by James Maxey
“This isn’t how you die,” she whispered. “Go rip another of these interlopers from the sky!”
She leapt from the window. The spear in her hind-talons seemed made of lead. She climbed toward the cluster of sun-dragons. A cloud of valkyries swarmed them, darting and dodging through the jets of flame. Arifiel took heart as she saw a sun-dragon stumble in the air, spinning down in a deadly spiral to the rocky shore below. Another sun-dragon had lost its rider and was now covered in flames; the burning fluid in the bladders on its back had been punctured.
Arifiel felt that if she could only draw a deep breath, she’d be able to rise above the battle and once more attack with a dive. It would be her last dive ever, she felt certain, but at least she would not die alone.
Then, the spear in her hind-talons slipped from her grasp. The stars above her spun as her path tilted downward. She’d failed to reach her target. Her wings went limp. Below her was the Nest, with its vicious thorny surface. She vowed not to close her eyes. She would face death head on, without taking the comfort of a coward.
Below her, from an open balcony, she saw a human—a tall male, unlike the petite females who’d attacked her. She tried to steer her fall toward him. She could see that the spear she had dropped had already landed on this balcony; its tip was buried into a gap in the stone. If she could land on this human with equal force, her death wouldn’t be in vain.
The man looked up at her with a placid smile as golden wings unfolded from his back. He leapt toward Arifiel. The distance between them closed in seconds. But instead of a violent collision, the man held out his arms and caught her, using his wings as a parachute to slow their fall. He hugged her against his muscular chest as he drifted back to the balcony. He placed her carefully upon her back against the cool stone.
“You’ve fought valiantly, valkyrie,” he said, in a soothing, almost musical voice. “Rest now. Victory is at hand.”
He once more spread his wings and shot skyward, drawing a sword from the scabbard on his belt. The blade glowed red, as if it had just been pulled from a forge, then burst into flame. The yellow fire glimmered against his golden wings as he hurtled toward the dragons high above.
Graxen was lost in the maze of corridors. He found himself in a room where a human male dressed in a white uniform stood over the dying body of a tattooed woman. The man’s eyes were hidden behind a visor, and his face was devoid of emotion. This wasn’t the one the angel had called Adam. It must be another of the long-wyrm riders. A sky-dragon was slumped on the floor near him.
“I got here in time to save this one,” the man reported.
Graxen nodded. He’d seen many horrors tonight, but as he’d passed through the fortress, he’d discovered more unconscious sky-dragons than dead ones. Hope wasn’t lost. His species might yet survive Blasphet’s assault. At the open window beyond the man, the night was aglow with white flames. He ran to it and looked up, trying to make sense of the chaos overhead. Bodies were falling from the heavens—-sky-dragons, wreathed in fire. Graxen watched as the seven sun-dragons still in the air shot spouts of fire from their heads, frying the valkyries who bravely rushed to defend their home. One of the sun-dragons began to plummet, trailing a white hot arc of flame. Above the falling dragon hovered Gabriel, burning bright as the sun. Gabriel was aflame—his clothes, his hair, even his skin was peeling away in the pillar of fire that engulfed him. Gabriel had obviously been the target of the dragons many times, but if the fire caused him any discomfort, Graxen couldn’t tell it. The angel remained aloft on his metallic wings, fluidly wheeling through the air to target his next opponent.
Gabriel drew his sword back to strike a sun-dragon that barreled straight toward him. He landed a decisive blow, burying his sword to the hilt in the dragon’s gaping mouth. Unfortunately, the great beast was slow to realize it was dead. The dragon closed its jaws tightly around the angel’s shoulder. It carried Gabriel forward through sheer mass, traveling a hundred yards before its body shuddered with the spasms of death. The dragon started to fall but didn’t release its death-bite on Gabriel. The angel was dragged from the air by the plummeting dragon, falling a quarter of a mile until they both vanished in the waters of the lake.
Graxen leapt from the window. There were fewer than twenty sky-dragons facing the remaining five sun-dragons. If the sun-dragons made it through this gauntlet, it wouldn’t matter that Blasphet and his cult were in retreat. The sun-dragons could gut the Nest with fire if they weren’t stopped. Blasphet could still have his victory.
