by James Maxey
"I could write you," he said.
She cocked her head at the suggestion, intrigued.
There was a further mumble in the chamber beyond.
"I know where you could leave the letters," she said, her voice rushed. "On my patrol, midway between the nest and Dragon Forge, there's a crumbling tower, long abandoned. It's easy to find if you follow the river. Atop its walls stands a single gargoyle; there's a hollow in its mouth big enough to hold a scroll. You could leave letters for me there, if you wish. Perhaps I'll answer them."
"I'd like that," said Graxen.
In the room beyond, there was a sudden snort, the sound of a dragon jerking awake.
"Fly!" Nadala whispered, raising her fore-talon and stroking Graxen's cheek. He tilted his cheek against her touch, feeling the smoothness of her scales, and the fine, firm strength of her talons.
Graxen tilted backward, then kicked into space, corkscrewing until he caught the air. He flew out beneath the stars, lighter than air, a song rising in his heart.
La-la-la!
Na-da-la!
He shuddered as he realized it was the same tune as "Yo ho ho, the slow must go!" Would he never get that accursed song out of his head?
After the success of his will-deadening paste, Blasphet felt, paradoxically, a sense of dissatisfaction. This was something he'd learned about himself over the years; his setbacks usually stirred his spirit and prodded him to meet new challenges. His successes frequently left him feeling hollow and analytical, wondering if his achievement had come because he'd lowered his standards. With the paste, he should have been celebrating the results of years of research and testing. Instead, he found himself wondering why a gaseous or even liquid version of the poison had proved so elusive. The results of the paste pleased him, but the thought of force-feeding a gallon to his planned victims offended his aesthetic sensibilities. It simply lacked grace.
A lack of grace was also an attribute of the current demonstration of the taxidermy arts of the Sisters of the Serpents. Their earlier disguises of themselves as earth-dragons showed their talent at the art. Now, they were attempting to bring a stuffed sky-dragon back to some semblance of life.
Anatomical difference prevented the sisters from assembling a wearable sky-dragon costume. At first glance, it seemed as if a sky-dragon's knees bent backwards, something a sister in a suit couldn't duplicate. Of course, Blasphet knew that, at the level of skeletons, all mammals, lizards, and birds were built from the same archetype. All shared the same basic structure of four limbs, a torso with a rib cage and hips, a spine, and a skull. The bones of a sky-dragon's legs were similar in size to a human's bones, but of different proportions. The thighs were nearly the same length, bending forward from the hips. Then, the shins bent backward at the knees. However, human shins were long. Sky dragon shins were short, and the bones that formed the human ankle became a backward bending knee. The bones of a human foot were stretched into a long lower leg for the sky-dragon. Where humans had short stubby toes, the same bones in sky-dragons splayed out as talons.
Before his arrival, the sisters had tried to make a sky-dragon costume work by chopping off the shins of one of their order and teaching her to walk on stilts that resembled sky-dragon legs. The experiment hadn't gone well, and the sister had died of infection. Blasphet suspected that if he had a human baby to work with, he could devise a device that would confine the shins. He could lengthen the feet as the child grew by the use of screws and clamps. If any of the sisters became pregnant, he would give the matter further thought.
This evening, the sisters were demonstrating a mummified sky-dragon turned into a puppet. The black silk threads that held the preserved corpse were invisible in the candlelit room. A team of sisters in the rafters tugged and tweaked the beast's limbs. Curiously, the fine details proved effective-the sky-dragon's eyes blinked in a realistic fashion and its fore-talons were manipulated with enough dexterity that the puppet could pick up a quill. Alas, it was the larger movements that seemed exaggerated. The beast's stride was off. Even the way the corpse's head bobbed upon its neck felt false. Blasphet doubted the illusion would fool a real sky-dragon. Their eyes were the sharpest of the dragon species. You could never make a puppet string so fine it wouldn't stand out like thick rope to them, even in candlelight.
"I've seen enough," Blasphet said, shaking his head. "Leave me to my thoughts."
