Dragon Venom (Obsidian Chronicles Book 3)

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  some of it is tainted."

  The captain had been cleaning Black's wounds, but now he snatched his hands away. "Dragonhearts?"

  Arlian nodded. "Myself, and that one," he said, pointing at Shatter.

  "Not your steward?"

  "No." Arlian smiled. "He's no dragonheart; he's about to be a father."

  Then he closed his eyes and rested.

  45

  An Exceptional Birth

  45

  An Exceptional Birth

  Despite Arlian's concerns and Brook's urgency, the next few hours were calm. The midwife arrived in good time, and while Lilsinir and the guards' physician attended to Black and Arlian, the midwife saw to Brook, getting her out of her chair and onto a bed.

  The children were permitted to visit briefly with their parents, just to be reassured that both Brook and Black were still alive, and were then hustled off to the kitchens in Stammer's care, to await the arrival of their new sibling. Amberdine was clearly aghast at her father's condition and broke down in tears; Kerzia attempted to comfort her while fighting back her own tears, and Dirinan took one look, then buried his face in Stammer's shoulder and refused to hear or see anything more.

  The household staff removed Hardior's remains and began the unwelcome task of cleaning up the salon and gallery. Venlin, with the aid of a few carefully chosen soldiers, removed the corpses from the yard, as well—Hendal, Shatter, and Hardior's two footmen. This labor, which would not have been pleasant under any circumstances, was made worse by the oppressive heat and heavy overcast; the lamps were lit half an hour before sunset, as the skies were already as dark as night.

  More soldiers were cleaning up the surrounding streets, and questioning the prisoners they had taken—most of them rooftop archers.

  Arlian was very interested in hearing what these interrogations produced, but could not participate, or even spare the time to hear reports; there were more immediate concerns occupying his attention.

  His own injuries were inconvenient, but not life-threatening; as a dragonheart he had no fear of infection, of fever or gangrene. The wound in his shoulder was the only serious one, and even that would undoubtedly heal in a fortnight or so; for the present it limited the motion of his right arm, restricting any attempt to swing the arm above the horizontal and making any sort of lifting painful. Blood loss had left him hazy and weak; the physician had treated this by feeding him three pints of thin beer, to replenish the fluids he had lost, which undoubtedly helped his body but did not initially make his thoughts any clearer.

  Black's condition was more serious; he had lost more blood than Arlian, and had no real protection against fever or decay. Further, he was not conscious and could not drink anything of his own volition; Lilsinir managed to force some water down his throat without choking him, and thoroughly cleaned the numerous wounds, but could do little more. After some debate among Brook, Arlian, Lilsinir, the guards'

  physician, and the midwife, Black's unconscious body was arranged on a couch in Brook's bedroom, a few feet from his laboring wife's side.

  "When he is past the worst, I have healing herbs, some minor magicks, that will help," Lilsinir told Arlian. "For now, we wait."

  And Brook was definitely in labor, the baby descended into position, contractions coming at steadily narrowing intervals. She had been through this before, and knew what to do, but nonetheless she looked at Arlian with fear plain on her sweat-drenched face.

  "What if it's a monster?" she said, when the midwife was out of the room fetching towels. "I lost two babies, and that was horrible, but they were just babies—what if this is something else? I'm not sure whether I'm more afraid that it will die or that it will live. Ari, what have we done?"

  "We've terrified the dragons," he said, holding her hand.

  "What?"

  "We've frightened the dragons. Shatter and Hardior said as much."

  "Shatter?" She snatched her hand away. "Lord Shatter, chairman of the Dragon Society? Was he here?"

  Arlian nodded. "I cut his throat," he said. "He's dead."

  "And that really was Lord Hardior? His face changed, and I didn't know which one was real."

  "That was Lord Hardior. He used a glamour to disguise himself, so he could enter the city safely, much as I did when I rescued you in Cork Tree." He paused, then added, "He's dead, too. A thrust through the heart."

  "But why were they here?"

  "The dragons sent them. They didn't trust any mere hirelings or henchmen; they sent their own best men. We have the dragons terrified."

