by James Maxey
Now that Ragnar had whipped his army into a frenzy, he gave the command for them to spread out to all four of the city gates. They divided into roughly even mobs and began flowing away through the ruins. They were a sad looking army; a few had shields, fewer still had helmets and breastplates. Many were armed with nothing more than clubs. The dragons inside the city had access to much better weapons and armor. Fortunately, earth-dragons kept roughly the same schedule as men, and most were asleep now.
As the archers waited, Pet climbed the rust heap. From his position, Pet could see the eastern gate in the distance. A half dozen earth-dragons stood guard. More accurately, a half dozen earth-dragons squatted near the wooden gate talking and passing around a ceramic jug from which they took long swigs. The night was bright, with a sky clear enough that the moon cast crisp shadows.
Suddenly, a score of those crisp shadows separated from the wall and rushed toward the guards. Men dressed in black cloaks pulled long knives that glinted as they slashed, swiftly and precisely. The earth-dragons silently vanished beneath the flapping black cloaks. For a moment, Pet was amazed by the efficiency of the attack; the way that six living beings had been brought to an instant, silent death. Unfortunately, seconds later, a howl reached his ears. One of the dragons had screamed in pain, a sharp, ear-splitting yelp that stopped in a wet gurgle. The sound had simply taken a few seconds to reach Pet.
Pet placed an arrow against his bowstring. The element of surprise was definitely gone now. These six might be the last easy kills of the night.
Ragnar apparently had become impatient with stealth anyway. His war cry reached Pet, an incoherent warble of rage that echoed from the city walls. Ragnar’s nude form was easy to spot as he raced forward, outpacing the hordes that followed him, brandishing twin scimitars as he led the charge. The black-cloaked assassins darted aside as Ragnar bounded past them. The warrior-prophet let loose another primal scream. A single earth-dragon appeared, emerging from a door that opened in the only building Pet could see from his vantage point. Ragnar buried his scimitar into the beast’s neck. The dragon fell, his head hanging by a thread of skin. Ragnar paused to kick the head free then leapt further into the city, beyond Pet’s view, as hordes of men poured over the surrounding hills and flooded through the gates.
At the bottom of the rust heap, there was a flurry of voices. Frost was approaching. His close-cropped white beard and hair stood out in the night. Pet climbed down to receive his commands. In the distance, screams of agony drifted from Dragon Forge. It was impossible to tell if the sounds were human or dragon.
“Listen closely,” Frost shouted. He had a deep voice; people said he’d once been a blacksmith, and despite his age he looked the part. He was pot-bellied and squat, but broad-shouldered, with thick arms and hands covered with white, shiny scars. “Since we got here, we’ve been working with the human gleaners. Some of their men are helping in the attack tonight, guiding us to the most valuable targets. Their wives and children have been taken to safety. Any living thing that remains in a two mile circle of Dragon Forge can be considered your enemy. The remaining gleaners are cowards. Now that the battle has started, most are probably preparing to flee the area. Our job is to see that they don’t get away.”
“We’re going to capture the gleaners?” Pet asked.
“We’re going to kill them,” said Frost. “When we take Dragon Forge, the longer we hold it before Shandrazel learns of the attack, the better. Every day that passes before the sun-dragons arrive is a day that Burke will have to make us the finest weapons any army has ever wielded. The more gleaners we silence tonight, the longer we have before the counterattack takes place.”
“I didn’t sign up to kill humans,” Pet said.
“Any true human is on our side tonight,” Frost answered. “The cowards who denied us aren’t men. They’re animal scum; they serve us better dead than alive. Anyone you meet that isn’t attacking the Forge with Ragnar is to be put to death. Any objections?”
“But, there are children—”
“There are no children tonight!” snapped Frost, with a vitriol that rivaled Ragnar at his best. “There are your brothers-at-arms, and there are vermin. Will you fight? Or will you be the first of the rats we put to death this evening?”
