by James Maxey
From above, valkyries cried out in surprise and anger before their voices trailed into silence.
“This has nothing to do with grudges,” said Blasphet. “Metron, as I built the Free City, you told me I used the gloss of philosophy to justify my cruelties. Your words haunted me during my recent imprisonment.”
“I’m sorry,” Metron whimpered.
“You need not apologize. You were correct. I’ve justified decades of murder by telling myself that it was an intellectual pursuit. I told myself that when all the secrets of death were unraveled, I would hold the key to unquenchable life. Now, you’ve guided me to a much simpler truth: I take pleasure in the suffering of others.”
Blasphet placed his fore-talon on Metron’s shoulder and lifted him, helping him stand once more. Metron showed no resistance; he would stand if Blasphet wished him to stand. His eyes were fixed on the floor in a look of utter defeat.
“There’s a value in discovering oneself,” said Blasphet. “The pleasure I feel in the suffering I cause is nearly sexual in nature. In retrospect, it seems obvious. Sex is pleasurable because it leads to the propagation of life. The procreative orgasm fills the body with bliss as it taps into a universal creative force. Yet, given the duality of this world, mustn’t the universe possess a counterforce? An opposite yet equal climax that results when the energy of destruction is unleashed? Just listen to the screams above us.”
Blasphet cocked his head to better hear the distant cries, his eyes wandering dreamily over the carpet of dead valkyries that covered the Thread Room.
“Never,” he said, his voice trembling with excitement, “never have I felt more divine.”
Graxen felt sickened by the Murder God’s words. He wanted to leap at the monster and claw the look of serene satisfaction from his eyes. Yet, the second he moved, he knew the Sisters of the Serpent would slay both him and Nadala. He had to do something. But what?
The Murder God’s reverie was broken by a commotion from the stairs that led up into the rest of the Nest. A Sister of the Serpent leapt down the stairs, panting loudly. She tripped on the wing of a slain valkyrie as she ran into the room, landing on her hands and knees. Breathless, she gasped out the words, “Valkyries. In the sky. Out of range.”
“How many,” asked Blasphet.
“A hundred. Maybe more.”
“I prepared for this,” said Blasphet. “Smoke and knives were never sufficient to finish the task. This is why I had a crew capture the bell tower. Run there and tell them to ring the alarm. It’s time for phase two.”
But, before the girl could run back up the steps, the bells began to ring on their own. Graxen listened to the familiar sound of the gates and grates sliding into place, sealing the Nest. The machinery groaned and grumbled in every wall.
“My,” said Blasphet. “That was fast.”
“What evil are you working now?” Metron whispered.
“You sky-dragons always seem so confident you can outfly us sun-dragons. Smug, even,” Blasphet said. “It’s time we put that assumption to the test.”
Arifiel circled the bell-tower, shouting to Sparrow.
“Why isn’t the smoke affecting you?” she cried out.
“I don’t know,” said Sparrow, sticking her neck out the gaps in the iron bars that had fallen to close the window. “It knocked out everyone else in my barracks but it only makes my eyes sting. I fought my way here to have you ring the alarm. Humans are attacking the Nest!”
“We know!” said Arifiel. “By ringing the bell, you’ve sealed the windows. You’ve trapped everyone inside!”
“Oh no!” Sparrow cried. “I didn’t mean… I was only…”
“You only did what you were trained to do,” said Arifiel. “I tried to ring the alarm myself—it’s only because I failed that you’ve sealed the fortress instead of me. You have to get to the gear room. You must reverse the gates!”
Sparrow set her jaw in an expression of determination. “You can count on me,” she said. Then, her eyes widened as she looked out over the lake.
“Sun-dragons!” she cried out, pointing with her fore-talon. “Are they coming to help?”
Arifiel looked toward the perimeter of the lake, as the dark shapes of a dozen sun-dragons flapped toward them. Perhaps they were here to help? A sun-dragon could rip open the iron gates that sealed the fortress with ease. But, in the moonlight, her keen eyes quickly spotted a strange detail. There was something on the backs of the dragons. Riders. Human riders.
