Arlian selected the longest spear in the collection; he knew from experience just how far through a dragon's flesh a spearhead had to go to reach the monster's heart. With the weapon in hand he trotted up two flights of stairs, then made his way out onto a balcony overlooking the barren central courtyard. He looked up.
He could hear distant screams, and other sounds he did not immediately recognize—thumps and rattles and rustles. The square of sky overhead was dark with heavy clouds, but he could not see any dragons.
He could see the catapults on the roof—catapults that were not manned.
It would have been pleasant to have blamed the Duke for this failure, but Arlian knew better. This was his house, and he had installed those catapults long before the Duke began his intensive fortification of the city.
He and Black had also assigned Ferrezin and Wolt to see that they were manned, in the event the dragons ever came to Manfort—and Ferrezin was long since departed, while Wolt was recently dead. Black had been somewhat distracted of late, and was now in the cellars with his family, hardly in a position to help.
Arlian had stored a ladder on the balcony for exactly this purpose; he swung it into position and climbed.
A moment later he stepped onto the tile roof, then up onto the narrow platform below the catapults. The wood sagged slightly in places, and he suspected that the underside was partially rotted—he had not thought to ensure proper maintenance.
From this new, elevated post, Arlian looked out over Manfort.
To the north and slightly east stood the Citadel, which despite its name was a palace, with broad windows and wooden galleries; around it, and all through the Upper City, were more manors and mansions, built in a variety of styles and of a variety of materials. Many of these elegant homes were now topped with elaborate frameworks, most of them ugly mismatches for the architecture below—catapults with long throwing arms and hanging counterweights, equipped to fling obsidian-tipped projectiles at approaching dragons. Most of these devices, alas, were not manned.
Some of the mansions were already ablaze, the flames lighting the sky orange and adding black plumes of smoke to the unnatural overcast.
To the south and west lay most of the city, the lower, older areas built entirely of gray stone, the streets paved in stone; there was little there that would burn, little that a dragon's venom could penetrate. The Upper City, though, had been built during the Years of Man, the long centuries when the dragons slept in their caverns, bound by Enziet's bargain to emerge as rarely as they could tolerate; the buildings there had been designed for appearance and comfort, not fire-proofing.
The breeze blew from the Upper City and smelled of smoke—not
the normal odor of cook-stoves and hearths, but the reek of wood smoke and charred tiles.
The Grey House, on the edge of the Upper City, was the oldest mansion still standing, dating back to the previous Man-Dragon Wars; it was as fireproof as anything below, and considerably more defensible than most, as well as having the oldest catapults in Manfort, each ready to shoot four ten-foot spears.
Arlian paid little attention to the city itself, though; he was looking at the sky above it.
He had seen four dragons approaching before; two of them were still airborne over the Upper City, spraying flaming venom on the rapidly emptying streets below, but three or four spearshafts dangled from one monster's flank. As Arlian watched, more catapults thumped and more projectiles flew around the beasts without striking.
A third dragon was sprawled across a mansion roof, perhaps a
quarter-mile away; one of its wings had apparently been torn apart by a volley of black-tipped missiles, and it lay wounded, spouting flame and smoke. Arlian could not see the details at such a distance.
The fourth dragon had vanished, presumably slain.
That did not seem so very dreadful, but then Arlian looked out beyond the city walls, and saw more distant black shapes, almost invisible against the clouds.
More dragons. Those first four had been only the vanguard; now the main body was approaching.
They were soaring nearer, moving swiftly, black against the dark clouds, coming from every direction. He began trying to count them, but then quickly abandoned the effort as they veered back and forth, passing in front of one another, or slipping out of sight behind towers and rooftops.
He remembered that at the end of his last hunt he had estimated the total surviving population of dragons at forty-six, and a bark of bitter laughter escaped him. There were more than forty-six in sight. There were many more than forty-six. His quick estimate was that perhaps two hundred dragons were approaching—and who knew how many more
might be lurking beyond the horizon, or still safe in their caves? Exterminating the dragons was a far greater task than he had realized—but he had no intention of abandoning it.
For now, though, he was primarily concerned with surviving the coming battle. He lifted his spear in his left hand, and his right reached for the release lever of the nearest catapult.
47
A Sky Black with Dragons
A Sky Black with Dragons
Waiting until the last minute increased the chances of a killing strike, but it was perhaps the hardest thing Arlian had ever done, standing there holding the lever as the first dragon swooped down at him, talons outstretched, spraying a flaming cloud of venom. He ducked down, avoiding the flames, feeling the heat singe his sleeve but keeping his hand on the release.
And then the monster was right on top of him, a great black figure towering into the sky above him, and he pulled the lever down.
The latch slipped free, the weights dropped, and the throwing arm snapped forward, launching four heavy bolts at the dragon. Arlian did not pause to see the effect; he was already running to the next catapult The dragon screamed, and Arlian risked a glance back in time to see the creature flailing its wings wildly; three of the four bolts had struck its chest, clearly wounding it deeply.