Pet felt hundreds of eyes turn toward him. He swallowed hard. The thing he was being asked to do possessed a cruel logic; indeed, it almost seemed a necessity. He let out a long, slow breath.
“I’ll fight,” Pet said. “Let’s do this.”
Frost snapped out orders, dividing the men into many small squads and barking out the areas they were to cleanse. Pet noticed that he wasn’t being selected for any of the groups. In the end, there was only Frost, him, and ten other men. Frost eyed him coolly and said, “They say you’re quite the archer. Tonight’s your chance to prove it. Follow me.”
Frost turned and ran away from the Free City. Pet and the others followed close behind. Soon, the clamor of the battle behind them faded. The rust mounds were eerily effective at swallowing up sounds. Suddenly, there was movement in the shadows before them. A band of tatterwings, outlaw sky-dragons, nearly thirty of them, were all moving away from the city, struggling beneath the weight of heavy sacks slung over their shoulders. Four of them strained to pull a cart laden with barrels.
“No survivors!” Frost shouted.
Instantly, Pet’s fellow squad members let their arrows fly. The tatterwings spun around as some of their members let out agonized cries and toppled over. Pet drew his bow and took aim at a sky-dragon who was staring, dumbfounded, in their direction. His eyes had a drunken quality to them. Pet had never fired a bow at a living thing before, only at immobile targets. Fortunately, the drunken, dazed tatterwing was for all practical purposes immobile. Pet released the arrow and watched as it flew in a deadly line to bury itself in the tatterwing’s belly. The dragon let out a grunt as he grabbed the arrow with both fore-talons. He took a few staggering steps, then toppled. His eyes were still open, staring straight at Pet.
Pet turned his face away and focused on placing another arrow onto the bowstring. His hands were shaking. By the time he’d readied for a second shot, his fellow archers had already unleashed arrow after arrow. There were no tatterwings left on their feet to target. Frost charged ahead, drawing a sword. The others followed, raining killing blows down upon the tatterwings that still breathed. Then they darted off into the night, in search of their next victims. Pet tarried at the scene a moment longer, looking at the contents of the cart. One of the barrels was already tapped. Pet unstopped the cork and was met with the eye-watering stench of goom, a liqueur distilled from cabbages and chilies, a favorite beverage of earth-dragons.
From some distance ahead, there were further screams—humans this time. Pet took a deep breath. He didn’t need to try to catch up to Frost and his men. He could simply claim he’d gotten lost in the action. Apparently, Frost had been swept up sufficiently in the heat of battle that he was no longer keeping a close eye on Pet. He could just hide and wait out the night.
“Coward,” he grumbled, addressing the word at himself. He’d accepted his mission. Gripping his bow more tightly, he ran toward the screams ahead.
Before he’d even gone twenty feet, he saw a form moving toward him. It looked human, coming toward him in sort of a limping half-run. The figure emerged from the shadows into the moonlight. It was a middle-aged man, dressed in a gleaner’s rags. He had an arrow jutting from his right thigh. His eyes were wide with terror. Pet raised his bow and took careful aim. The man saw the movement and gave a yelp of despair. He turned, looking for some new direction to escape. Pet released the arrow. He was aiming for the man’s torso. The arrow instead lodged in the gleaner’s neck. The gleaner was knocked from his feet, landing on his back on the hard-packed earth. His hands feebly grabbed at the arrow Pet had fired. His breath came out of him in a series of rapid, wet clicks—hic, hic, hic, hic, hic.
Pet drew the sword he’d been given by Shanna. He
inched his way toward the dying man. The gleaner’s eyes were looking toward the moon above, blind to Pet’s presence. Tears streamed down his cheeks. Pet punched his sword down with all his might into the man’s left breast. The wet clicking sound in the man’s throat fell silent.
Pet pulled the sword free and sheathed it, letting the cold night air dry the sweat that trickled down his face.