“Go,” Arifiel called to Sparrow. “Open the gates.”
Sparrow gave a crisp salute and bounded down the steps. Arifiel flew back to Zorasta, who still held a position a half mile away from the Nest. She flew in a tight circle, surrounded by five or six remaining members of her flock.
“Sun-dragons!” Arifiel shouted.
“We see them,” said Zorasta. “And their riders. This is more of Blasphet’s handiwork, I wager. A clumsy gambit, at best.”
“Clumsy?”
“If we were fighting on the ground, the sun-dragons would be a force to be feared. But we fight in the sky! We are valkyries! The air is our kingdom. We’re swifter, more agile. Their size and power will be meaningless. We’ll tear their wings and send them to inglorious deaths! We need not wait for others. Green flock, attack!”
Zorasta’s brave words were matched by her speed and grace as she swiftly flew to the lead of the flock. She wore no armor, but some soldier had given her a spear. The flock fell into a V formation. There were nine valkyries in the charge, though only five had spears. Arifiel felt a sense of foreboding, though she knew that Zorasta was right. With their superior speed and maneuverability, the sky-dragons had little to fear.
Zorasta darted directly toward the lead sun-dragon, on a path that seemed as if it would lead to a nose to nose collision. It was a familiar tactic. At the last second, the flock would rise to avoid impact and then rake their spears along the larger dragon’s wings. This maneuver had been drilled into them since they were old enough to lift a spear.
Spearless, Arifiel knew she would have to rake with her hind-claws—not as effective, yet still deadly. As the distance between her and the sun-dragons narrowed, she noticed that the great beasts all wore iron helmets. Atop each helmet was a nozzle attached to a long flexible tube leading back to the human rider who straddled the dragon’s shoulders. The tubes seemed made of bovine intestine. Behind each rider was strapped a series of inflated sacks that looked like linked cow stomachs.
As Zorasta reached a distance of a hundred feet from the lead sun-dragon, with only seconds to go before she executed her attack, the woman riding the dragon squeezed a large bellows. Instantly, a jet of white flame shot from the dragon’s helmet, changing night into day with its intensity. Zorasta screamed as the flames engulfed her. Arifiel veered left, dodging the burning stream. Zorasta fell toward the lake below, still aflame, leaving behind a black plume stinking of burnt feathers.
Before the flock could react, jets of flame shot out from the other sun-dragons and the sky was crisscrossed with a deadly white hot web. Arifiel used all her strength to climb higher, above the killing zone. Below her she heard the screams of her sisters. Reaching a point where she felt she would no longer be in danger, she craned her neck downward. The sun-dragons and their riders continued to fly toward the Nest. None were harmed. In their wake, eight burning valkyries, writhing in agony, fell in spirals toward the distant water. Only Arifiel had escaped the initial assault.
Rage gripped her. No sun-dragon could ever fairly best a sky-dragon in aerial combat. They had won due to surprise and trickery. With a battle cry that caused all the riders to look upward, Arifiel pulled her wings tightly to her side and fell toward the hindmost dragon. She now knew what she faced. She had no trace of fear within her. The sky was the kingdom of the valkyrie. These invaders would pay the ultimate price for their trespass.
One irony of the Nest, Sparrow realized, was that her own home stripped her of her greatest advantag
e over her assailants—she couldn’t fly in the maze of rooms and stairways that led to the core of the island. There were a few halls long and wide enough to cover in flight, but none high enough that she could avoid the humans. They seemed to be everywhere she turned.
Fortunately, the humans mostly traveled alone or in pairs. Their mission wasn’t to overpower the dragons—the paralyzing smoke had done this. They were instead methodically moving from room to room to slit the throats of unconscious dragons.
Sparrow had lost track of time since she had sounded the alarm. Five minutes? Ten? She’d killed six humans, not counting the three in the tower. The girls she fought always looked startled at seeing her move toward them so freely. This element of surprise no doubt protected her better than armor ever could.
