by James Maxey
Pet fumbled to place another arrow against the string. The calmness that had filled him so completely was now gone, replaced by the trembling certainty that he’d just doomed the city.
Then, a strange thing happened. A few of the dragons stumbled and fell, and others tumbled and tripped over them. Others who avoided colliding with fellow soldiers began to weave in drunken circles. A thick, oily smoke drifted through the city streets as Shanna and the men she commanded poured buckets of blue oil onto bonfires. Ragnar’s men surged from the doorways of the buildings, bringing a swift end to these drunken dragons. Yet for every dragon they slew, two more poured through the gate. Not all seemed affected by the smoke. Perhaps the open air didn’t allow the poison to spread evenly through the city, or perhaps the thick-headed earth-dragons possessed members of their race who simply were too dumb to be poisoned. Whatever the cause, Ragnar’s men soon found themselves being pushed back toward the open city square.
Chaos was again spreading along the walls. Some archers began firing into the city, while other aimed outside the walls. Pet looked up and found the dark shapes of sun-dragons once more on the horizon. It was time to bring order to the chaos.
“Sky-wall!” he shouted running up and down the walls. “Sky-wall, man your positions! Grab whatever arrows you can find and get ready for the next wave! Hurry!”
To his amazement, the men obeyed. He eyed the distant dragons. There were fewer than twenty. Where were the rest? If Shanna was right, there should still be over a hundred. Was this all that was left of the sun-dragons who would obey Shandrazel? Was the psychological element of the sky-wall working as Burke had predicted?
Behind him, he heard a loud, mechanical whistle. Breaking his own order to watch the sky, he looked toward the courtyard. A cloud of steam shot into the air as the whistle sounded once more. There was a loud clattering like the wheels of a thousand wagons. Into the courtyard rolled a human figure twenty-feet tall. It was a man made of iron, with buckskin-wrapped legs set on giant rolling treads as long as it was tall that propelled it forward with a rapid lurching gait. The giant had an angry, demonic, iron visage, and a headdress hanging down his back made from red and blue dragon feathers. The giant man brandished a long iron war club as it advanced and let loose another shriek of steam.
“Ah,” said Pet. “So that’s Big Chief.”
Burke the Machinist sat in the area where the giant’s crotch should be, in a wire cage that protected him from most blows but allowed him a wide field of vision. He was operating a series of wheels and levers that controlled Big Chief’s treads, while Anza sat in a similar cage at the giant’s throat, pulling levers that controlled the giant’s arms. Its left arm swung the war-club, easily seven feet long and as thick as a fence post. A lone earth-dragon stood near Big Chief, staring up, its turtle-mouth agape. The giant club came down on the stunned dragon like a sledgehammer on a watermelon.
The huge iron boiler on the treads behind Big Chief whistled in the aftermath, belching steam, giving the giant life by powering the chains and pulleys that drove it. Anza flipped a switch and flames shot out Big Chief’s eyes as she turned his head toward a crowd of earth-dragons pushing toward the square. The mouth of the demonic face opened and let fly a dozen of the razor disks that Pet had seen demonstrated in the initial invasion. The green hides of the earth-dragons suddenly sported horrid red stripes.
As a wave, the earth dragons turned and ran, leaving behind only a few stragglers.
No, not stragglers.
Warriors. The earth-dragons left behind wore gleaming armor and carried broad axes that cut a swathe through the humans around them. Pet recognized the dragon at the center of this band, and knew that Burke was in for a fight.
“Charkon,” he whispered.
The zings of the sky-wall bows rang out and he turned away. He had his own job to do. The rest was up to Burke.
