough, thank you,” she said.
“Heh,” the goddess chuckled. Suddenly Jandra felt free to move again. “Yeah, a thousand years of evolution has really improved the brains of dragons, but I can’t tell a damn bit of difference in men. Of course, humans haven’t benefited from my benevolent intervention like the dragons have.”
“Now you’re claiming to have created dragons?” said Jandra, feeling her hair. Her helmet was gone; only a few thin fingers of metal ran along her scalp beneath her hair line. The rest of the metal had turned flexible and clung to the back of her neck, trailing down to the tip of her spine beneath her clothing. She again felt her senses altering ever so slightly. What had the goddess done to her?
“I didn’t create the dragons. I just tweak them from time to time. When Atlantis triggered the great collapse, there were only a few dozen dragons around. My friends and I helped them survive those rough early years. Then the sky-dragons diverged from the sun-dragons and started that brilliant eugenics program. Following the ninth plague of the humans, the dragon population really exploded. After that, the earth-dragons showed up and… You following this, honey? Am I talking too fast? Maybe you should start taking notes?”
The goddess shuffled through the papers on her desk. Jandra spotted a sketch of a long-wyrm with a cryptic note penciled in the margin—mutagenic expression of multiple limbs. The goddess found a sheet of blank paper and held it out to Jandra, along with a pencil.
Jandra shook her head. She’d had her fill of note-taking under her tutelage of Vendevorex. “I didn’t know there was going to be a quiz,” she said.
Over the goddess’s shoulder, Jandra noticed that Bitterwood and Hex had been joined by a tall man in dark clothing, and a smaller, blonde figure. Zeeky?
“So,” said the goddess, “I want you to understand something. Your genie? Since it’s unlocked, I could wiggle my fingers and it would crumble into dust. I’ll completely destroy your mojo if you mess with my toys again. We clear on that?”
“I understand you. I think,” said Jandra. Was genie another name for the helmet? She could only guess what a mojo might be. Despite the unfamiliar words, she was certain she understood the main point. Now, she had her own terms to deliver. “I don’t care what you tell Adam or anyone else about your powers. If you want to pretend to be a god, fine. However, I don’t want you to make any further claims of godhood to Hex, Bitterwood, or Zeeky. They’re my friends, and under my protection.”
The goddess took one last drag off her cigarette, her eyes fixed on Jandra in a cool calculating stare. She stubbed the remnant of the cylinder out in a ceramic plate that sat on the edge of the table. Her expression remained inscrutable for a moment, then, suddenly, she smiled.
“You’ve got balls. I like that. I have a feeling we can be friends.” The goddess leaned forward and held out her hand. “Put her there, Jandra Dragonsdaughter.”
Jandra was unfamiliar with the gesture, but instinctively extended her own open hand. The goddess grasped it, palm against palm, and gave her arm a vigorous shake.
“I can use a girl like you on my team,” the goddess said. “Welcome aboard.”
“Oh,” said Jandra, who had been unaware she was being recruited to a team.
“It’s Jazz, by the way,” said the goddess.
“What’s jazz? By what way?”
“My name,” the goddess said. “My real name is Jasmine Robertson, but all my buddies call me Jazz. At least they do before I get tired and kill them.”
Jandra let go of Jazz’s hand, not sure what to say.
“You gotta work on that glassy-eyed thing,” Jazz said. “Seriously, even if you don’t get the jokes, a grin’s going to make you look a lot smarter.”
Jandra started to tell Jazz that she was growing tired of her insults. Then, she decided to play along, and grinned.
“If I’m on your team,” said Jandra, “I’d like some further answers. You said you knew Vendevorex? Did you give him his helmet?”
“No,” said Jazz. “If I had, I’d certainly have taught him to lock it.”
“But, you watch the palace, right?” Her eyes were on the picture showing Shandrazel consulting with Androkom. “And you’ve been doing it for a long time? You saw me living there?”
“Sure,” said Jazz.
“Did you see me when I was just a baby? Do you know who my parents were?”
“Not really. I watched Vendevorex kill them, but never cared to learn their names. I was more interested in how a dragon had come to possess such a fancy toy. Man, he was so clumsy with it back then. I thought for sure he’d kill himself.”
“Oh,” said Jandra. “Then, you don’t know anything about my family?”
“I see where you’re going with this. Sure, I know a little something. Not everyone died that night. You have an older brother who escaped.”
“Really? What’s his name? Is he still alive?”
“How the hell would I know? I don’t follow the lives of every last living being. I just follow the major players. Sorry, kid. All I can tell you is he’s at least twelve years older than you, and he looked a lot like you with the hair and eyes.”
