by James Maxey
The matriarch shook her head.
“Blasphet and his cult took so many of your sisters, Nadala,” said the matriarch. “This island has seen enough death.”
Graxen was confused. Was this a trick? The matriarch seemed incapable of mercy. Yet, there was no trick apparent as two valkyries approached and released them from the chains that bound them. The iron links rattled as the valkyries carried them away.
“Fly now,” said the matriarch, turning. “Darken these shores with your shadows no longer.”
As she said this, the valkyries who’d unchained them gave them harsh shoves. Graxen toppled toward the spikes below. His limbs were numb from confinement. He felt weak; he’d been given no food during his entire imprisonment. Yet, he instinctively spread his wings. The wind caught his feather-scales, and he pulled from his descent.
Nadala continued to fall. His heart raced as she drew ever closer to the spikes. Then, at last, she opened her wings and veered away from death by impalement, following him out across the lake.
Beyond the water’s edge, Graxen landed in the bare branches of a tall tree. The perch swayed as Nadala joined him. She looked forlorn.
“She should have killed us,” she whispered.
Graxen took her fore-talon into his own.
“Would our deaths have undone the tragedy?” he asked softly. “I’m surprised by her decision, but my mother is right. There’s been enough death. We’ve been given the chance to live.”
“We’ve been banished,” said Nadala. “I’ll never again see my sisters. I’ll never again see my home. Nothing lies before us but the unknown.”
“Not only the unknown,” said Graxen. “We have each other.”
Nadala met his eyes, looking lost.
“Graxen, why did we do such an insane thing? Why did we throw all caution to the wind? Is that love? Is it love that rips the world asunder? If so, I no longer know if I want any part of it. We’re banished to journey beyond the mountains. It’s for the best if we do not make this journey together.”
Graxen shook his head. “I don’t know. You may be right. I haven’t made the clearest decisions since I met you.”
“If love strips us of reason, maybe the old ways were correct,” said Nadala. “Perhaps love can only lead to ruin. The first matriarchs were wise to remove it from the breeding process.”
“Perhaps,” said Graxen. “When I first visited the Nest, I was driven from its shores hungry and thirsty, without hint of hospitality. You followed me, gave me food. That’s still a cherished memory; it gives me hope for the essential goodness of the world. Isn’t that love as well?”
“That wasn’t love, Graxen,” she said. “That was only… only kindness.”
“Then perhaps kindness will be enough to sustain us as we journey over the mountains,” he said. “If you’ll accept my kindness, I pledge to do all I can to help you survive in that strange land to which we must journey.”
Nadala let her fore-talon drop from his grasp. She looked down to the forest floor. A chilly winter breeze stirred the fringes on her neck. She shivered, looking lost in thought. She glanced back in the direction of the Nest. Suddenly, her body stiffened.
Graxen followed her gaze and found a squad of valkyries coming toward them. Some were wearing armor and carrying spears. Graxen and Nadala were naked—perhaps they could outfly them. Unfortunately, they were also half-starved, with bodies and wills weakened by days chained in solitary cells. These valkyries were no doubt at the peak of health.
Except, as they drew nearer, it became obvious that the lead valkyrie was injured. Arifiel led the squad, unarmored, her shoulders covered in bandages. She flew slowly, in obvious pain, yet the other valkyries controlled their speed to stay behind her.
The valkyries reached them and Arifiel landed in the same tree that Graxen and Nadala rested in. The other valkyries found perches in neighboring trees. Graxen looked around, expecting to find icy, hostile stares. Yet, instead of scorn, these valkyries had a different emotion in their eyes. Graxen was hard-pressed to interpret it. He noted that Arifiel wasn’t the only one among them who wore bandages. Several had bare, raw spots on their wings where feather-scales had been burned away.
“Nadala. Graxen,” said Arifiel. “The matriarch doesn’t know of my mission here. You’ve been sent into the world unarmed, without food, without even a blanket to shelter you from the cold at night. We’ve come to rectify this.”
Arifiel nodded toward a nearby valkyrie who tossed her spear toward them. Nadala caught it. Seconds later, she caught a helmet thrown her way, and one of the valkyries began to unbuckle her armor.