Graxen scanned the shoreline for any sign of a weapon. He spotted a spear jutting upright on a nearby balcony. He swooped down and tried to grab it in mid-flight. Alas, its tip was buried so securely in the stone the jolt of tearing it loose also snatched it from his grasp. He heard it clatter against the balcony railing as he circled around to grab it once more. He landed on the railing and looked down, surprised to discover a valkyrie lying in the shadows.
“Arifiel?” he asked.
“Graxen?” she answered. Her voice trembled as if she were shivering.
“I need your spear, valkyrie,” Graxen said, grabbing her weapon from where he’d dropped it. “I promise I’ll make good use of it.”
“Why are you here, G-Graxen?” Arifiel whispered. “Are you to b-blame for this?”
Graxen swallowed hard. Was he to blame? Had his foolish desires turned him into an instrument of death? He instinctively shyed away from that line of thought. It could only lead to despair, and despair was a luxury he couldn’t afford at the moment.
He removed the satchel he always carried from his shoulder. It would only weigh him down. It still held the beaded belt he’d intended to give to Nadala. It seemed as if the momentum of events would always conspire against him presenting her the gift. He tossed the bag to Arifiel’s side.
“If you live and I do not,” said Graxen, “give Nadala this bag, and tell her I loved her.”
“L-love counts for nothing here,” Arifiel said.
“Perhaps it counts for nothing anywhere,” said Graxen, spreading his wings. “Tell her all the same.”
He didn’t wait for her answer.
With the spear in his hind-talons he climbed toward the conflict. He had seconds to study the aerial battlefield. The sun-dragons were relatively slow, but the jets of flame more than made up for that disadvantage. The flames could shoot out a hundred feet in the space of a second, and the five sun-dragons were swooping around in overlapping figure-eights. There was no part of the sky where a valkyrie could approach one dragon without being in the sight of another.
The sky above the sun-dragons was now thick with billowing clouds of gray smoke. Only the faintest hint of the moon peeked through the veil. Graxen flew wide of the combat, holding his breath against the stench as he rose through the dark cloud. Finally, he emerged into bright moonlight, far above the conflict below. He looked down to see the glow of the flame jets faintly visible through the clouds. He mentally mapped the flashes, calculating the speed and direction of each sun-dragon. When the moment was right, he released Arifiel’s spear and went into a dive, beating his wings to fall faster than the spear. He angled his body so that he burst from the clouds well ahead of a dragon who would be heading directly for him. He spread his wings to slow his fall and make himself a better target. As expected, a jet of flame shot toward him, only to flicker out at least five yards away. He’d gauged the distance well. As the flame died and the dragon flew closer, the tattooed girl astride the sun-dragon drew the bellows wide once more. Just then, the spear emerged from the cloud overhead. It landed in the back of her sun-dragon, sinking deep into the beast’s spine, puncturing the half-empty bladder behind the rider. The dragon’s wings went limp and a huge fireball grew on its back, a miniature volcano that exploded with a light brighter than the noon sun.
Amidst this blinding flash, Graxen closed his eyes and flew with all his power toward the location of his next target. His mental mapping was rewarded when he opened his eyes
and found himself mere yards from the next rider. She had turned her face away from the fireball, shielding her eyes with a raised arm. She never saw him coming as he slammed into her, knocking her from her mount. Graxen halted his momentum by grabbing the loose reins as they flapped in the air. The sun-dragon turned his head at the tug. Graxen grabbed the bellows and squeezed at the exact moment the beast’s head was perpendicular to its nearest neighbor. Suddenly, the wings of that sun-dragon were ablaze. Its rider let out a cry of alarm as the dragon tilted in the air and went into its death spiral.
Graxen jumped from the back of the sun-dragon he rode, holding the bellow handles in his hind-claws. The bellows tore loose, and Graxen beat his wings to put as much distance as possible between him and the conflagration that grew as the torn hoses sprayed burning liquid in all directions. The sun-dragon roared as it slipped into a long, slow fall.
