by James Maxey
Burke was a rational man; he’d never believed in ghosts. So what was the source of this phantom that haunted him? What was he to make of the fact that he could feel his absent toes? If he could still feel a missing leg, would the same be true if he lost his arm? Or even his head? How much of him could be cut away before he’d stop feeling everything? Or, was it true after all? If you destroyed a man’s body, was there still some spirit that lingered, invisible, intangible, yet capable of feeling the world, just as his missing leg was now feeling the heat?
Could Ragnar be right? Did he, in fact, have a soul that would one day be judged by an unseen God?
Burke shook his head and reached for the greasy towel he used to clean his tools. He found the cleanest swatch on it and mopped up the sweat stinging his eyes. He scooted across the oak platform on his butt, opening the gun slits to let in air, then slid onto the squat wooden stool that served as Big Chief’s new driver’s seat. Of course, Big Chief was no longer an apt name. The war machine was no longer humanoid in shape. The wagon was now twenty feet long from end to end, and five feet tall at its highest point. It looked more like a turtle than a man now. In fact, given that it was more oval shaped than round if seen from above, and was solid cast iron black, it looked more like a beetle than a turtle. An angry beetle, bristling with spikes to discourage any dragons from trying to land atop it, assuming they made it past the twin cannons, or the alcohol-based flame-thrower, or the small guns that could be aimed out the gun slits.
The Angry Beetle. Burke smiled. After he worked on a machine long enough, it would eventually tell him its name.
Feeling confident, Burked released the clutch to engage the low forward gear. He let it out carefully—he only had thirty feet to roll without crashing into the door of the warehouse he’d commandeered for the Angry Beetle’s construction. Alas, thirty inches would have been enough space. Burke winced as metal ground against metal. The machine lurched barely a foot before something in the underbelly popped. The steel walls of the structure rang as if they’d been struck with a hammer.
“Wonderful." Clenching his teeth, he stepped back onto the clutch and pulled the lever to shift power to the reverse gears. He laughed, amazed, as the machine lurched again and rolled backward. He quickly knocked the machine back out of gear.
“If the dragons attack from behind, I’m golden." The machine’s weight brought it to a halt after a few inches. Setting the brake, he flipped the release switch to vent the steam. He slid over to the hatch and pushed it open. The cooler air of the warehouse washed over him. He sat at the edge of the hatch, stretching both his good leg and his phantom one, and looked around the warehouse. Once, the earth-dragons of the foundry had filled this place with swords and shields and other armaments. He’d ordered them all melted down, turned into sky wall bows, shot guns, and cannons. Now teams of men were already at work building components for a fleet of Angry Beetles, even though no one but himself had any idea what the final project was.
Was Stonewall right? Was his distrust of Ragnar leading him to levels of secrecy that would damage the chances of not only holding onto Dragon Forge, but of projecting force outward, letting humanity win the ultimate war against the dragons?
He was confident the Angry Beetle was worth his time and energy. These mobile platforms of war wouldn’t roll far given the restraints on fuel storage, and they wouldn’t move fast given their weight, but they’d still cut down earth-dragon armies like a scythe through wheat. As a mobile platform for cannons, they’d also remove the aerial advantage of the dragons. The cannons could hurl steel balls over a mile nearly straight up; he was confident he’d soon solve the problem of how to make those balls explode at their apex, filling the sky with shrapnel that would devastate the winged beasts.
Yet, with Anza gone, was this too much of a project for him to tackle alone? He wasn’t daring to make eye-contact with Biscuit now, let alone consult with him. After admitting to Stonewall that he’d taught someone else to read his coded notes, he didn’t want to give Ragnar any reason to suspect Biscuit was his confidant.
He grabbed the steel crutch that leaned up against the armored vehicle and winced as he placed it beneath his raw and blistered armpit. His armpit was proving ill-designed to provide support for half his body weight. Once the wound of his amputated leg finally healed, he looked forward to fitting himself with prosthesis. He already had in mind a design that would incorporate a leaf spring to serve as his new foot, and a self-adjusting gear and ratchet device that would make a passable knee.