“Graxen,” said Arifiel. “You left a bag in my care. I’ve come to return it.”
Again she nodded toward one of the valkyries, this one carrying his satchel. It bulged, stuffed to the point where its leather seams looked as if they might rip open. The valkyrie tossed the bag to Graxen. In his weakened state, he was nearly knocked from his perch when he caught it.
“There’s food,” said Arifiel. “Dried fish, dried fruit. A wool blanket and flint and steel to start a fire.”
Nadala slipped on the helmet and caught the armor that was tossed to her by the valkyrie who’d stripped.
“Why are you doing this?” Nadala asked.
Arifiel looked around the band of warriors. “Every one of us fought against the sun-dragons; every one of us faced their flames. We will carry the scars for the rest of our lives.”
“And we are the cause of those scars,” said Nadala, her voice cracking. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “We betrayed you! I betrayed you! I’m the greatest shame of the valkyries!”
“Sister!” Arifiel snapped, sounding angry. “You didn’t give us our scars. Blasphet and his minions caused this suffering. Not one among us views you as our shame. Indeed, we view you as our greatest hope.”
Nadala sniffled. “What?”
“We all witnessed Graxen in combat. He was fearless and cunning; the shame of the valkyries would have been if his virtues were allowed to pass from our species. We have plain evidence that the system we were prepared to give our lives to defend was a flawed one.”
“But—”
“We must leave you now,” said Arifiel. “Buckle up your armor. Keep your spear sharp. I don’t know what dangers await you in the lands beyond the mountains. But before I part, give me your vow: whatever foes you may face, never surrender. If you find yourself facing an army of sun-dragons, face them as a warrior born. Teach them what it means to challenge a valkyrie!”
Nadala swallowed hard. “I so vow,” she said softly.
Arifiel gave some unseen signal to her fellows, and with a single movement they all leapt into the air. They spiraled upward, a flurry of dragons, then turned as one and soared toward the Nest.
Graxen stood quietly, watching the sky as Nadala buckled on her armor. Graxen slung the satchel over his shoulder, the limb swaying as the weight shifted. He dug his fore-talon in beneath the blanket and found the oily parchment wrapping the dried fish. There was something under the parchment that had an odd texture. He pulled the fish from his bag, then dug his claws back in as he realized what it was that he’d felt.
“I… When I went to the coast, I found this,” he said, pulling the beaded belt from his satchel. He held it toward her. She took it and unrolled it, looking confused.
“It’s a belt,” he said. “It’s probably not the best time to give it to you, I fear.”
“It’s lovely,” she said.
“It reminded me of you,” he said.
She fastened the belt around her waist. It fit as if it had been made for her. She sniffled again and said, “Now that we have supplies, it does make sense for us to journey together. It sounds as if there’s only a single blanket to share.”
“I could give you the bag,” he said.
“Keep the bag. Just share your kindness.”
Graxen nodded. He held out the dried fish toward her.
“I’m not hung
ry at the moment,” she said. She raised her fore-talon to the gray teardrop scale on her cheek and wiped away the moisture that lingered there. “We have miles to journey before we reach our new world.”
The branch shuddered as Nadala leapt.
“Try to keep up,” she called back, rising into the pristine winter blue.
The matriarch closed the door behind her. A soft talon reached out to touch her shoulder. She turned, and allowed herself to fall into Metron’s embrace. It was as comforting as she remembered.
“I did what you asked me to do,” she whispered. “I never could deny you.”
“You made the right choice,” Metron answered. “The books of our lives have reached their final chapter. But the story of Graxen and Nadala is just beginning, Sarelia.”
The matriarch sighed. “It’s been many years since I’ve been called by my true name. It’s been so long since anyone has known me as anything other than my title. They’ve forgotten the dragon underneath; perhaps I’ve forgotten as well.”
Metron slid his cheek along hers. She trembled at its smoothness.
“I’ll always be with you to help you remember,” Metron whispered. “I know you, Sarelia. You’re still the wise and wonderful dragon I met those long years ago; I love you still.”
