by James Maxey
“You could have killed me with a single arrow,” Blasphet said, attempting to keep his voice calm. “Yet you shot my brother three times. They pulled thirteen arrows from my nephew. You take the same pleasure from the suffering as your victims as I do. You drink fear like wine.” Blasphet crouched down, the muscles in his legs coiling tightly as the nearby shadow emerged more clearly from the darkness. “I’m sorry to disappoint you. I’m a god. I shall not fear a ghost.”
Blasphet lunged for the humanoid shadow. He thrust his poisoned claw before him, burying it dead center of his target. A rotten tree branch snapped beneath his grasp. He stumbled in the water, trying not to fall. When he found his balance once more, he was left standing with only a large piece of cloth in his hand. A human’s cloak from the stink of it.
There was a splashing sound reverberating up and down the pipe. The echoes of his own attack? Or was Bitterwood moving to better target him? Suddenly, he discovered that his left leg was numb. He toppled as he lost control of the limb. A dull pain throbbed through him as he discovered an arrow jutting from his hamstring. He hadn’t even felt the arrow strike.
“Bitterwood,” said Blasphet, swallowing hard. His saliva had a metallic flavor. “Killing me is a mistake! Legends say that you seek vengeance against the dragons who killed your family. Can’t you see that I am an instrument to that end? Kill me, and you kill a single dragon. Spare me, and you guarantee the deaths of thousands.”
Blasphet pushed with his uninjured wing to a sitting position against the tunnel wall. At least the next arrow wouldn’t come from behind.
“No answer?” he asked. “My words intrigue you? We’ve killed so many, each acting alone. Think of what we could do as an alliance; ghost and god, holding the power of life and death over all.”
There was a loud splash as something heavy dropped from the pipes above. Blasphet slithered his tail beneath the water as he saw the silhouette of a man rise, several dozen yards away. If Bitterwood got close enough, Blasphet would trip him with his tail and make one last strike.
Bitterwood was clearly defined now, a black outline against the distant light. He slowly walked closer. Blasphet braced himself to attack. Then, just beyond the range of Blasphet’s tail, the shadow stopped. The Ghost Who Kills lifted his bow and took aim.
Blasphet opened his mouth to make one final appeal.
The bowstring rang out. Blasphet screeched as the arrow flashed into his open mouth, puncturing his cheek from the inside, pinning his head to the wall behind him. The agony of the arrow through his jaw muscle was astonishing. Was this white searing energy that filled him the same force that his victims had felt? If so, what a gift he had given them. As the pain washed through the recesses of his brain, it left in its wake a cleansing light that illuminated a simple, fundamental truth: It felt good to be alive. Only facing his end did Blasphet truly understand how much he cherished his existence.
It felt good to breathe. Each ragged gasp inflated his chest with damp air, bringing fresh oxygen to his hungry lungs. It felt good for his heart to beat, for the blood to race through his body with each pulse. Blasphet had long believed death to be a superior force to life. Life was merely a momentary act of resistance, while death was the ultimate champion. Ah, but what an act! What a glorious flickering moment!
Bitterwood stood before him, sword in hand.
“I won’t be quick about this,” he said.
Blasphet thought of the thirteen arrows that had been pulled from Bodiel. He recalled how the corpse of Dacorn had been found wedged into the crook of a tree, his tongue crudely hacked out. Blasphet’s courage failed him. In one last hope of remaining the master of his own destiny, Blasphet sank the poisoned claws of his right fore-talon into his thigh. The deadening effect of the poison was swift.
Bitterwood pried his jaws open. Blasphet felt the touch of a blade against his tongue. He sighed as each heartbeat carried him away, further, further, to a place where even Bitterwood could not follow.
Jandra stepped aside as Hex staggered upright. The long-wyrm beside him was also stirring, but without Adam near she didn’t know how well-behaved Trisky would be. Jandra took the tapestry she’d torn down a moment before and draped it over the long-wyrm. She covered the tapestry with silver dust and willed the fibers to reweave themselves. In seconds she’d created a makeshift straightjacket and muzzle for the long-wyrm. She’d apologize to Adam later if he objected to this treatment of his mount.