Chapter Thirty:
Stomach for Brutality
Big Chief lurched and shuddered as Burke pushed it in its second forward gear and rolled into the square. The mob of earth-dragons all turned toward the noise as he pulled the steam whistle. Their beaks dropped in astonishment as flames shot from the giant machine’s eyes. At his back, the falling snow sizzled as it vaporized against the boiler. Anza released a round of the razor disks; the ratchets and springs firing in sequence sounded like music. There were probably five hundred earth-dragons in the square—at least half of them turned tail and ran as Big Chief lumbered forward on its treads. Even though most of the components for the steam giant had been assembled over the years in his basement back at the tavern, until this moment he’d worried that building Big Chief had been a foolish waste of time and resources. But as the earth-dragons stampeded, he felt his devotion to the machine had been worthwhile. The fact that darts weren’t raining down on everyone in sight told him the sky-wall bows had worked as well. It looked as if they’d survived the initial assault. Now all they had to do was clean up stragglers, clear the streets of dragon corpses, and prepare for the inevitable siege.
In his confidence, Burke didn’t notice the human head hurtling through the air toward him until it clanged against the wire cage and splattered him with blood. The jolt of adrenaline that surged through him completely changed his view of the battle. Yes, most earth-dragons were running from the square. But so, too, were many of Ragnar’s men. Was Big Chief frightening them as well? Or was something worse hidden in the square behind the crush of bodies?
A second head flew up in the air, then a third, a fourth, a fifth, until it looked like a demented juggling act. The crowd between himself and the source of the flying heads parted as men fled. At last he had a good view of the problem.
“Charkon,” he muttered.
The earth-dragon leader and his five bodyguards advanced in a tight circle, protecting each other’s backs, spinning through the human warriors like a giant killing wheel, Their axes slashed out, cutting down anything in their path. Burke found himself in grudging admiration of the choreography and teamwork the six warriors displayed. They were fighting with years of experience, the finest weapons and armor the dragons had ever produced, and sheer superhuman power. Earth-dragon muscles grew denser as they aged. Charkon was twenty years stronger than when they’d last met. Burke was twenty years older.
And Burke had spent those twenty years designing this machine for exactly this moment.
“Okay Anza,” Burke said. “Chew them.”
The giant tilted its head and Burke listened with great satisfaction to the precise clockwork click zzizz, click zzizz as the razor disks shot from their cartridge. Anza handled the disk shooter better than he’d ever managed. Each one sliced through the air straight toward its target, a testament to Burke’s precision craftsmanship and Anza’s steady aim. Unfortunately, Charkon’s elite armor proved to be of an even superior craftsmanship. The disks snapped and ricocheted from his breast plate in a shower of sparks. The wildly careening shards cut into the human warriors nearby, biting into bone.
Anza stopped firing. Burke could tell from the clanking of chains that she was resetting the war club to strike. Burke shifted gears and spun the guide wheel to swing Big Chief into a better attack position. The ancient, hard-packed earth of Dragon Forge was the perfect surface for Big Chief. Not even the snow was slowing it down.
Charkon gazed up at the approaching giant. Suddenly, the elder dragon broke ranks with his fellows and leapt forward. Anza swung the war club. Charkon raised his massive shield and took the blow. The shudder of the impact knocked Burke’s spectacles free. He caught them against his chest. Slipping them back on, he found that Charkon’s shield had been shattered by the blow—but Charkon himself seemed unharmed.
Charkon tossed the fragments of his shield aside before Anza could raise the club again. Dropping his axe, Charkon grabbed the iron club in his gauntleted claws. He twisted the weapon with all his strength, grunting loudly. Big Chief’s arm groaned and creaked from the stress. The wrist joint explod
ed as Charkon tore the weapon free. Shrapnel rattled off the mesh cage surrounding Burke. Big Chief’s arm fell limp, the shoulder ratchets completely stripped.
“Kanati!” Charkon screamed, his voice given a metallic, cymbal-like quality by his helmet. He retrieved his axe and brandished it with both hands, launching into a charge. The arc of the swinging axe would slice directly into Big Chief’s crotch. Burke was fairly certain that the wire mesh wasn’t going to offer much protection. Then, to the surprise of both Burke and Charkon, the Big Chief’s left arm swung down and struck Charkon on the blind side of his helmet, knocking him from his feet with a loud whang! Charkon hit the ground hard as his dented helmet bounced away.