Sparrow moved ever deeper into the Nest, toward the gear room. To her relief, she covered the last few floors without encountering resistance. Her relief turned to dread as the silence on these floors struck her. Had the humans already killed everyone?
She rounded the final corner and discovered a cluster of seven humans standing in her way. The girls looked up, their eyes wide as Sparrow rushed them. She buried her spear in the first human and released it, leaping over the falling body to clamp her toothy jaws tightly into the throat of the girl behind her. She pulled back as that human fell, beating her wings once and rising up so that she could kick out with her hind legs, gutting a third girl. The whirlwind of violence had lasted mere seconds, but now the element of surprise was gone. The remaining four rushed her, swinging their long knives, the black blades wet with poison. Sparrow skittered back down the hall, swinging her tail to trip the closest one. The girl proved too nimble—she leapt over Sparrow’s tail and slashed with her knife. Sparrow dodged, but the girl still left a slender gash in Sparrow’s shoulder. Sparrow bit her attacker in the face, feeling the girl’s jawbone snap between her teeth.
Sparrow spat the girl away and danced backward, readying for further attack. The girl stumbled blindly, in obvious agony, falling against the woman behind her. Her knife clattered on the floor, spinning toward Sparrow’s hind-talons. Sparrow lifted the knife and threw it with a kick, burying it to the hilt in the belly of a fifth girl. Now there were only two women left on their feet. They both edged back, knives held at the ready, warily watching for any opening.
Sparrow was now unarmed. Her left wing hung limp and lifeless. The tiny wound shouldn’t be causing her to lose all feeling, should it? Yet with each heartbeat, her whole body grew increasingly weak.
“I’ve killed fourteen of your sisters tonight,” she said, in the most threatening tone she could summon. “Which of you will be the fifteenth?”
She’d hoped the girls would run. Instead, they giggled and charged her, waving their knives wildly. They looked as if death was only a game to them. Sparrow knew she was little older than these women, but the time for playing games was forever gone. With a growl, she met their charge, sinking her teeth into the shoulder of the opponent to her left, burying the claws of her right fore-talon into the breast of the enemy to her right. Both humans stabbed her, driving their knives deep into her ribs. She felt no pain. She tightened her jaws, snapping the collarbone of the girl she held in her teeth. She felt the girl go limp with pain and release her grip on the blade.
With her fore-talon, Sparrow dug deeper into her final opponent’s flesh, wriggling her claws past the cage of bone she found, probing for the lungs and heart. Streams of blood splashed on the floor beneath them as they whirled around, locked in a dance of death. The woman stubbornly refused to die, twisting her blade with all her remaining strength. Their eyes were locked. It was now a contest of will.
Sparrow fought for her home, her family, and her honor. She didn’t know what drove the woman, and didn’t care. At last, the woman’s eyes clouded and her head slowly rolled to the side. Sparrow pushed her away. The woman slipped in the gore they stood in and fell roughly to the stone. Sparrow limped past her, steadying herself with her fore-talon against the wall. Dark specks danced all around her as she fell against the oak door, pushing it open with the full weight of her body. She staggered forward, the world narrowing into a dark tunnel. At the end of the tunnel was a large, steel bar, the master release for the fortress gates.
She reached out her fore-talon as she collapsed. Her bloody claw slipped on the steel. She fell to the floor, dying, uncertain if she’d pulled the lever or not. The world went perfectly dark. The only sound she could hear was her own heartbeat, which pounded in her ears like ceremonial drums.
And then, the drums stopped.
She was trapped inside herself, frozen, fading into the great unbroken silence.
Against that backdrop of oblivion came the click, click, clang of gears as the ancient machinery once more began to turn.
Jandra stared into the rainbow where Jazz had just vanished. Presumably, Jazz was now back on earth, expecting Jandra to follow. Jandra looked around the unending gray desert. She could run. But to where? How long could she survive in this bleak and barren place, without hint of water or food?
“Ven,” she sighed. “You can’t know how badly I need to talk to you right now.”
“We both know that isn’t possible,” a familiar voice said over her shoulder. “But perhaps I’ll do?”