In the space of seconds, there were only two sun-dragons left. Graxen wheeled, calculating his next attack, only to find that the valkyries had wasted no time in taking advantage of the defensive gaps in his wake. The remaining two dragons were torn apart in mid air as valkyries swarmed over them. The wings of both dragons were reduced to tatters by the vengeful females, who let out a victorious war whoop as their much larger opponents dropped toward the water far below.
Jandra frowned as she studied the molecules of the airborne toxin that sedated Hex. The smoke was a mix of many chemicals, and she found it difficult to calculate which one she needed to break. Still, as she knelt beside Hex, monitoring his pulse, she felt that neutralizing the poison might not be necessary to wake him. His pulse and blood pressure were increasing as the residual smoke faded. The simplest antidote for the poison, it seemed, was fresh air.
She went to an unburned section of the tapestries that covered the walls. She ripped it down, intending to use it as a large fan to help circulate the air. She was surprised to discover an open door beyond. The cool breeze that carried into the room inspired her. She moved to the next tapestry and yanked it down.
“S-stop,” a faint voice behind her commanded.
She looked back to discover that one of the valkyries was standing, her head swaying. The sky-dragon’s eyes narrowed as they focused on the torn tapestry in Jandra’s grasp.
“Intruder!” the dragon growled, anger giving strength to her still raspy voice. “Defiler!”
“Wait,” said Jandra. “I—”
Before she could say anything further, the valkyrie charged. Jandra dropped the tapestry and leapt sideways. The dragon landed where Jandra had stood, her teeth snapping empty air. The valkyrie wobbled on unsteady talons as she craned her neck to locate Jandra.
Jandra summoned twin balls of flames around her hands.
“I don’t want to hurt you!” she shouted.
The valkyrie didn’t share the sentiment. She pounced. Jandra again danced aside, only to trip on one of the fallen bodies. She hit the stone floor hard, wrecking her concentration. The flames around her fists vanished. She rolled to her back, sizing up her opponent, who had also stumbled upon landing. The mind-numbing drugs weren’t entirely out of the valkyrie’s system. There was no point in reasoning with her. Jandra clenched her jaw. This would be a stupid way to die, gutted by a dragon she’d come here to save. She’d killed so often in recent days, what was one more death?
Except, everyone else she’d killed had been attacking her with malice. This dragon was simply confused. Jandra willed herself invisible. She rose to her feet and moved to the side of the room as the valkyrie carefully probed the area where Jandra had last stood. Jandra remembered one of Vendevorex’s favorite tricks. She cast more dust into the air and willed it to the opposite side of the room, where it coalesced into a double of herself. The valkyrie spun to face it.
“I’m not your enemy,” Jandra said. The valkyrie twisted her body to see if someone was behind her. Jandra didn’t know how to make her voice appear to come from her double. She had her duplicate hold out its arms. The movement drew the valkyrie’s attention.
“I’m Jandra, daughter of Vendevorex, a loyal subject of Shandrazel. I’ve come to defend the Nest.”
“What’s happened?” the valkyrie asked, raising a fore-talon to stroke her brow. She looked ill as she gazed over the bodies of her fellow warriors. “How did everyone die? Why am I still alive?”
“Blasphet attacked,” said Jandra. “He’s using a smoke-borne poison that doesn’t kill outright; he’s sent his army of human servants to finish the job. I’m here to stop them. I’m not alone.”
The sky-dragon’s legs suddenly gave way and she fell to all fours. Jandra wondered if the smoke was taking effect once more.
“What have I done?” she whispered. “Metron was a tatterwing and still I led him in! How could I have been so blind?”
Jandra wasn’t certain she understood what the sky-dragon was saying. How was Metron involved in this? She only knew she had never heard so much pain in a dragon’s voice. The valkyrie closed her eyes to the horrors before her as she whispered, so faintly Jandra nearly couldn’t hear, “Oh, Graxen. What have we done?”
Chapter Twenty-Five:
Gifts of Monsters
Blasphet squeezed his massive frame down the narrow staircase and into the larger room beyond. The dank darkness reminded him of his imprisonment in the dungeon. He’d had better lighting on his journey in; he’d been surrounded by an army of torch-wielding worshippers. Fortunately, years of dwelling beneath the earth had left him with no fear of the dark. The torches and lanterns in the room above dented the gloom below, allowing him to navigate back to the tunnel with all the dripping pipes. He stumbled as he reached the water, and the splash of his movements echoed up and down the passageway.