Big Chief, unfortunately, took the blow as badly as Charkon. Burke struggled to keep the giant upright as vibrations tested every bolt in the machine. Shrill whistles of steam cried out at his back as the boiler sprung numerous tiny leaks. Above, Anza ground gears as she tried to command the arm to rise once more, before Charkon could get back on his feet. The arm lifted barely a yard before freezing. Burke winced as cables throughout Big Chief’s arm snapped.
Charkon rolled to his belly, looking dazed. Burke saw one last chance. He jammed Big Chief to maximum speed and steered straight toward Charkon, hoping to crush him beneath the treads.
Charkon rose to his knees, facing the giant as it rolled toward him. His thick claws reached out to retrieve his fallen axe. He threw the gore-encrusted weapon parallel the ground, the blade spinning in an uneven orbit, until it buried itself between the tread and the grooved wheels it rolled on. With a jolt, Big Chief’s left leg ground to a halt. Burke kicked the right leg out of gear before they toppled.
Behind Charkon, Burke noticed that Ragnar was now leading the fight against the remaining earth-dragons. Ragnar almost flew as he leapt up, swinging his scimitars with such force they bit easily into his foes' seemingly invincible armor. When the earth-dragons returned the attack, Ragnar, naked and nimble, simply hopped away from their blows.
Burke sighed. He’d lived his life dedicated to the premise that preparation and inventiveness were of greater value than blind faith and naked savagery. Why did he believe anything at all when the world seemed intent on proving him wrong almost daily?
Burke was snapped from his philosophical musing as Charkon climbed onto the treads and stepped toward the wire cage. Burke was strapped into a leather harness, barely able to move. His little bubble of safety was now his death chamber.
“Kanati!” Charkon growled as he sank his claws into the mesh. “You should have learned your lesson twenty years ago!”
With a grunt, he tore the mesh aside.
“Humans are weak!” Charkon shouted, reaching in to take Burke by the throat. “Dragons are strong!”
To prove his point, Charkon yanked Burke from the remnants of the cage, snapping the leather straps that held Burke in position. Burke was certain his right thighbone fractured as it pulled free of the harness. However, since his whole leg was completely numb, he wouldn’t know until he put weight on it.
“This feeble rebellion was a fool’s dream!” Charkon snarled. His single eye was full of scorn. “They said the man who took my eye was clever! But a clever man would have stayed in hiding! A clever man would know there isn’t a chance mankind will ever best the dragons!”
Above, there was the rattling sound of a harness being unfastened. Burke struggled with both hands to try to open Charkon’s claws even a fraction of an inch, so he could breathe.
Charkon chuckled and squeezed even tighter.
“Go on, clever man,” he taunted. “Give me one reason mankind has for hope!”
Burke twisted his chin upward as heard the creak of the cage door swinging open above. The movement of his chin created a tiny passageway for air. His words escaped in a barely audible whisper: “We… don’t… eat… our… young!”
Anza dropped from the sky, her sword extended. The tip landed atop Charkon’s skull with her full weight driving it. The finest blade Burke had ever crafted lanced into Charkon’s head, sinking to the hilt. Anza somersaulted away, landing on her feet. If Burke knew anything about earth-dragon anatomy, the tip of her sword was now resting in the center of Charkon’s liver. The earth-dragon’s eye rolled up in its socket and his grip slackened.
Burke dropped to the ground, remaining on his feet for a full three seconds before he toppled over in agony. Ah, yes. Right femur, definitely broken. He hit the ground hard, blood speckling the white snow before him. His spectacles landed nearby with the unpleasant tinkle made by dancing shards of broken glass.
He could no longer see anything but blurs beyond the length of his arm. Ragnar’s men were cheering. From people shouting back and forth, he surmised that the last of the earth-dragons had been slain, and Shandrazel’s army was in full retreat. Mankind had won this day. Perhaps, if his internal bleeding didn’t finish him off, he’d give out a cheer of his own when he woke up.
For now, he settled on allowing the ghost of a grin to flicker across his lips. He closed his eyes as the sound of cheering faded. He was only barely aware of Anza’s hands on his face, increasingly lost to all sensation but the cool and gentle kisses of snow flakes melting on his cheeks.