The sisters looked disappointed as they carried the puppet away. Only Colobi remained in the room. Rather than retreating, she walked toward him and knelt, placing her head against his left fore-talon.
"They meant well, my Lord," she said softly.
"I know," Blasphet said.
He gently stroked her cheek. Colobi was proving to be his favorite of the hundred clever girls willing to die for him. His responsibility for their lives was sobering. He'd wasted five of them in the castle due to a momentary whim. Eventually he'd send the rest to their deaths as well. But for what cause? Revenge against Shandrazel seemed petty now that he was free. The unfinished genocide of the human race still sat in his belly like an undigested meal. Would his plan have worked if Albekizan hadn't ruined things?
He was certain he could have succeeded. But did he want to? Humans were among the creatures he hated least. Time and again they'd proven useful. Humans treated him with deference and respect. Humans had proven to be clever and quick-witted. An army of a hundred, guided by a mind as powerful as his own, could do astonishing things. Genocide was still a challenge that seemed worthy of his unique talents. But perhaps he had chosen the wrong species as his target?
A sliding door rumbled open on the far side. A cross-current swept across the cavernous room; the winter air was a welcome relief from the fumes of the tannery. The night outside was blustery. The wind whistled through a thousand tiny gaps in the building's decaying walls.
Three sisters came through the door, leading a bound and blindfolded sky-dragon. Blasphet recognized the frail creature immediately. The sisters tugged at the ropes that held the dragon, guiding him to stand before the Murder God.
Colobi rose and angrily demanded, "Why do you interrupt our Lord's solitude?"
The leader of the trio gave Colobi a hateful stare. Blasphet had noticed that the other sisters were becoming aware of her status as his favorite.
The woman said, "We captured this unworthy one on the road leading to the College of Spires. He claims to be the former high biologian, Metron. He says he has served the Murder God loyally in the past."
"Remove his blindfold," said Blasphet. "Cut his bonds. He speaks the truth."
The three produced knives hidden in folds in their garments and thrust them expertly at the old, trembling dragon, slicing away his ropes in violent strokes, yet never so much as scratching him.
Freed, Metron shook his limbs. His wings had been slashed to ribbons, the fate of all criminal sky-dragons. He lifted his ragged limbs to remove his blindfold. He squinted as if the candlelight caused him pain. His nose wrinkled as tears welled up in his eyes.
"What is that stench?" he gasped.
"Oh, did you notice the tannery?" said Blasphet with a chuckle. "You grow used to it."
Metron looked around, visibly disoriented by the black walls and the candlelight. He stared down at the hide he stood upon, a fellow sky-dragon, and trembled.
"Where are we?" Metron asked
"My temple," said Blasphet. "Modest, perhaps, but roomier than the dungeons."
Metron shook his head. "So you've found more humans to believe your lies of godhoo-"
Before Metron could complete the thought, Colobi sprang forward and delivered a powerful kick to his gut, her black leather robes spreading wide like the tail feathers of an enormous raven. The old dragon folded over, collapsing, struggling to breathe.
"Give me a knife that I may cut out his blasphemous tongue!" Colobi snarled. Her hood had slipped backward in the attack, revealing a face twisted into naked rage.
"Not just yet," Blasphet said.
"I'm curious as to what he was doing traveling toward the College of Spires."
"I-I've been banished for assisting you," Metron said, his voice faint as he rocked in pain from Colobi's blow. "I'm no longer high biologian. Other biologians will kill me if they discover me."
"I know," Blasphet said. "Which makes your destination baffling. Half the biologians in the kingdom dwell at the College of Spires. It's not a healthy place for you to be."
"I'm old," Metron said, still lying limp at Blasphet's feet. "This may be the last winter I see on this earth. I've little time left to tell certain truths to… interested parties."
"To your bastard son, you mean," Blasphet said.
"H-how did you-?"
"I'm a god," said Blasphet. "I know things. The whole time that you assisted me in the palace I knew of your little secret. I have a network of spies that provide useful fodder for blackmail. You always gave in so easily it was never required. You proved exquisitely corruptible."