  "But why? What am I bearing? What is so terrible . . . " She was interrupted by a contraction; she grimaced.

  "Shatter said we have re-created the dragons' greatest foe," Arlian said.

  "But what is it?"

  The midwife returned just then; Arlian glanced at her, and said, "I cannot be certain—but I do not think we need fear it."

  "Don't frighten her," the midwife said briskly. "She has quite enough to do without worrying about anything but herself for the next few hours."

  "I know," Arlian replied. He patted Brook's hand. "All will be well, Brook. You do what you must, and let others deal with the rest."

  The hours wore on, and Arlian remained nearby, ignoring the midwife's obvious disapproval. Lilsinir and the guards' physician stopped in to check on Black once or twice, but were too busy attending the other wounded from the battle outside the walls to stay.

  Arlian listened uneasily to Black's breathing, which seemed to stay dangerously shallow.

  And then, late in the night, when Arlian had lost track of time and dozed fitfully, the baby finally arrived.

  Arlian had somehow expected something to go wrong, something

  else to intervene, or at the very least signs and portents to accompany the birth, but none of that happened; instead Brook gave a final gasp, and the midwife held up a wrinkled, blood-smeared boy, so red he seemed to glow in the lamplight. She hastily toweled the babe off, and he let out a strong, healthy wail as the midwife handed him to Brook.

  The child was small, but seemed well formed, with the appropriate number of fingers and toes. Arlian, standing by the bed, stared at mother and child, looking for any sign that the infant was something other than human; then he turned to the father.

  Black was still sleeping, though he had stirred at the child's cry. The boy was silent now, nuzzling at his mother's breast, though he did not take the proffered nipple.

  Brook looked up at Arlian. "His name is Ithar," she said. "Beron and I agreed."

  "Ithar?" Arlian said. "That's fine."

  "It's a good name," the midwife agreed, as she tidied up.

  "He seems . . . I don't see anything... He's just a baby," Brook said. She looked down at her son, then back at Arlian. "What were the dragons afraid of?"

  "I don't know," Arlian said. Then he turned at a sound behind him.

  Black had awakened, and sat up on the couch; he was staring at Brook.

  "Don't get up," Arlian warned.

  "Wasn't planning to," Black mumbled.

  Arlian turned back to Brook and held out his hands; smiling, she handed him the baby.

  Ithar opened his eyes and looked up at Arlian, and for a moment Arlian was transfixed.

  The baby's eyes were intensely blue, and gave off a soft, pale light.

  This was no optical trick, no mere illusion; the boy's eyes were glowing.

  Arlian blinked, and then remembered where he was and what he was doing; he turned and took two quick steps, then held the child out for Black to see. "You have another son," he said.

  Ithar looked solemnly up at his father with those glowing blue eyes, then reached out one tiny, unsteady hand. Black smiled weakly and leaned forward, letting the little fingers brush his beard.

  The weariness suddenly seemed to fall away from him; color rushed back into his cheeks. He swayed, then looked down. He and Arlian watched as the bandages fell from his wounds, and the flesh beneath healed as they watched. T
he glow from Ithar's eyes and hands was unmistakable, undeniable—the newborn infant was working powerful magic.

  Healing magic. Benign magic.

  Arlian's experiment, it would appear, was a success.

  Ithar gurgled, then closed his eyes and fell asleep in Arlian's arms.

  "By the dead gods," Black said, looking down at himself.

  And Arlian remembered what Shatter and Hardior had said, how

  the experiment was re-creating the dragons' greatest foe, and remembered also what the leech-thing in Tirikindaro had told him almost two years before about how the dragons had betrayed and murdered their greatest foes ten thousand years ago.

  Black lifted his hands, and Arlian handed him his sleeping child.

  "Not the dead gods, but the living," Arlian said.

  Black looked up at him. "What do you mean?"

  "Congratulations," Arlian said, grinning. "You're the father of a god."

  B O O K

  IV

  The Gods

  The Final Assault Begins

  46

  The Final Assault Begins

  I t w a s o n t h e d a y f o l l o w i n g I t h a r ' s b i r t h t h a t t h e s e c o n d a n d f i n a l m a s s It was on the day following Ithar's birth that the second and final mass assault began.