The matriarch nodded as her cane slipped from her talon. As long as Metron held her, she had all the strength she needed to stand.
Jandra pulled Pet’s tattered cloak more tightly around her as she approached the gates of Dragon Forge. The ring of invisibility sat on her wrist like a bracelet. She’d not used it on her journey. She’d walked from Shandrazel’s tent boldly, never looking back, and no guard had challenged her. She’d been at the edge of the encampment before she’d heard the shouts behind her as the bodies were discovered. She’d made it to the shelter of the forest shadows soon after.
Only as she’d reached the gleaner mounds had she’d glanced over her shoulder. She was certain she could hear the distant beating of wings. The sun-dragons were abandoning the camp in droves, dark shapes in a dark sky. Jandra didn’t know what the dawn would bring when the earth-dragons found their sun-dragon masters absent. Nor, for that matter, did she know the fate of the human slaves. Hex would have his victory, it seemed. An age of anarchy was upon them.
Or, perhaps, the age of a new order.
She reached the gates and looked up, shouting, “Let me in!”
A young man looked over the wall at her.
“That’s Pet’s cloak,” he said. “Who are you?”
“I’m Jandra,” she said. “Pet’s dead. Shandrazel killed him. But Pet killed Shandrazel as well.”
“Oh my gosh!” the boy said. “Pet’s dead? Oh my gosh!”
“What’s your name,” Jandra called out.
“Vance, ma’am,” he answered.
“Will you open the gate?”
“No, ma’am,” he said. He threw down a rope ladder. “You’ll have to climb up.”
As Jandra climbed, Vance said, “I’ve heard your voice before. You’re the girl who called out to Pet earlier. He seemed mighty excited you were here.”
Jandra reached the top of the wall. She looked around the tortured landscape.
“I still can’t believe you beat back the dragons,” she said.
“I’m kinda surprised myself,” said Vance. Jandra noticed how short Vance was; he was barely up to her chin. He was also slightly older than his voice let on, judging from his wispy mustache. “Pet really kept us together up here on the walls. He was a good man, ma’am. I’m sorry to hear he’s dead.”
She nodded. “I have to speak to Burke,” she said. “Pet said he was the brains of the rebellion.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Vance. “He made our bows, and he built that giant.”
“Good,” said Jandra. “Then I may have some information that will interest him.”
Vance ordered a man nearly twice his age and girth to watch his post. He led Jandra down into the fortress. She coughed as the full force of the sooty smoke hit her. Now that her nanites were no longer protecting her lungs, she felt especially vulnerable. She wished she could at least seal up the open back of her gown. Even beneath the cloak, her spine felt cold and exposed.
Vance led her through filthy streets toward the central foundry. The doors of the great factory were wide open. The sound of hammers on anvils rang through the air. Jandra raised her hands to shield her eyes as a cauldron of white-hot molten metal was poured into a form.
Vance led Jandra to a small office. He pointed toward a chair and said, “Wait here.”
Jandra remained standing as Vance tapped on the door beyond the office. He looked back apologetically as several long moments passed. Finally, the door creaked open. The woman who’d been dressed in buckskins earlier was now dressed in a cotton nightgown and carrying an unsheathed sword. Jandra’s eyes were still highly tuned; apparently some of the physical changes the helmet had made were permanent. She noted the razor edge of the blade. It was the sharpest thing she’d ever seen.
The raven-haired woman glared at Vance. Then she cast her gaze at Jandra. Her expression softened as she saw the blood staining Pet’s cloak.
She gave Jandra a slight nod, and waved her inside.
The room beyond was pitch black. Jandra stood still inside the door as the woman struck a match. Seconds later, a lantern fluttered to life. Burke the Machinist lay in his bed, looking still as death.
The woman sheathed her sword and touched Burke on the shoulder. Burke’s eyes slowly opened. He stared up at his daughter, and then turned his head toward Jandra. He, too, nodded slowly as he saw Pet’s bloodstained cloak.
“Shandrazel gave his answer, then,” he whispered.
“Shandrazel is dead,” said Jandra. “Pet killed him, as he killed Pet.”