Blasphet motioned to the trio who had brought Metron before him. "Help him rise. Give him shelter and food. We must help this poor lost soul find his son."
"Why, Lord?" Colobi asked, sounding hurt. "Why do you spare this blasphemer?"
"Even a Murder God may know his moments of mercy," said Blasphet. "This pathetic creature has done me no harm. He was useful to me once; you must know I can be kind to those who are kind to me."
Colobi's face softened. Her cheeks blushed pink in response to his words.
"Metron," said Blasphet. "Your journey to the College of Spires would have been in vain. The dragon you seek resides there no longer; he now serves Shandrazel in the palace."
"Truly?" said Metron as he stood, assisted by the women. He winced as he rose; the tatters of his wings were covered with scabs. A dragon's wings were sensitive; Blasphet suspected Metron was in constant agony.
"I know you can enter the palace anytime you wish," said Blasphet. "You may know more of its secret passages than even I. Indeed, your son owes his existence to your knowledge of secret passages, does he not?"
Metron lowered his gaze. "I don't wish to discuss the matter."
"I do," said Blasphet. "And we both know you'll eventually do whatever I wish. So, have a seat, Metron. You look weary. The sisters will bring you food and drink and a blanket to help fight the chill. Then, you can tell me your story. I've heard the rumors. But only you can tell me the true origins of Graxen the Gray."
Chapter Thirteen:
Unseen Mouths Whisper
Burke the Machinist stood on a hill overlooking Dragon Forge. The continuous pollution of the foundries had rendered much of the surrounding countryside barren; the red clay soil lay naked, cut through with gullies. Here and there a few particularly tough and ancient trees rose above the landscape, gnarled and defiant. In the low areas sat the camps of the gleaners, shanty towns built around small mountains of scrap metal and refuge. Burke studied the workings of the town at the heart of this desolation, using one of his inventions, the spy-owl. The spy-owl was a copper version of the night bird with large glass eyes, standing almost three feet tall. The big round lenses on its face directed light into a series of carefully crafted mirrors. Burke rested the heavy device upon a tripod. Looking into twin lenses at the back of the spy-owl allowed him to see the goings-on in the town below as clearly as if he were standing in the center square. He studied the doorway of the central foundry, counting the earth-dragons who came and went. Knowing how many dragons it took to keep the foundry in operation was crucial information.
He hadn't created the spy-owl to prepare for war. He'd built it to discover the truth behind the stories of life on the moon. The stories were true; the moon was teaming with cities and lakes and forests beneath the glint of crystal domes miles across. Yet, learning the truth had left him wishing he'd never built the spy-owl. What did the knowledge gain him? The discovery of a world he could never reach filled him with a hunger that could never be slaked.
He looked up from the owl, stretching his back. His daughter, Anza, climbed the hill toward him. Dressed in buckskin dyed black, her dark hair in a tight braid, Anza looked quite formidable. She was a walking armory, with a longsword slung over her shoulder, a dagger strapped to her shin, an array of throwing knives on small scabbards lining each bicep, and two steel tomahawks at her belt. Of course, even without all this weaponry, Anza was woman who'd earned the fearful respect of men back at the tavern. She could silence anyone with a glance.
Burke didn't know why Anza had never spoken; she wasn't deaf. She had a keen mind. She could work calculations in her head that took him two sheets of paper to solve. She read voraciously, yet she'd never taken up a pen to write. She spoke to him with a few dozen hand signals that she'd devised while still in diapers. Everything else she had to say she conveyed with her eyes.
She nodded toward the spy-owl as she reached him. He stepped back to let her look inside. She turned the owl toward a new target and stepped back, motioning for him to look inside. He did so, and found his vision focused on the city gates. He quickly saw what she had noticed without the aid of the spy-owl. The gates were sunk into the dirt. Or rather, over the centuries, the grime and dust of the city had built up and covered the lower parts of the gates. Burke guessed the bottom two feet of the doors were buried.