Jandra clung tightly as Hex glided across the snowscape. The winter storm had stopped midday, leaving the world draped with a blanket of white. It was such a peaceful scene, it almost made her forget they were flying toward a war zone.
After they’d made the long trek through the underground to escape Jazz’s kingdom, she’d convinced Hex to return to the Nest. Bitterwood had refused to accompany them. He’d remained behind with Zeeky and Jeremiah, saying the children should not be left to face the world alone, despite Zeeky’s insistence that she wasn’t alone… her parents still spoke to her through the crystal ball.
Upon returning to the Nest, they’d learned of the invasion of Dragon Forge, and of Shandrazel’s plan to retake the fort. Now they were heading for the town, or, rather, for Shandrazel’s encampment.
Jandra felt introspective. The world below her seemed sculpted from cotton, a soft world with soft edges. The only unpleasant thing about the scene was the stench—even unseen in the distance, the foundries of Dragon Forge filled the air with their fumes.
“Bodies are being burnt,” Hex said as he smelled the smoke. “I expect we’ll find that Shandrazel has already retaken the forge.”
Jandra suspected that’s what they’d find as well.
“That will be one less problem to worry about then,” said Jandra. “When I left the palace, I had three big worries: who took Vendevorex’s corpse, where could I find Bitterwood and Zeeky, and what was Blasphet up to?”
“Now you know the answers to two out of three of these. This isn’t so bad.”
“But I still have two missing bodies to worry about. Since they didn’t find Blasphet’s body, I think the Sisters of the Serpent must have taken it. Are they planning to worship his corpse?”
“I don’t know much about religions, but could even humans be so irrational as to worship a disfigured corpse?”
“Maybe. And since Ven’s body vanished around the same time that Blasphet’s worshippers were freeing him, I can’t help but think there’s some connection. Since we never did learn the location of Blasphet’s temple, that’s going to be the second item on my list of problems to tackle after we make sure this Dragon Forge situation is under control.”
“What’s the first item?”
“My old tiara,” said Jandra. “It’s still sitting unguarded and unlocked back in the palace. I’d hate for it to wind up in the wrong hands.”
“We won’t tarry long at Dragon Forge,” said Hex. “Shandrazel may not be a warrior by nature, but he’s certainly smart enough to squash a human uprising on his own.”
Jandra frowned. Something about Hex’s tone made it seem like he felt that humans were naturally less intelligent than dragons. “Don’t underestimate mankind. One thing that Jazz’s implanted memories hav
e shown me is that men didn’t wind up in subservience to dragons overnight. Humans might have ruled the world if Jazz hadn’t been actively working to cripple them. If she hadn’t killed everyone who knew how to make gunpowder, for instance, the world would no doubt look very different.”
“What’s gunpowder?” Hex asked.
Jandra furrowed her brow at the question. She was frequently beset by these moments of cryptomnesia. Odd bits of knowledge flashed through her awareness as her brain endeavored to catalogue Jazz’s forced memories.
“I’m not sure,” she said, as Hex flapped his wings to lift them higher. The winter wind bit into her bare cheeks. The cold helped pull her back into here and now; she had fallen too easily into daydreams since Jazz had altered her mind. “It’s so frustrating. It’s like parts of my brain aren’t talking to each other. I know that Jazz thought that gunpowder was dangerous, and spent centuries killing any human who knew how to make it. I have another memory of what it looks like and the chemical formulation. But these memories are just hanging there, disconnected. I’m not even certain what a gun is, or why you’d want to powder one! I have no idea if it would change the world or not.”
Hex’s shoulders stiffened ever so slightly as Jandra spoke. She’d grown quite sensitive to his reactions as she’d ridden him. She could sense his emotions in the subtle movements of his muscles beneath her thighs.
“What?” she asked.
Hex started to speak, then stopped.
“What?” she asked again.
“If an individual is nothing more than the sum of their memories, what will happen if Jazz’s memories ever fully take root within you? Will you become her?”
“That’s crazy,” Jandra said. “I still have my own memories. I’m still Vendevorex’s daughter first and foremost. I’m not going to forget that.”