Hex stretched to fight off the effects of the poison. He winced as he smacked his head against the ceiling. Hex lowered his neck, his eyes wide open. He looked around the room. “What hit me?”
“Blasphet,” said Jandra. “Poison gas. Bitterwood has gone off to catch him.”
“Alone?” Hex asked.
“Yes,” said Jandra.
“That’s the last we’ll see of Bitterwood, then,” said Hex.
“I was thinking it would be the last we saw of Blasphet,” said Jandra.
“Bitterwood is an impressive warrior for a human,” said Hex. “But in Blasphet, he’s met his match. My uncle didn’t earn the title Murder God lightly.”
“You sound oddly proud of this,” said Jandra.
Hex shrugged. “Pride isn’t the correct word. However, I do respect him. Like me, he lost his contest of succession. Yet he didn’t fade from the world as I nearly did. Instead, he became a figure even more notorious than my father. History may long remember him after it has forgotten my father’s name.”
Jandra was bothered by Hex’s confident tone. Had she been wrong in letting Bitterwood chase Blasphet alone? On the other hand, how could she have stopped him?
She said, “Maybe we should…”
Her voice trailed off. There was something coming down the stairs. The chiming sound reminded her of Gabriel’s wings. She drew back as a metallic skeleton stepped into the room. The steely bones were powered by a complex array of moist-looking bags that served as muscles. The machine possessed golden wings, though their color was dulled by a layer of soot. The skull’s eyes were disturbingly human set in their lidless sockets.
“Don’t be alarmed,” the skeleton said. Its jaws moved, but the words seemed to come from somewhere within its rib cage. “It is I, Gabriel. The battle is won. The sun-dragons have been defeated; the poisoned torches have all been extinguished. The revived valkyries now search the Nest for any surviving assassins.” Gabriel moved forward, toward the rainbow arc. As he moved, Jandra found her mind once more filling with memories not her own. She could recall building the synthetic creature before her, and a counterpart, the prophet Hezekiah.
Her borrowed memory merged with her genuine memory as she remembered where she’d heard the name Jasmine Robertson before. It had been the name given by Hezekiah as his creator when Vendevorex had interrogated him.
“In the Free City, I fought a man named Hezekiah,” she said. “Are you the same sort of creature? He nearly killed me.”
“I cannot be blamed for the actions my brother,” said Gabriel. “Jazz gave us life centuries ago. I was to bring worshipers to the fold of the goddess; Hezekiah was to spread the old faith, and denounce the goddess as the devil.”
“Why would she want a competing religion?” Hex asked, puzzled.
“To keep humans divided,” said Jandra, tapping into Jazz’s memories. “To ensure that they would never unite to reclaim their former glory.”
“Correct. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m in need of new skin,” said Gabriel. With a flash of golden wings, he jumped through the rainbow and was gone.
“Should we follow him?” Hex asked.
“Not yet,” said Jandra. “The battle may be over, but the work isn’t. There may be wounded dragons I can assist. One of us should go after Bitterwood. See if he needs any help with Blasphet.”
“I need no one’s help.” Bitterwood grumbled as he stepped into the Thread Room once more. His clothes were covered in blood. He was carrying a big gray lump of torn meat in his left hand. Ja
ndra’s stomach turned and she looked away from the gory sight.
“What on earth are you carrying?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.
“Dinner,” said Bitterwood. “I cut out his tongue.”
“By the bones,” Jandra said, unable to look at him. “Why would you do something so barbaric?”
“Tongues are easy meat,” Bitterwood said. “No bones, no fur. A bit chewy, but I’ve developed an appetite for them.”
Jandra remembered the shock she’d felt watching Hex devour a human’s head. Somehow, realizing that Bitterwood ate the tongues of his victims seemed far more disturbing.
“You defeated Blasphet?” Hex asked.
“Yes. Yet another of your relatives. You and Shandrazel are the only blood kin of Albekizan remaining.”
“Why are you taunting him?” Jandra snapped.
“Because you told me I couldn’t kill him,” said Bitterwood, coolly. “I’m going back to the cavern now. I’m going to rescue Zeeky.”