Jandra tried to imagine what her older brother must look like. The task was nearly impossible; there were simply too many men in the world with brown hair and brown eyes.
So, she had a second questi
on. “What did you do to Zeeky’s family?”
Jazz met her gaze with a cryptic smile. The air took on an odd energy. Jandra looked around to find another of the rainbows she’d traveled through floating behind her.
Before she knew what was happening, Jazz gave her a rough shove with both hands against the small of her back. Jandra stumbled toward the rainbow, and again the world went black.
Chapter Nineteen:
Prodigal Son
It was mid-day when Shanna and Lin drew their horses to a halt in front of a small farmhouse. Pet slid down from the horse he shared with Shanna while Lin went into the farmhouse to secure fresh mounts. This was their second change of horses in twelve hours. Pet didn’t know how far they were planning to travel; the girls proved frustratingly tight-lipped as to their destination or the reason for the frantic pace they kept.
As the horses they’d ridden for the last six hours wandered over to a nearby trough, Pet joined them, dropping down to his hands and knees to take a long drink of the icy water. Its chill freshness helped him overlook the horse drool streaming into the trough. The light was such that his face was dimly reflected in the water; he was grateful the image wasn’t sharper. He could see that both his eyes were ringed with black circles from his broken nose. The knot on his brow looked as if someone had shoved a hen’s egg under his skin. His lower lip was split and purple, pulling his mouth into a permanent pout. Fortunately, his right nostril had opened up a few hours earlier. While he’d been breathing through his mouth, the air had made his missing teeth ache. With his mouth closed, the pain was tolerable if he didn’t smile or frown or move or think.
Soon, they were astride fresh horses.
“Tell the others you lost sight of me during our escape,” Shanna said to Lin. “It may be some time before I can return to the temple. Inform Colobi that the pigeon made it safely to the roost.”
Lin nodded and spun her horse to ride off on a dirt path that intersected the road they had traveled. Shanna spurred her horse into a rapid trot heading in a direction Pet was pretty sure was west. Geography hadn’t been a subject he’d had any use for. He dimly recalled learning that the sun sat in the west, but never before in his life had that knowledge been of any importance. In truth, he cared little what his destination might be. All that was important now was that he was putting miles between himself and Shandrazel.
Pet wrapped his arms tightly around Shanna as she pressed her horse into a faster pace. He leaned his right cheek on her shoulders; it was the least damaged surface on his face. Her dragon-wing cloak was soft, the dark leather warm. He closed his eyes, grateful for at least this small comfort.
It was the following morning, and their fourth horse, when they arrived at the edges of a human encampment. The countryside was full of rolling hills and forests; it seemed that with each hill they’d pass over, he would spot more and more tents. Were these refugees from the Free City? Certainly these couldn’t all be worshippers of Blasphet. Pet had no flare for math, but it seemed like the humans here must number in the thousands.
If Blasphet did have an army of thousands, so be it. Pet had never been passionate about anything in his life. His philosophy had been simple—if you desired a life of comfort, follow the path of greatest comfort. Yet, during his journey, he’d spent a great deal of time thinking that comfort might not be the most worthy goal. The true Bitterwood, who he’d met once before, had dedicated his life to revenge. At the time, Pet had thought the old man was insane. Now, with his swollen, scabbed-over face sagging from his skull, Pet was starting to appreciate the value of vengeance.
If Blasphet placed a poison dagger in his hand and ordered him back to the castle, Pet suspected he would accept the mission. All his life, he’d allowed sun-dragons to shape him into the man they wanted him to be. Intentionally or not, Shandrazel had shaped him into a man with murder in his heart.
Shanna guided their horse toward the largest of the tents. Pet recognized it instantly and shuddered—it was the tent that had once belonged to Kanst, Albekizan’s cousin and general of the king’s army. It was a tent he’d slept in many nights after he’d been taken prisoner.
“What’s going on?” he asked as Shanna halted before the tent flaps. “This is Kanst’s tent.”
“Not since Vendevorex killed Kanst,” said Shanna, dismounting. “After the Free City fell, our leader appropriated supply wagons used by Albekizan’s armies. They were already packed up neatly outside the gates of the Free City. The Lord himself placed these supplies into our hands.”
Pet again glanced around at the city of tents. “I’m surprised that so many humans associate themselves with Blasphet after what he intended to do in the Free City.”
“Our association with Blasphet is a matter of strategic importance,” said Shanna. “It’s all part of our leader’s master plan.”
Pet felt confused. Shanna was talking about the leader as if he were someone different than Blasphet. “I though Blasphet was your leader.”
“So does Blasphet,” said Shanna. “But the truth isn’t so simple.”