Soon he’d left even the faint light behind, but it didn’t matter. The ancient corridor ran in a straight line. He stretched out his wings, feeling the enclosing walls, and used them for a guide as he pushed forward. He could hear nothing but the splash of his own talons above the splatter of the leaking pipes.
As he fled, Blasphet tried to make sense of what he’d witnessed. He’d been told that Vendevorex was dead. Perhaps it wasn’t true? How else could an attacker have materialized from thin air? Blasphet knew that the so-called wizard’s power was mostly illusion. Perhaps he was running from a trick of the light?
No, the crossbow bolt that had bounced against his head was real enough. Was there any other possible explanation? Blasphet stopped feeling his way down the tunnel as his mind snapped onto the most likely scenario. Vendevorex was dead, but what of the human he’d trained? The girl, Jandra? If Jandra had snuck into the room with an ally under the cover of invisibility, it could have looked as if they were stepping from thin air. Blasphet wasn’t sure what sort of creature they’d been riding, but apparently the beast had enough reptilian physiology to fall to the smoke. Was he fleeing nothing more than a boy with a crossbow and a girl with a few trick mirrors?
Blasphet gazed back toward the Nest. Again and again his grandest designs were thwarted by the meddling of others. The Free City would have been a marvelous triumph if Albekizan hadn’t interfered. Was he prepared to allow his latest scheme to be unraveled by a few youthful humans?
He shook his head. Fleeing such feeble opposition was simply… ungodlike.
Blasphet flicked away the ceramic caps that covered his poison-coated claws. As he slogged through the stagnant water back toward the dim and distant light, a voice, unseen in the gloom, whispered, “Where do you go, Murder God?”
Blasphet froze. The voice was human, male. Where had it come from? The falling water and the echoes in the tunnel made it difficult to pinpoint.
“Who’s there?” he said. His voice echoed in the tunnel. No one answered. Blasphet slowly let out his breath. Perhaps he’d imagined the voice?
Just as he was certain he was alone, the voice once more spoke: “I am the screams of innocents crushed beneath the talons of your race. I am the shadow on the stone; I am the Ghost W
ho Kills. I come this day for you, Murder God.”
“The Ghost Who… Bitterwood?” Blasphet asked, cocking his head. “The murderer of my brother?”
For a moment, only the water answered. Then a chill voice said, “You know my name.”
“I don’t know whether to curse you or thank you,” said Blasphet.
Bitterwood gave no reply.
“I despised my brother,” Blasphet continued. “I dreamed of his death. Yet, in the end, I loved the dream of killing him more than I wanted to actually watch him die. You succeeded where I failed, Ghost Who Kills. I’m in your debt.”
Again, his words were met only by silence.
“Has my gratitude left you speechless?” Blasphet asked. He took a slow, careful step forward, drawing a yard closer to the dim light at the end of the passage. “We’re much alike. We’ve transcended mere mortality: You, the avenging ghost; I, the god. We each tap a higher truth as our path to power—we know there is so much more to murder than simply ending a life.”
Blasphet paused, allowing his words to sink in.
“Did you come here in search of an enemy only to discover an admirer? Reveal yourself, Bitterwood. I would look upon the man who rid the world of Albekizan.”
At last, a reply came from the darkness. “Perhaps we aren’t so different. In the end, only one small thing divides us.”
Blasphet tilted his head, still unable to pinpoint the source of the voice. “And what would this small thing be?”
“I know where you are,” Bitterwood answered.
The words were followed by the hiss of an arrow cutting the air. Blasphet grunted as the arrow sank into the wrist bone of his left wing. He sucked in his breath through clenched teeth as he spun to face the direction the attack had come from. The arrow had flown for mere seconds. Bitterwood wasn’t so far away. He held his right fore-talon at the ready as he studied the darkness, glad he’d uncapped the poison. He thought he could discern a shape now, vaguely human, no more than twenty feet distant.