None had penetrated to its heart, though; it still lived. Claws raked at the roof, sending shards of shattered tile spraying upward.
And then a sound behind him provided an instant's warning; Arlian threw himself sideways off the platform as an immense gout of flame roared past his ear.
He had forgotten where he was; his action sent him tumbling down the steep slope, and he barely caught himself before rolling off the edge.
He lay on the roof and looked up.
The wounded dragon was rampaging across the northeast corner of the roof, on the other side of the ridgepole, thrashing about as it tore at the spearheads in its chest.
Another dragon now perched on the northwest corner, smiling at him, smoke trailing from its nostrils, venom dripping from its jaw. He recognized its face—this was one he had seen in the cave in the Shoulderbone.
Three more dragons were settling onto the southern side of the roof, on the far side of the central courtyard; their spread wings over-lapped, the six extended membranes easily reaching from one corner of the mansion to the other. A shadow passed overhead, and Arlian looked up to see still more dragons flying above the Grey House. The sky was black with them.
This, of course, was where they were headed—all of them were coming to the Grey House. They had not come to destroy Manfort; they had come to kill Ithar, and to ensure that no more like him were created.
Arlian scrabbled up the roof as quickly as he could, trying to act before the dragons could react; the pain and stiffness in his right shoulder slowed him, but he was able to leap up and grab the release lever on the next catapult.
He yanked down, not bothering to aim. The mechanism thumped,
the weights dropped, and air whistled across wood and obsidian as another four projectiles flew.
One glanced off the wing of the nearest dragon while the other three sailed past it, and Arlian realized that he had no hope of inflicting real damage, or even surviving, if he remained on the roof—the dragons were too close, and too many. He droppe
d, and let himself slide down the tiles, barely catching himself on the waiting ladder.
A great black claw reached down after him but missed, breaking half a dozen tiles and tearing a gouge in the roof. As Arlian half climbed, half slid down the ladder he found himself thinking foolishly that the roof would probably leak now, with all those tiles broken.
Then he was on the balcony, but he knew that provided no safety; one of the dragons on the southern side of the courtyard was stooping, stretching its long neck down into the square and preparing to spit venom. Arlian grabbed up his heavy spear and ducked through the door into the house as the toxin sprayed toward him.
The fluid failed to ignite—that sometimes happened, he knew, and when it did the foul stuff would dissolve or corrode whatever organic material it touched, instead of burning.
But it would also be recoverable from the stone pavement below—if he and the city somehow survived this, that would be another few ounces of venom that could be collected, mixed with human blood, and fed to pregnant women to create more godlings.
And that was what must be done, he realized as he hurried toward the stairs—more godlings must be made, as quickly as possible. Ithar was precious at present because he was unique, but if there were a hundred baby gods and goddesses, or a thousand, how could the dragons hope to kill them all?
He stumbled, then, as a thought struck him—surely, the dragons knew that was possible. They needed to destroy not just Ithar, but all knowledge of his existence and the means of his creation.
That meant they would try to kill every single person in Lord Obsidian's household; Arlian had not kept Ithar's nature and origin a secret. On the contrary, he had boasted of it.
He had not only told his own staff, he had informed the Duke of his experiment. He had sent word to Lady Rime when Ithar was born, and her entire household undoubtedly knew, just as Arlian's did.
Did the dragons know that?
Word had probably not spread much beyond those three resi-
dences—the Grey House, Rime's estate, and the Citadel. The Duke would almost certainly have said something in confidence to his more trusted advisors, such as Zaner and Spider, but most of the court would not have heard any details. If the dragons destroyed those three buildings and their inhabitants, the knowledge might well be lost.
But did the dragons know that?
They might think killing Arlian and Black and Black's family would be sufficient—or they might think all of Manfort must be destroyed.
The sound of his own feet on the stone as he ran down the stairs was almost lost in the roaring chaos outside; he could hear dragons bellow-ing, flames crackling, men and women screaming, and a thousand other noises.
He tried to think what he could do, how he could help. He could simply join the battle outside, try to kill as many dragons as possible before they killed him, but he doubted that would end well; he was not in his best shape, as he was reminded every time he grabbed at the balustrade with his right hand and felt his shoulder tear. He could try to get out of the city, to spread the word of Ithar's birth throughout the Lands of Man—but that felt like abandoning his people, and besides, how could he hope to make his way out of Manfort without being found by the dragons? He was a dragonheart, and he had come to believe, after years of experience in dealing with the beasts, that that meant the dragons could locate him anywhere, could sense the whereabouts of the thing growing in his blood—perhaps not all the dragons, but certainly the one that had first contaminated him, the one that had killed Grandsir so long ago. Even if he somehow got outside the walls, the dragons would hunt him down. Their hired assassins had always been able to find him; now that the dragons themselves had emerged and joined the fray, he suspected he did not have long to live in any case.
But if he could get Ithar out of the city—or at the very least, knowledge of how he had been made—there might be hope.
A gigantic crash sounded somewhere above him, and the entire
house seemed to shake; plaster dust sifted down the stairwell. The dragons were trying to tear open the house to get at him.