"I'm not surprised those gates haven't closed in centuries. Walls around towns lost some of their defensive value once the winged dragons took over the world," Burke said. He moved the spy-owl around, studying further details of the walls. "This place was built by humans before the ninth plague, when the biggest threat was still other people. That plague gave the dragons their opening; they flourished as mankind withered. Human numbers have built back up, but we've never truly thrived again. As you can imagine, this doesn't sit well with folks like Ragnar, who believe they were given dominion of this world by God."
Anza gave him a curious look.
"Don't worry that you don't know. I deliberately haven't told you much about God, the Great Spirit, or whatever. I felt there were other educational priorities for you than the study of invisible men who live in the sky."
She frowned slightly. She glanced toward the horizon, to the exact spot where the moon would be rising in a few hours.
"No, it's nothing like that," said Burke. "The men on the moon are real. Even if they weren't, people aren't going out and launching wars to please them. No one has ever been killed because of the moon men."
Anza pursed her lips. She made a stabbing motion, like she was driving an invisible dagger into someone's belly, then tilted her head, inviting further explanation.
"No," said Burke. "I'm not saying it's wrong to kill, if you've got a good reason: Self-defense, financial gain, political advantage, or even just to stay in practice. Killing for a rational purpose is fine. Killing because you think it will make an invisible man in the sky treat you kindly when you're dead is deranged."
Anza nodded, finally clear on his point. Then she looked down the hills and gave a disgusted wrinkle of her nose. Her eyes said, "Look who's coming." Her nose said, "Ragnar."
"Speaking of deranged," Burke mumbled.
A chill wind rushed over the hill as Ragnar, prophet of the Lord, walked toward them. A whistling moan rose from the rust heaps in the valley below. Burke shivered within the folds of his heavy woolen duster. Ragnar, clothed only by his sunburned, leathery skin and a mane of wild hair looked blissfully insensate to the cold. Bliss was perhaps exactly the right word, thought Burke. Ragnar's eyes were permanently narrowed in an angry expression, yet Burke was slowly starting to see the man underneath this mask of rage. The true dominant quality of the prophet wasn't his anger but his serenity, a calm, faithful confidence that came from his absolute certainty that every breath he breathed had been waved across his lips by the fingers of God. It wasn't that Ragnar wasn't angry, boiling with vengeance and wrath-he was simply at peace with this rage.
"What have you learned with your magic bir
d?" Ragnar asked as he drew near.
Anza moved to Burke's left side then retreated several yards, so that she was no longer directly downwind from the prophet.
"The first thing I've learned is that earth-dragons are uniformly near-sighted," said Burke. "If they see anything more than shadows and shapes past fifty yards, I've found no evidence of it."
"How can you tell?" Ragnar asked.
"For one thing, I've been up here two hours without anyone but the human gleaners glancing my way."
"My spies are moving among the gleaners," said Ragnar. "I want to learn how loyal they are to the dragons."
"I don't think loyalty is a virtue gleaners hold in high regard," said Burke. "They make their living destroying relics that could teach us much about the days when humans ruled the world. I personally don't trust them."
"Do you fear they will betray our presence?" Ragnar asked.
"Maybe," said Burke. "We are going to mess with their livelihood. Fortunately, gleaners aren't noted for their bravery. I can't imagine they'll take up arms against us. Once we control the forge, they won't care who they're selling their junk to. Not that we'll be needing to buy much from them. We can pour for weeks just by melting down all the armor and weapons cluttering up the place."
"My men need those weapons," said Ragnar.
"The armor doesn't fit right, and swords and axes are poor weapons to fight the winged dragons. If you want to win, let me outfit your army properly. We need bows more than swords."
"Many of my men already have bows," said Ragnar.
"At Conyers, longbows weren't enough," said Burke. "The sun-dragons can fly above their range. From that height, anything a dragon drops turns into a weapon. At Conyers, they'd fly overhead and drop bucket-loads of steel darts, only a few inches long, weighing barely an ounce. You couldn't really see the darts as they fell, only a dark shadow released by the dragon's claws as they zoomed over you. One minute, the walls are full of archers, vainly firing arrows at dragons out of reach. The next minute, half your archers are dead, ripped to shreds by the dart swarm."