“Wait and we’ll come with you,” said Jandra. “I have a surprise in store for the goddess when I see her again.”
“I don’t need either of you to help,” Bitterwood said. “I’ve already killed one god today.”
With this, Bitterwood stepped into the rainbow gate and vanished.
“Are all your friends this charming?” Hex asked.
“I’m not certain I have any friends,” said Jandra. Her shoulders sagged. For all her powers, all her control over matter and light, the simplest human connections continued to elude her. Jazz’s earlier accusation that she was only a confused and lonely little girl now lay heavy on her heart.
Hex’s demeanor changed. His eyes softened as he reached out a fore-talon and placed it on her shoulder. “I hope I’m not being presumptuous in saying this, but I consider myself your friend. I haven’t known you long, but I admire your bravery, your intelligence, and your decency. I said what I said in anger. Please understand: I don’t trust Bitterwood. I believe he’s deranged. But if you wish to go after him, I’ll stand by your side.”
Jandra nodded, feeling choked. She swallowed to regain control of her voice. “Thank you, Hex. I do need to go back; not to help him, but to help Zeeky. Jazz is too dangerous to—”
“Who’s Jazz?” Hex asked.
“Oh. That’s the real name of the goddess. Only, she’s not a goddess. She’s just a human like me, using many of the same tricks I use. She’s just better at them. But I’m learning fast.”
“Earlier, when the wyrm-rider knocked your helmet free, you seemed to lose your powers,” said Hex. “I’d assumed you needed it to use your magic, but I see you no longer wear it.”
“Actually, I still have it,” Jandra said, lifting the hair at the back of her neck. “Jazz reconfigured it to make it less obvious. Which makes me think she’s probably wearing something similar. It’s called a genie. If we can take her genie away, Jazz will be powerless.”
“If you plan to fight this goddess, I shall stand by your side.”
“Thank you,” she said, wrapping her fingers around Hex’s talon and giving it a squeeze “Before we go back, though, we should make sure we’ve done all we can do here. We need to make sure Adam’s okay, then get him down here before I set his mount loose.”
“If we’re going to fight the goddess, should we be helping Adam?” Hex asked.
Jandra ran her fingers through her hair. “Good question. But, Adam hasn’t done anything hostile toward us yet. My gut instinct is to treat him fairly for now. Who knows? Perhaps he’ll turn out to be a friend after all.”
Blasphet opened his eyes. His body felt distant. Someone was standing before him, carrying a lantern, but his eyes wouldn’t focus. His wing fell limp as the mysterious blurred shape pulled free the arrow that pierced it. The being then moved closer to his head. Blasphet could now see it was one of the sisters. Colobi?
She pulled free the arrow that pierced Blasphet’s cheek. Blasphet slumped, and the woman caught his head on her shoulders.
“Your ruse worked, O Murder God,” she said. “You trusted me with the knowledge that, should you ever face execution, you would simulate death by dosing yourself with your own poison. Your faith in me was not in vain. I found you in time to administer the antidote.”
“Uuuuuhh,” Blasphet groaned, feeling a haunting absence in his mouth.
“Bitterwood would have done far worse to you if he’d thought you were still alive,” Colobi said. “You’ll survive this, my Lord. I’ll restore you to health. For now, we must flee. The invasion of the Nest wasn’t completely successful. It’s only a matter of time before the valkyries search these tunnels.”
Blasphet nodded. He could barely feel his hind-talons as Colobi helped him rise. She handed him a valkyrie spear to use as a staff so that he could support himself on his injured hamstring. Colobi stayed beneath his wing as she guided him further down the dark tunnel. Together, they limped away from the Nest.
Blasphet’s throat ached as his lungs sucked in the damp air. He could hear his heart pounding with the effort of motion, feel his pulse pressing against the back of his eyes. He’d never felt such misery. Every step reminded him he’d escaped the embrace of death to once more endure the agony of being alive.
Alive.
He chuckled at the thought. His tongueless laugh was an eerie sound that caused Colobi to shudder beneath his wing.