He headed for the kitchen and the cellar stair as the rumble of falling stone echoed down the passageway.
Lord Enziet had lived in this house for centuries, Arlian remembered. Arlian had thought that Enziet had liked it because he believed even the dragons would not be able to penetrate the thick stone walls, but if so, then going by the sounds overhead Enziet had been wrong.
And Enziet was rarely wrong, Arlian admitted to himself. He had probably known that these stone walls would not stop a determined dragon.
And Enziet always prepared for every eventuality. Arlian slowed his pace as a thought began to form.
Enziet had always prepared for contingencies, always. And he had slipped out of the city unnoticed when the Dragon Society had summoned him for an infraction of the Society's rules. Had Enziet had some secret means of escape from the Grey House? Was there a hidden tunnel, perhaps?
That would be entirely in keeping with Enziet's character, and the man had certainly had plenty of time to build one. The logical place would obviously be the cellars . . .
Arlian renewed his speed and hastened to the kitchen, and to the cellar door.
As he descended the dark stairs, though, another thought struck him. If there was a tunnel, and he sent Black and Brook and Ithar and the rest out through it, he did not dare go with them—as a dragonheart, his presence would give away their location.
And, he realized, Brook was a dragonheart, as w e l l . . .
"By the dead gods," he murmured to himself. Separating a mother from her newborn child, in order to protect the child?
But what choice did they have?
And Brook had no feet. Her wheeled chair, clever as it was, could not traverse stairs or rough country, and there was no way of knowing where the tunnel, if it existed, might lead. She would almost certainly have been an unmanageable burden in any case.
But would she accept that? Would Black accept it?
Black was waiting for him at the foot of the stair, candle in one hand and sword in the other; in the gloom behind him Arlian glimpsed several of the household servants, Brook in her chair with her children clustered about her and her babe in her arms, Lilsinir with a heavy bag slung over one shoulder—Arlian had no idea how the Aritheian had gotten there, but was relieved to see she was alive and well, and he recognized the sack as the one she used for transporting her magical and medical supplies.
That was good; if they lived through this, those medical supplies might be important.
"Ari," Black said, "what's happening up there?"
"Dragons are attacking Manfort," Arlian replied. "Hundreds of them—quite possibly all that are left alive in the entire world." He pointed at Brook and Ithar, barely visible in the shadows. "They're after the baby. We need to get him out of here."
"It's more than a mile to the city gates," Black said.
"I know," Arlian said. "But it occurred to me—do you think Enziet might have had an escape tunnel down here?"
Black stared at him for a moment, his face impossible to read in the dim and flickering candlelight. "Of course he would," he said at last, sheathing his sword. "He was Enziet. That's exactly the sort of thing he would do." He turned and shouted, "Children! All of you! Look for a door or a tunnel—perhaps hidden behind something!"
There was a great scurrying, and lamps flared as Kerzia and Amberdine, and Stammer and Lilsinir and the maids and footmen, began searching the cellar walls. They scattered, leaving Brook hesitating in her chair, holding Ithar and watching her husband and Arlian.
"There's something else," Arlian said, as Black started to turn away to join the hunt.
Black paused. "Yes?"
Arlian beckoned, and led his steward over to Brook. There he knelt and whispered, "The dragons are tearing down the house above us." He pointed upward, and the crashing of falling stone confirmed his words.
"They want Ithar."
"They know where I am," Arlian said. "Because I'm a dragonheart.
The dragon who poisoned me, all those years ago, can sense where I am because I bear his spawn in my heart."
"Then how . . . " Brook began, but Black held up a hand, and she fell silent.
"If we find an escape tunnel, then Black and the children and servants must take Ithar and flee—but I will stay here, and fight any dragon that finds its way this far down. I mustn't go, or the dragons will be able to follow."
"Ari . . ."
"You said Black and the children," Brook said, interrupting her husband.
Arlian looked her in the eye. "Yes," he said.
"Because I'm a dragonheart, too."
"Yes. And the venom came from that same dragon. If it can find me, it can find you."
"So I must stay, too." She spoke calmly, but Arlian could see her hands trembling, could see how wide her eyes were.
"Or flee by another route, perhaps," he said. "I can scarcely ask you to fight at my side. I can carry you up the stairs . | . "
"Ari, are you mad?" Black growled. "Leave Brook here? Take Ithar away from her?"
"You need to save the baby, take him where the dragons cannot find him, tell everyone how to make more like him. If there is just one godling, the dragons will hunt him down, sooner or later; if there are a thousand, what can they do? Take him, to show everyone what can be done, how we can use our land's magic to make the world a better place, how we can have magic that heals rather than poisons us."
"Ari, Brook is my wife. Yes, I want to save Ithar, and all my children, but I am not going to leave my wife!"
"Yes, you are," Brook said, thrusting the baby toward him.
Black blinked. "What?"
"Save the children. Leave me. Better Arlian and I die and the rest of you live than that we all die."
Black stared at her.
Dragon Venom (Obsidian Chronicles Book 3) Page 39