  The day had started quietly, with various people coming to admire the new baby, and with some exploration of the newborn's supernatural abilities. Ithar's touch, they found, could heal his father's wounds, or the injuries of soldiers and servants, but did nothing for Arlian's shoulder, nor for the aftereffects of his own birth—the midwife had tended to Brook unaided by divine magic.

  "We're dragonhearts," Arlian explained to Brook later that morning—a morning as hot and sunless as any Arlian had ever seen. "His natural enemies. Tainted."

  "But I'm his mother!"

  "Tainted nonetheless."

  "Then get Lilsinir in here and purify me!"

  "When you have your strength back."

  Brook reluctantly accepted that, then returned her attention to Ithar, asleep at her breast. "I have no milk," she said. "I suppose that's from the venom, too."

  "Almost certainly."

  "We'll need a wet nurse; I'm surprised he hasn't been crying about it."

  "He may not need a wet nurse, nor milk," Arlian said. "He is something more than human, after all."

  "A god, you called him."

  "I think he is, yes."

  "That seems... audacious, even for you, Arlian. He's so tiny—I think he's smaller than his brother or either of his sisters was. How can he be a god? A god, born of man and woman?"

  "A god born of man and woman, and of a dragon and the land's own power."

  "Is that what you expected, when you gave me the elixir? That my child would be a god?"

  "No; I thought he would be a magician, of sorts. It was not until the dragons' own men came to kill him that I began to suspect he would be more."

  Brook glanced at the room's one narrow window, which gave so little light that even at mid-morning the oil lamps were still lit. The air was hot and heavy, thick with the odors of smoke and sweat. "I think the dragons will be sending more than men to kill him."

  "I am not at all sure how he can be killed," Arlian said, "but I agree—they must certainly know he has been born, but the clouds have not dispersed, nor the weather moderated. This is undeniably dragon weather. They killed the gods long ago, and must intend to kill Ithar in the same fashion. Still, how can they hope to get at him, here in Manfort, behind the city walls? The Duke's catapults are everywhere; a hundred tons of obsidian blades guard us."

  Black had entered the room as Arlian spoke, and asked, "But are the catapults manned?"

  Arlian turned, startled. "Are they not?"

  "They were not yesterday, else the attackers could never have placed those archers on the rooftops without being seen. I doubt the Duke has the manpower to keep even the outer catapults manned on a regular basis; I think he's assuming we will have warning of any impending threat."

  "Warning?" Arlian gestured at the window. "Is not that sky warning enough?"

  "The Duke's men are searching the city for the Dragon Society's agents, following up yesterday's action," Black said. "I doubt anyone has given the possibility of a direct attack from above much thought."

  "Damn!" Arlian turned and almost ran from the room.

  He had not yet reached the Citadel's gates when the screaming began; he took one look at the sky to the northwest and turned back, running toward the Grey House. He paused at the gate to order the surrounding cordon of guards to spread the word and man the catapults, then burst in the door shouting, "The dragons are coming!"

  The household came alive with shouting and scurrying as Arlian hurried down the gallery toward Brook's room.

  Black emerged as Arlian approached the bedroom door. "What's happening?" he demanded.

  Arlian still found it slightly disconcerting to see Black upright and active, so soon after his miraculous healing, so his answer was not as coherent as he might have wished.

  "Dragons," he said. "Four of them."

  "Where?"

  "Northwest," Arlian replied, pointing and almost whacking his hand on the stone wall of the passageway as his injured arm failed to obey him properly.

  Black blinked at him. "Flying?"

  "Yes, flying," Arlian said. "How else would they come?"

  "The rooftops of Manfort are covered with obsidian-tipped spears,"

  Black pointed out. "Four dragons do not seem so very great a menace when we have those defenses. No, they are not all properly manned, but surely enough will be ready to handle four dragons! I had thought perhaps they might approach by land—the catapults cannot be accurately aimed into the streets, and we would need to fight them with spears."