Burke limped around to the rear of the Angry Beetle, to the big sliding doors that closed off the warehouse. He slid one open a crack and raised a hand to shield his eyes. He’d come to work while it was still dark outside. He guessed it must be noon by the way the shadows hugged the buildings. As his eyes adjusted he saw a crowd gathering further down the avenue, in the big central square.
Three of Ragnar’s Mighty Men loped past the warehouse with Frost at their side. Frost cast a menacing glare toward Burke, but said nothing. As they passed, Stonewall stepped from a nearby doorway, raising a hand to greet Frost and the others.
Burke lingered in the shadows of the barn, straining to hear the conversation.
“What’s going on?” Stonewall asked.
“It’s Shanna,” Frost answered. “She’s back. And she’s… different.”
Stonewall looked confused. Burke wasn’t sure what Frost meant either. Shanna was one of Ragnar’s spies. She’d had the dangerous task of infiltrating the Sisters of the Serpent and stealing Blasphet’s secrets. Burke liked her for her daring and her intelligence, even if she was fiercely loyal to Ragnar. They owed their possession of Dragon Forge to the poisons Shanna had stolen perhaps even more than to the sky-wall bows. Shanna had left Dragon Forge shortly after the dragon armies fled to try to reconnect with the remnants of Blasphet’s cult. Blasphet was dead, slain by Bitterwood, but the worshippers of the Murder God still possessed knowledge of vast stocks of poisons that would be useful in the coming war. Burke leaned onto his crutch and swung out into the street, following the crowd.
Soon he could see the central square. A woman draped in a heavy white cloak stood on the thick stone rim of the town well. Burke assumed this was Shanna, though the sun reflecting off her pure white cloak made it difficult to look at her. Her face was hidden by a deep hood.
Hundreds of men gathered in the square. Who was watching the foundry if everyone was out here? He looked around and saw that the bowmen standing watch on the walls were facing inward, curious about the commotion, paying no attention to potential sneak attacks by dragons. What was Shanna doing making such a splashy entrance? She was a spy, after all. She should appreciate the value of subtlety.
“Stand aside." The crowd parted as he hopped along on his crutch. Even half-crippled, he was still a respected figure in Dragon Forge. He’d proven his value with the sky-wall bows; dozens of these men had trained with the shotguns, or witnessed the blasts of the first cannons off the line. Still, perhaps it was his imagination, but he felt a sense of unease when the crowd looked at him. “They say you don’t believe in God,” Stonewall had said. It wasn’t a healthy rumor to have whispered in the midst of a holy war.
As he reached the well, the crowd on the far side parted. Ragnar, prophet of the lord, strode forth. Burke had been avoiding Ragnar since their confrontation over Jandra. The hairy prophet narrowed his eyes as he spotted Burke. By now, he’d seen the cannons in action. Burke felt confident that he was still too valuable for Ragnar to spare. After glowering at him for a moment, Ragnar’s expression changed to a smile.
The well was a yard high. Shanna, standing upon it, was a good deal taller than Ragnar, or even Stonewall, who loomed behind him.
“Shanna,” Ragnar said, his voice unexpectedly soft. “I’m pleased you’ve returned safely. I’m eager to learn how you slipped through the blockade. Let’s return to my house so that we can discuss what you’ve learned in private.”
; Shanna pulled her hood back. Burke squinted as he pushed his spectacles back up his nose. Was this Shanna? The face was right, the same lips and eyes, the same overall structure of the face. But Shanna had possessed a stark black tattoo, a serpent that coiled along her neck and shoulders, and she’d kept her head shaved. Now jet black hair hung down past her shoulders. A wig, perhaps? All traces of the serpent tattoo were absent from her snow-white neck.
“I want everyone to hear my message,” Shanna said. “There’s no more need for war! Not long ago, I pretended to serve the Murder God. I tattooed and scarred my body to prove my loyalty. You all can see my tattoos are gone. My scars are gone as well, both physical and spiritual.”