Alive.
Oh, Bitterwood, he mused, his first fully conscious thought since waking. What a pathway to glory you have opened.
After he left Burke, Pet had run into a pair of earth-dragons fleeing Dragon Forge. Pet had killed them, but in the heat of battle he’d lost his bearings. After running more than a mile away from the fortress, he’d finally reoriented himself on a tall hill. Now, he raced through the maze of rusting ruins surrounding Dragon Forge toward the southern gate. A small canal ran along the southern road to the nearby river, the outflow of the fortress gutters and sewers. In the smoky moonlight, Pet couldn’t help but notice that the water in the canal ran dark red.
The southern gate was wide open and undefended. If any earth-dragons wanted to escape via this route, Pet saw nothing to stop them. Hopefully, anyone fleeing the fort would run into Frost and his men. Pet ran through the gates and quickly discovered that escape simply hadn’t been an option for most residents. Everywhere he looked, he saw slain earth-dragons. More than a few of Ragnar’s men were among the dead as well. In the distance, toward the center of town, he could still hear the shouts of combat. He ran toward the noise, his bow at the ready.
At last, he reached the battle. Here at the heart of Dragon Forge, beside a large building belching smoke into the sky from its great chimney, the toughest warriors of the earth-dragons had rallied. A hundred heavily-armored earth-dragons had circled, swinging battle axes that sent human limbs flying with each chop. The hundred dragons were better armed, better armored, and better trained than the men they faced. The only strategy of the humans was to charge the earth-dragons in waves. The dragons were killing five men for every dragon that fell, but the dragons were outnumbered ten to one. Pet climbed atop a rain barrel to see over the heads of his fellow humans and began to let his arrows fly into the center of the circled dragons. Amidst the chaotic action, he wasn’t certain if his shots were finding any weak points in the dragons’ armor, but still he fired. Through sheer overwhelming force the dragons were falling; one hundred became ninety, became eighty, became fifty, and at last a tipping point was passed. The bodies of the slain dragons became a mountain that the attackers had to climb to reach their remaining foes.
Rising atop this mountain of flesh was Ragnar, his beard and hair caked with gore, his body a network of cuts and gashes. He fought with twin scimitars, his eyes flashing with holy fury as he hacked at every dragon that climbed up the mound toward him. The dragons seemed to understand that killing him was their last hope of holding the city. They kept climbing up, and only the slipperiness of the slope and Ragnar’s superi
or position were keeping him alive. Ragnar slashed savagely at two dragons who climbed before him, but seemed unaware of a third to his back. Pet drew his bow and took careful aim. The dragon was partially blocked by Ragnar. If he was off by inches, he’d kill the prophet instead of the dragon. He imagined the arrow sticking out of the dragon’s throat, in the gap between its breast-plate and its helmet. He let the arrow fly.
He didn’t even see it hit, but the dragon suddenly toppled backwards. Ragnar was safe. Again and again, Pet placed the arrows in his quiver against the bowstring and imagined a dragon dying.
Moments later, his quiver was empty and the battle was over. The armored dragons who’d made the final stand were dead. Ragnar’s men spread out, going from door to door, hunting for any dragons who might still be cowering within.
Ragnar fell to his knees atop the mountain of corpses. At first, Pet thought the hairy man he was succumbing to his wounds. The prophet instead pressed his palms together and closed his eyes, giving thanks to his unseen Lord for the victory they had achieved this night.
Pet joined with a small band of warriors who kicked in the door of a nearby house and barged within. It was some sort of mess hall, with rows of tables and chairs that the warriors knocked over as they searched for more victims. The air took on the cabbage and chili stench of goom as someone smashed a barrel at the back of the room. Pet had never been able to stomach the stuff, so this was no great loss.
Pet found stairs leading down into a cellar. He discovered a small lantern next to the stairs, the wick showing only the barest blue flame. He let the wick out until it glowed brightly, then headed down the steps. He had a fantasy that he would find a well-stocked wine cellar below; sun-dragons were fond of wine, so perhaps earth-dragons kept it around as well. After the events of the night, Pet had a powerful thirst.