  "They are flying, nonetheless," Arlian said. "And I fear I have less faith in the abilities of the people and machines defending us than you do. I have been fighting dragons my entire adult life, and I think I know something about the job, and I do not care to rely entirely on the catapults."

  "And what do you propose to do, then? Were you coming here to ask my son to use his divine powers to protect us?"

  "Of course not," Arlian said, startled. "God or not, he's still a newborn babe. And he's also what the dragons are coming to kill—to bring him more directly to their attention would be insane."

  "But Ari, you are insane, are you not?"

  "By the dead gods, even I am not so mad as that! No, I've come to move Brook and Ithar to the cellars, where the dragons cannot get at them even if they pass the walls and avoid the spears."

  Black nodded. "The other children, too," he said.

  "A good thought. I'll take Brook and Ithar; you fetch the others."

  Then he hesitated, looking at his arm. "No," he said, "you take Brook—

  I can't lift her with my shoulder like this. I'll bring the others."

  A few minutes later the two men were on the stairs leading down from the kitchen into the cellars; Black held Brook in his arms, while she held Ithar. Arlian was leading Dirinan by the hand, while Kerzia and Amberdine wrestled their mother's wheeled chair down the stone steps.

  Stammer had gone ahead with a candle.

  "At least it's cooler down here," Brook said, as she wrapped Ithar more securely in his blanket.

  It was, indeed, cooler in the cellars than in the unseasonable heat above, though perhaps not as cool as Arlian might have expected. As they reached the foot of the stair Arlian paused and looked around. He had almost never been down here before, though it was his own house; the cellars were the domain of the kitchen staff, not of the master of the house. He saw barrels of beer and kegs of wine, racks of bottles, shelves lined with jars, wax-coated wheels of cheese . . .

  A sudden queasiness struck him as he remembered once before,

  when he had ventured down into his family cellar on a hot, dark summer day, a day when dragons were on the way.

&
nbsp; He had been only eleven then, a mere village boy, rather than a man nearing forty. Now he was Lord Obsidian, the warlord, the dragonslayer, the swordsman, the fabulously wealthy dealer in foreign magic, the man obsessed with revenge—but he was still the same person in many ways. He still remembered the dusty black wheels of cheese in his parents' cellar; he had been counting them for his grandfather when the dragons arrived, when his world had disintegrated around him.

  He shuddered at the memory, at the remembered taste of his

  grandfather's envenomed blood, at the sound of Grandsir's voice shouting at the dragons. He struggled to recall the exact words the old man had used.

  "May the dead gods curse you and all your kin, dragon," Grandsir had said. "Your time is over! You have no place in the Lands of Man!"

  That had not been true—but Arlian had been fighting ever since to make it true, to ensure that the dragons would never again have a place in the Lands of Man. He glanced at Ithar.

  Perhaps the gods were not all dead anymore. He glanced upward, at the stone ceiling. At least for the moment they were not all dead—and he wanted to keep it that way. If new gods arose, beneficent gods, then humanity might be given a new chance, a new world of peace and justice. Brook's baby was the harbinger of that world.

  He was not going to trust in anyone else to protect humanity's future. "You stay down here, all of you," he said. Then he turned and hurried back up the stairs, leaving the three children calling after him.

  Worried maids were standing nearby when he emerged. "Anyone who wants to leave may go, with my blessing. Any of you who would prefer to take refuge in the cellars are free to do so," he said, as he marched through the kitchen toward a certain storeroom. High-pitched voices, rustling skirts, and running feet behind him told him that his staff was taking him up on his offers of flight and refuge.

  Years before, before he had told anyone else of the dragons' vulnerability to obsidian, before he had become the Duke's warlord, before he had supplied obsidian for the spears and catapults that armed the city's soldiers, he had had an assortment of obsidian weapons made for himself. Before that, Lord Enziet, the former master of the Grey House and the sorcerer who had first theorized that obsidian might pierce a dragon's hide, had also attempted to make obsidian blades. A few of these assorted weapons were still stored away. Most of Arlian's obsidian armory had been turned over to the Duke's forces long ago, but a few of the earliest, crudest weapons had been left behind.