She turned around. Vendevorex once more stood before her, ghostly, translucent, the stars on the distant horizon shimmering in his golden eyes.
“You’re back!” she said.
“I never left,” Vendevorex said. “Or rather, this recording has never left. If you’re seeing me now, it’s no doubt because I reached my demise before we completed your training. I’ve attempted to anticipate your most likely questions about operation of the helmet and will answer them to the best of my ability.”
“Well, for one thing, the helmet isn’t a helmet any more,” said Jandra.
Vendevorex’s shade nodded. “It wouldn’t need to be. You may have noticed it adapted its shape to fit your skull as you donned it. You could shape it into many different forms and have it retain its function. The Atlanteans call such devices Global Encephalous Nanite Interaction Engines—a GENIE.”
Jandra glanced back at the rainbow. How long did she have before Jazz came back looking for her? And, what was Jazz doing to Hex and Bitterwood in her absence?
“Ven,” she said, “I have a lot of questions, but let me start with the most urgent. Do you know how to lock the, uh, genie?”
“Of course,” he said. “My skullcap and your tiara were always locked to avoid detection by others wielding Atlantean technology. I commanded the devices to unlock in the event of my demise, so that you could don my skull cap and, if you chose, pass on your tiara to an apprentice.”
Jandra grimaced at the thought of this. She’d left the palace in a hurry; her tiara had been left sitting on her dresser. Anyone could grab it. Could anyone use it?
“Fine,” she said. “So how to I relock them?”
“Simple,” he said. “Here is the twenty seven digit prime that will encrypt it to only respond to your thoughts.”
Jandra listened to the number carefully. She repeated it internally, and could almost hear something in the back of her mind click shut. She repeated it once more and returned the device the state it had been in when Jazz had last seen her. She didn’t know what lay on the other side of the portal. She wasn’t ready to spring this little surprise on the goddess until she knew where Hex and Bitterwood were.
“I wish we had more time to talk,” she said, turning toward the rainbow. “But if I don’t get back, she’s probably going to come looking for me.
“We have all the time in the world,” Vendevorex assured her, as she leapt toward the void.
Bitterwood strained against his cocoon of thick kudzu. He was twenty feet above the ground, dangling upside down from the branches of a towering cottonwood; his struggles sent down a rain of leaves, but did nothing to loosen the grip of the vines.
Nearby, Hex wa
s barely visible as a bulge beneath a thick carpet of green. His jaws were tightly wrapped by the clinging vines. The sun-dragon had made no noise for some time, but Bitterwood could tell from the rhythm of his breath that Hex was awake.
The artificial sky had, by now, fallen into a pattern of darkness. Mosquitoes crawled over Bitterwood’s leathery face and the surrounding forest vibrated with the chorus of frogs and crickets. Against this cacophony, Bitterwood almost didn’t hear the steps of the giant beast. Almost. In the end, his highly-tuned ears knew that Trisky was approaching long before she came into sight, with Adam astride her.
Adam looked sorrowful. He obviously had something on his mind as he guided his mount beneath Bitterwood. He looked up and said softly, “I’m ashamed of you, father.”
Bitterwood said nothing.
“You desecrated the temple. You attacked the goddess and her angel without provocation. I’m captain of the long-wyrm riders. I’ve dedicated my life to serving the goddess. Why would you dishonor me so?”
Bitterwood blew away a mosquito that walked on his lips. He said, “I’ve spent the last twenty years believing you were dead. Perhaps it would have been best if you were. It would cause me less pain than to know you’ve devoted your life to this evil.”
“Father,” Adam said, struggling to maintain his composure. “I would slay any other man for uttering such blasphemy. The goddess is not evil. She spared you and the dragon.”
“And what of the people of Big Lick? What of Zeeky and Jandra?”
“You cannot judge the actions of the goddess as good or evil,” Adam said. “A storm brings rain and life to a parched land, yet may drown villages; its lightning may set fields aflame. Is a storm good or evil? The actions of the goddess are beyond the power of humans to judge.”