Chapter Twenty-Two:
Cogs in a Vast Machine
Arifiel was posted in the central bell tower for the midnight watch. Her duty would be to ring the enormous bell if there were any hint of attack in the middle of the night—an unlikely event given the bright moonlight. Any males who attempted to fly to the island would be spotted instantly.
Guarding the central bell was an important task, but Arifiel regarded the duty as a demotion. Since the unhappy day her unit had failed to prevent Graxen from entering the Nest, she hadn’t been assigned to any perimeter patrols. She’d had her chance at action, and she’d failed. Nadala and Sparrow hadn’t returned to patrol either. Nadala had drawn a ceremonial guard assignment—a position that required her to be a living prop to enhance Zorasta’s authority, but where she would likely never see true combat. Sparrow had fared worst of all—she was now doing administrative work in the armory, handing out weapons and armor to valkyries with duties more befitting warriors. Having been on two failed patrols, Sparrow would never again be trusted to defend the Nest.
Arifiel leaned on her long spear as she looked over the placid lake waters, so still they looked like ice. The windless night was utterly silent. Or was it? Arifiel stretched her neck out of the tower window. Had she heard someone cry out? She strained to hear the sound again. Had it been her imagination? Perhaps the call of some distant nightbird?
Just as she’d decided she’d heard nothing, a second cry came, right on the edge of hearing. But, it wasn’t coming from outside the tower. She pulled her head back inside the window and went to the steps leading down and opened the door. As the door creaked open, she heard the noise yet again—possibly. Or had it just been the squeaking hinge?
Then, unmistakably, a voice, several of them, shouting, but far too distant to make out the words. What was happening? Were some of the valkyries fighting among themselves? She rose and took the bell rope in her hands. She paused. If she rang the alarm and woke the whole island simply because a squabble had broken out, she’d be branded as unworthy of even this simple duty. The bell was for genuine emergencies. She released the rope.
A movement outside caught her eye. From the lowest level, a valkyrie had taken to the air, and was now flying in an unsteady, wobbling path. All alcohol was forbidden to female sky-dragons, but the figure below was definitely impaired by something. Arifiel winced as the dragon’s wings faltered and she fell to the bristling steel landscape. Arifiel couldn’t see the spot where she hit, but it was almost certain the impact had been fatal. The Nest wasn’t a pleasant place to fall.
Now the decision to ring the bell was easy. Arifiel turned, only to discover she was no longer alone in the tower. At the top of the stairs stood a human, a teenage female, holding a torch in one hand and a long, black blade in the other. The torch trailed a plume of blue smoke. Arifiel caught a whiff of the acrid fumes. Instantly, her vision blurred. Her legs weakened. Only by steadying herself with her spear did she remain standing. Instinctively, she clenched her jaws shut and held her breath. The girl smiled, an evil, satisfied grin that conveyed her belief she’d already won this battle. She thrust the torch forward, wreathing Arifiel in the thick fumes.
Arifiel toppled backwards, releasing her spear from her fore-talons. Yet, as she fell backwards through the open window, she grabbed the falling spear with her hind-talons, and used the momentum of her backward plummet to her advantage. As her torso fell over the window ledge, her legs flipped up. She kicked with her remaining strength, releasing the spear.
As she fell toward the jagged spires below, she felt a twinge of despair, not at her impending death, but because she fell in silence—she’d aimed her spear at the central bell in hopes of sounding the alarm, and missed. Her body was limp now, yet, as the wind rushed over her, fresh air was forced into her throat. Mere feet from the steel spikes beneath her, she spread her wings and turned her downward path into a sharp curve away from the tower. In seconds, she was out over the lake, well away from the paralyzing smoke, her strength returning. She wheeled about, eying the bell tower, devising a strategy to fly back inside, knock away her assailant, and reach for the bell rope. As she circled, she spoted other sky-dragons in the air, leaping from windows, rising from rooftops. A score of her sisters had escaped the fumes, and more were rising to safety with each second.
A large sky-dragon with a commanding voice shouted, “Valkyries! Gyre!”