Burke rested his head back on the pillow. “That doesn’t end this. But it buys us time. We might win this thing yet.”
He turned back to Jandra. “We could win it tomorrow if you’d share your so-called magic.”
“It’s gone,” said Jandra. “Stolen by a dragon.”
“Oh,” said Burke, sounding weary. “Well, we’re screwed, I guess.”
“No,” said Jandra. “The dragon won’t be able to use the technology. Only I can use it. Pet said you were the brains behind this rebellion. I need your help to get my tools back.”
Burke sat up, intrigued. “I’ve always had an appreciation for tools. If we get them back, will you share your secrets? Will you help me bring an end to the Dragon Age?”
“I’ll help even before we get it back,” she said. She took a deep breath, searching her soul, trying to decide if she should speak the words that had echoed in her mind on her journey here. Whatever remained of the goddess within her grumbled at the thought of revealing the secret. And, the part of her that was the daughter of a dragon also rebelled, knowing that her words might bring death to all dragons.
But the part of her that was human knew it was her duty to speak.
“How can you help if you’re powerless, girl?” Burke asked.
Jandra narrowed her eyes, and spoke in a firm, calm tone: “I know how to make gunpowder.”
Dragonseed Preview: Hope of the Slave
The human rebels have won Dragon Forge, but they face their greatest challenge yet in holding on to it as the cruel and cunning Slavecatcher General Vulpine instigates a siege and launches biological warfare by sneaking a plague-ridden child into the town. Even more dangerous to the rebellion than the dragons are the growing tensions between Burke and Ragnar. Jandra, meanwhile, must lead Anza, Vance, and an escaped slave named Shay on an epic journey to recover her lost magic—a journey that leads her back into the underground kingdom of the goddess. Bitterwood, on the other hand, is contemplating retiring from his days as a dragon-slayer so that he can provide a proper home for Zeeky and Jeremiah—though there is one last dragon who he must battle before he lay down his bow: Hex. All this, and Blasphet too.)
C
louds the color of bruises stained the winter sunset. Shay hoped that the yellow-brown sky meant they were near the foundries of Dragon Forge. He wasn’t certain Hemming would make it if their journey lasted another day. Shay, Hemming, and Terpin were at the edge of a pine forest on a steep hill leading down to a slow muddy river. On the other side of the water a broad, flat field had been trampled to muck. Shay wondered if this was evidence of the retreat of Shandrazel’s army. Thousands of earth-dragons had fled on foot. The ground would surely bear witness.
“I don’t think I can go on,” Hemming whined as he slid down the bank, landing on a bed of gravel beside the river. Hemming was the oldest of the three slaves, a stooped, white-haired man in his late sixties. In a perfect world, Hemming’s age and experience would have endowed him with wisdom and toughness, but in practice it had left only a fragile shell of a man with an unceasing passion for complaint. “My blisters have popped,” Hemming moaned. “My boots are filled with blood.”
“All the more reason not to stop,” said Terpin, sliding down beside him. Unlike Hemming, a house slave, Terpin had worked the grounds of the College of Spires. He was a short man, but heavily muscled. His wispy hair clung in a band around his ears, as white as Hemming’s more ample mane, though he was at least twenty years younger. Terpin’s face was a mass of wrinkles and he only had teeth on the left side of his jaw. His voice was authoritative and gruff as he said, “Walk while you still can, old man. If you can’t go on, we’re not going to carry you.”
Hemming’s lower lip quivered. “Y-you’d leave me behind? After we’ve come this far?”
Shay cleared his throat. He still clung to a skinny tree on the steep slope. The last ten feet down to the river looked particularly treacherous. He couldn’t get the memory of the horse’s broken leg out of his mind. He announced, “We’re not leaving anyone behind. I’ll drag you both if I have to.” He was the youngest of the slaves, only twenty-two. He was lanky, tall despite his hunched posture, with a thick head of orange hair bright as the scales of a sun-dragon. Unlike the drab, threadbare outfits of the older men, Shay was dressed in a long red coat with shiny brass buttons. His black boots were scuffed and muddied from walking, but the upper parts still showed their former polish.