She rolled up her sleeve and showed off her forearm. Ragnar furrowed his brow. Burke hadn’t known Shanna well enough to know if she should have a scar there, but judging from the confusion in Ragnar’s eyes, apparently, she used to.
“What witchcraft is this?” Ragnar grumbled.
Shanna ignored him, speaking to the crowd over Ragnar’s head. “I’ve met a healer. He intends to cure this world of all diseases, all hunger, all hate. Throw down your arms and follow me. I will lead you to the Free City.”
At the mention of the Free City, the mob began to whoop loudly. “Remember the Free City,” was a common rallying cry for the rebels, many of whom had been present when Albekizan had ordered the slaughter there. That battle had been mankind’s first victory against dragons in centuries. Just hearing the words “Free City” was enough to stir men to shouting. But had they listened to what Shanna was actually saying?
“Shanna, have a care,” Ragnar growled. “Healing is a gift of God alone.”
“The healer says he is not a god,” said Shanna. “But I’ve watched him work miracles! A man with no eyes was given the gift of sight once more. The lame cast off their crutches and walk. The healer is here to cure the pains of all men. Follow me to the Free City, and there will be no more hunger, no more fear, no more pain, and no more war.”
The crowd again began to whoop at the words “Free City,” though most of the cries came from the back, where they probably had difficulty following what she was saying. People closer to the well mumbled in confusion. Ragnar glared back over his shoulder, scowling. The crowd quickly fell silent.
Burke limped forward. “Shanna,” he said. “Did the Sisters of the Serpent give you anything odd to eat? We know that Blasphet had poisons that would enslave the minds of dragons. Is it possible you’ve been given some drug that is altering your perceptions?”
“Yes,” said Shanna. She knelt down on the edge of the well and extended her hand. She turned her palm up and revealed what looked like a handful of large, flat, black ticks. She said, “These are the dragonseed. They are plucked from the healer’s own body. Take them. Eat them. Your eyes will be opened to his truth, and you shall be restored. You will walk to the Free City on two legs.”
Burke’s curiosity compelled him to take one of the strange objects. Once he picked it up, he saw it was more like an oversized watermelon seed than a tick. It was jet black and warm. It smelled vaguely like cloves. Despite his curiosity, he had no intention of putting the seed in his mouth. He thought of Ragnar’s earlier cryptic smile. Was this some elaborate attempt to poison him? Or some unfathomable power play, a gambit to make him look foolish in front of the crowd?
If it was a ploy by Ragnar, it only made the prophet’s next move all the more shocking.
“Blasphemer!” Ragnar shouted, grabbing Shanna by the wrist. The seeds spilled from her hand and littered the packed red clay around the well. Ragnar yanked her down from the wall. She landed on her knees before him, a cry of pain escaping her lips. “Who has corrupted you? What evil force drives you to utter such foul lies?”
He raised his hand as if to strike her. Shanna looked up, her face somehow serene despite the violence being perpetrated upon her. “It’s never corruption to speak the truth,” she said.
Ragnar slammed his fist down, a blow that should have knocked all the teeth from Shanna’s mouth. Only, the blow never struck Shanna. Burke tossed aside his crutch and reached out, catching Ragnar’s hand. The force of the halted blow threw Burke off balance. Ragnar snarled and shoved Burke away. Burke landed in the dirt, flat on his back. He rolled to his belly, ready to push up on both hands.
Stonewall stepped forward and placed his foot into the small of his back, pinning him. Behind him, Shanna let out a gasp of pain. Burke turned his head and saw Ragnar lifting her to her feet by her long hair. So much for the assumption she was wearing a wig.
Ragnar apparently was confounded by Shanna’s tresses as well. “What witchcraft had restored your hair, woman?” he demanded.
“My shaved scalp was a symbol of the Murder God,” she said, crying out the words through her pain. “My new hair is a gift of the healer! It’s a symbol of his grace! Everyone who looks upon me knows the truth. The time of war is passed! The time of healing has begun!”
Ragnar let out a horrible, guttural scream of wordless rage. He slammed Shanna’s head down onto the lip of the well with a sickening crack.