Arifiel obeyed, as did the others. The gyre maneuver required the sky-dragons to gather closely around a central figure, maintaining flight paths where wing tips were separated only by inches. It was a formation adopted for rapid, in flight commands from a high officer. Arifiel finally drew close enough to recognize the dragon who had shouted the order. It was Zorasta, the matriarch’s ambassador. Did that mean Nadala was near?
By now, there were at least fifty dragons in the air. This meant that thousands were still inside the Nest, victims of the poisonous smoke. Who could be behind such an attack? Valkyries were trained to defend their home against male sky-dragons. Why would humans be attacking?
“These humans must be the same ones that attacked Shandrazel’s palace,” Zorasta shouted. “Sisters of the Serpent—they’re servants of Blasphet.”
Hearing that unholy name, Arifiel for the first time understood the extent of the danger. Servants of Blasphet wouldn’t be content with capturing the Nest. They were here to kill every living creature.
By now, the guard patrols that kept watch over the perimeter of the lake had joined in the gyre. Arifiel was glad of their company. They were armed, ready for battle, unlike most of the other sky-dragons, who had been roused from sleep.
“We may have only minutes to act,” Zorasta said. “We have to get back inside.”
“They are armed with poisonous torches,” someone said. “If we go back, we’ll succumb to the fumes.”
“Not if we act quickly,” Arifiel said. “The humans can’t know the layout of the Nest as we do. We can dive through windows holding our breath. We can only be inside for a minute, maybe less. But a minute is enough time to kill a human. We’re valkyries!”
“That’s the spirit!” shouted Zorasta. “And, as of now, it’s our plan. Split up by your flock colors. Green flock, clear the northern rooms, yellow take the south, white the east, black to the west. If you have armor and a spear, take the lead. No more than three from each flock can enter a room at a time. Always leave someone at a window to pull you out if you succumb to the fumes. If you’re unarmed, get down to the beach and get water into anything that will hold it. The torches are the real danger. Douse them, and we’ll make short work of this enemy.”
The white, black, and yellow flocks spun away in tight knots to perform their duties. Arifiel was a lifelong member of the green flock, the same flock as Zorasta.
Arifiel cast her gaze back toward the central tower. By now, they were a quarter mile away, but she could still see the light of the human’s torch in the window—only now it had been joined by two others. How many valkyries still were sleeping, unaware of the danger?
Zorasta apparently had the same thought.
“Our first priority must be to take the central bell tower and awaken sleeping valkyries” she shouted. “Who was on guard there?”
“I was,” said Arifiel.
“You abandoned your post?”
“I succumbed to the fumes and fell from the window,” said Arifiel. “The rush of wind revived me.”
“Then do your duty and get back in there!” Zorasta barked. She eyed two armed valkyries who circled near. “You and you! Aid her! Go!”
Arifiel
felt fully recovered. She set her path toward the open windows of the tower, building speed. She could see she faced three human teenage girls—no true threat for a valkyrie. The space between her and her target narrowed. She attempted not to be distracted by the movements in the windows below, as she watched guards land on windowsills and peer into the interiors. Suddenly, Arifiel realized that if she succeeded in her mission, she was going to be condemning every dragon inside to death.
She slowed her flight, allowing the two dragons who followed to pull beside her.
“We can’t ring the alarm!” she shouted.
“What?” the one to her right shouted back.
“If we ring the bell, the grates will close and seal the doors and windows. The Nest is designed to prevent an invasion from the outside. If the grates fall, we’ll turn the fortress into a prison.”
“By the bones!” the valkyrie to the left cried out. “I hadn’t thought of this!”
As one, the three of them pulled up, allowing their paths to carry them over the top of the bell tower.
“We still need to get inside,” the valkyrie beside her shouted. “I don’t know why the humans would ring the bell, but we should make sure they don’t. And, who knows? Perhaps some other valkyrie might sound the alarm by instinct, just as we nearly did.”