“Then Blasphet isn’t who we’ve ridden out here to see? Just who is this leader of yours?”
As he spoke, the flaps of the tent pushed outward. A pleasant smell was released by the movement, an aroma like corncakes frying in bacon grease. Suddenly, a tall, naked, wild-haired man stepped from the tent. Pet recognized him instantly.
“Ragnar!” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“The Lord’s work,” said Ragnar, eying Pet skeptically. “Do I know you?”
“Yes,” said Pet. “I was at the Free City, on the platform. Albekizan accused me of being Bitterwood. You helped free me.”
Ragnar studied Pet’s face. Slowly, recognition dawned in his eyes. “It looks as if you’ve fallen on hard times. I take it this is your reward for negotiating with the great serpent?”
Pet swung his legs over the saddle and dropped to the ground. His inner thighs felt blistered and raw as he walked toward the naked prophet. If he never sat on a horse again, it would be fine by him.
“Negotiations can only get you so far,” said Pet. He drew up next to the hairy prophet and met his gaze, unflinching. At this distance, the smell of cornbread was no longer the dominant odor in the area. Ragnar hadn’t bathed since the Free City, apparently.
Yet it was Ragnar who wrinkled his nose as Pet leaned near him, as if Pet smelled rank. No doubt he did. Between the dried blood, the foulness he’d laid in back in the dungeon, and more than a day of constant horseback riding, he was in no position to judge anyone for their odor.
“If you’re building an army to fight Shandrazel,” Pet said, “Consider me your newest recruit.”
“Kamon reported the talks devolved into chaos from the first hour,” said Ragnar. “I’m not surprised by your change of heart.”
“Kamon?” said Pet. “He’s here?”
“No,” said Ragnar. “He remains at the palace. He serves as my eyes and ears there, just as Shanna, Lin, and others serve me within the temple of the Murder God.”
“Then the Sisters of the Serpent aren’t really devotees of Blasphet? You’re the guiding force behind them?”
“No,” said Shanna. “The core of the Sisterhood is composed of actual devotees of the Murder God. Colobi, the Serpent of the first order, truly believes the dragon to be a supernatural being.”
Ragnar said, “Even before the Free City, however, I’d planted my followers within the ranks of the cult. I’d long planned to free Blasphet.”
“What? Why?”
“Blasphet is far more dangerous to dragons than to men. I’d hoped he would rid us of Albekizan if we freed him. Now, it looks as if he will still be of use.”
Shanna added, “The Sisters draw their members from among the poorest, most wretched women in the kingdom. Women who have lost all hope. I was recruited from a camp of refugees from the Free City. But my true loyalty will always lie with Ragnar.”
“This sounds like a v
ery dangerous game,” said Pet. “Blasphet sends his followers on suicide missions. Even if he likes you, associating with him is a good way to die.”
“My followers' faith is their shield,” said Ragnar. “There is no true danger in this world. Life only begins after you’re free of your mortal body.”
Pet nodded, though he had no clue what Ragnar was talking about.
“Kamon said you intended to attack Dragon Forge?”
“Soon. We’re waiting for the right moment to attack.”
“I have some potentially useful information,” said Pet. “The boss of Dragon Forge, Charkon, was just appointed general. He seemed worried about the danger to Dragon Forge with Blasphet on the loose. It wouldn’t surprise me if he sends reinforcements to the Forge any day now. For all I know, they’ve already left.”
“This is useful to know,” said Ragnar. “However, we cannot attack the Forge prematurely.” Ragnar lifted the flap of his tent. The smell of breakfast wafted through the air. For the first time since his beating, Pet felt the stirring of appetite.
“Come in,” Ragnar said, motioning for Pet and Shanna to follow. “Your arrival is well timed. We’ve cooked a breakfast fit to welcome a prodigal son.”
The flight back to the abandoned tower was a slow and difficult one. Metron obviously could no longer fly alone. Graxen found the option of walking back unacceptable. So, they’d developed a system where Metron would cling to Graxen’s back in flight. Few dragons would have been strong enough to carry the weight, or graceful enough to remain balanced with a fidgeting burden pressed against their back. Yet, in many ways, it was as if Graxen had been training his whole life for this flight. The endurance he’d developed serving Shandrazel now gave him the stamina to carry Metron for many miles before requiring rest.
They could have flown even faster if not for the Prime Codex of Pleasure. The leather-bound tome was indeed an illustrated manual of acts of erotic love between sun-dragons. It had been drawn on the scale of sun-dragons as well; the pages were a yard high. The book weighed almost as much as Metron did; Graxen carried it strapped to his chest to balance the weight on his back.