“You bastard!” Burke screamed, struggling to free himself. “What are you—”
Before he could complete the thought, Ragnar held out an open hand. Frost stepped up and placed a long knife into his palm. Shanna's arms hung limp at her sides. Ragnar still held her by her hair. Her once white robes were now streaked with red. Her eyes were half open, but she looked stunned by Ragnar’s blow.
“Death is the fate of all blasphemers!” Ragnar shouted. “Let no man be led astray by the lies of a witch! These are not the days of healing! These are the days of wrath! We shall not rest until we’ve driven the last dragon into the sea! Remember the Free City!”
The crowd cheered at this battle cry.
“War!” Ragnar cried.
“War!” the crowd echoed.
“War!” he cried again.
“WAAAARR!” the crowd howled, their voices causing the earth beneath Burke to tremble.
Ragnar looked at the bloodied, half conscious woman dangling in his grasp, wrinkling his nose in disgust, as if he’d just discovered a dead skunk in his hand. With a grunt, he jerked her backward and up, until she sat atop the well. He sank the knife deep into her left breast. He yanked the knife free and released her. She toppled backward, her legs flipping into the air, and disappeared down the stone shaft.
The crowd continued to cheer. Burke pushed up with all his might, but Stonewall only pressed down harder.
Ragnar leaned down, staring into Burke’s face. He looked calm as he said, “If I discover you were behind this, you’ll join Shanna in her watery grave.”
Burke wanted to grab the prophet by his beard and yank the flesh off his skull. Alas, Ragnar crouched several inches beyond his reach. Despite his anger, there was a cool, mechanical voice inside him, counseling him on practical matters. “A corpse in the well will poison our water, idiot,” he hissed.
Ragnar’s calm expression changed to a frown. He turned and addressed Stonewall in a tone of voice that bordered on sanity. “Let him go,” he said. “Have your men fish Shanna’s body out at once.”
“Of course, sir,” said Stonewall, though he didn’t move his foot. Indeed, his shifted even more of his weight onto it. Burke felt certain his spine would snap.
Ragnar walked away. Only once he was gone did Stonewall release Burke. Burke rolled over and found the giant bodyguard gazing down at him.
“Burke, I understand your actions,” said Stonewall. “No man enjoys seeing a woman struck. However, I cannot allow you to hurt Ragnar.”
“Why didn’t you stop him?” Burke grumbled as he sat up. “Instead of standing on my back, you could have saved her life.”
“Ragnar is a holy man,” said Stonewall. “You heard the crowd cheer his words. The Lord has chosen him to lead us to war. It’s not our role to judge him. It’s our role to obey him.”
“Those may well be the most brainless wor
ds I’ve ever heard spoken,” said Burke.
“Ragnar won the battle of the Free City. He took Dragon Forge from the dragons, and repelled the immense army gathered to take it back. It’s hardly brainless to trust his judgment, or conclude that the hand of God guides his actions. If you would only accept this, and trust him with your secrets, think of the good he could do.”
“You have a body to fish out of our water,” said Burke. He leaned back against the well and looked down at the black seed still in his palm. Botany wasn’t his strong suit, but he was certain the seed was some sort of hallucinogen, whatever it came from. It was the simplest explanation for Shanna’s insanity. The missing tattoo was odd, but women were good with make-up, and he hadn’t gotten a really good look at her neck. He personally had never noticed a scar on her arm, no matter Ragnar’s reaction. As for the hair… a wig and glue? What else made sense?
“Maybe she had a twin?” he mumbled it out loud to test the words for plausibility. They instantly failed the test.
“Ragnar’s lucky Anza wasn’t here to see this,” said a well-known voice. “It wouldn’t be that woman’s body at the bottom of the well right now.” Burke looked up to find a grizzled old man before him. A familiar figure stood behind him, his hand on the older man’s shoulder. Despite the horrors of the last five minutes, Burke smiled broadly.
“Thorny!” he said. “You made it. And Vance! You’re back! How did you get through the blockade? Are the others with you?”