Dragon Venom (Obsidian Chronicles Book 3)

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  "Tell others," he said, when he had finished. "Tell everyone. There are dead dragons scattered across the city, and each holds enough venom to make a hundred new gods." If the word spread far enough, fret enough, the dragons would be unable to contain it, unable to suppress it. "You understand?"

  The soldiers nodded. Arlian handed over the jar of venom; then he went in search of more recruits, more bottles and jars, more venom.

  For hours he ranged through the city, picking his way across fields of rubble, dodging scattered fires, avoiding flame and venom, occasionally hiding from swooping dragons—but everywhere that he found the corpses of dragons he harvested their venom, and everywhere he could find anyone able to listen he explained and cajoled, and distributed the venom he had gathered. Evening wore on into night, and the first hint of dawn, faint behind the thick layers of smoke and cloud, touched the eastern horizon.

  Arlian was on a rooftop, speaking to the crew of a catapult, when a dragon screamed high overhead, wheeled and plummeted—not randomly, but clearly aiming at a specific target. The catapult crew heaved the heavy mechanism around and fired.

  "There," Arlian said, pointing, as the missiles flew. "Perhaps someone has done as I directed; it may be that the dragon senses the creation of its most feared enemy."

  Most of the spears missed the hurtling dragon, but one tore through its wing, sending it spinning out of control. Another barrage of obsidian struck at it from another rooftop catapult, and it fell.

  "If someone has contaminated a woman, as you say, then that means another dragonheart," one of the soldiers said. "And in a thousand years, another dragon."

  "Perhaps, perhaps not; we have the means to prevent it, and a thousand years is a very long time," Arlian said, satisfied, as he gazed down over the parapet at the streets below.

  He remembered that he had intended to find and either kill or cleanse every dragonheart, once he had killed every dragon, yet here he was, cheerfully creating more—but he considered the bargain entirely worthwhile. For every god created, there was a dragonheart, yes—but the god would arrive in no more than nine months, the dragon not for a millennium. Dragonhearts could be cleansed. Dragons could be slain—

  or if his foes had spoken the truth, controlled by the words of a god.

  A thousand years from now the world might look very different indeed. The arrival of dozens or hundreds of new dragons might well be of no great consequence by then, in a land protected by dozens of gods.

  And it would certainly be no worse than the past. Arlian now knew that when he was born the caverns beneath the Lands of Man had held perhaps three hundred dragons, perhaps more, perhaps many more—

  but he had slain more than eighty of them, and now dozens had perished in this desperate attack on Manfort. Unless there were hundreds still lurking in caverns, hundreds that had never joined in the attacks, then roughly one-third to one-half of the dragons' entire population must have died in his lifetime. Allowing a replenishment centuries in the future did not seem unforgivable.

  Hundreds of innocent men and women had undoubtedly died as

  well, and much of the city had been destroyed, but there was little Arlian could have done—he had had no way of knowing the dragons would be so desperate as to attempt a direct assault into the massive defenses the Duke had built. He had not known that little Ithar would be so great a threat to them.

  They had come to Manfort inviting death, and they had received it—and that meant that more of the land's magic would be free. More gods must be created, not merely to control the dragons, not merely for the sake of future generations, but to absorb that magic so that the borders of the Lands of Man might hold.

  Arlian watched the dragon tumble into the street, where a dozen spearmen waited, then turned to the ladder. He had delivered his message to the crew, as he had to scores of others throughout the city, and he was on the verge of collapsing from exhaustion; he had been awake and active for almost twenty-four hours now. He descended from the rooftop and looked around, then up.

  The number of dragons weaving in and out of the low-hanging firelit clouds over the city was greatly diminished; many of the survivors were tiring of the attack, and the less determined had already departed, returning to their lairs. Only a scattered handful still seemed determined to strike, flinging themselves desperately earthward despite the obsidian defenses, trying to strike what blows they still could against their multiplying unborn foes.

  It was time to return to the tunnel, to bring Black and his family and the rest of the staff some food and drink- Arlian had collected supplies from military stores and abandoned houses in the course of his wander-ing; now he hefted a heavy pack onto his back, picked up a long spear he had found in the street, and headed for the house where the tunnel entrance lay.

  He was climbing past the skull of the dead dragon when he heard a rush of air and looked up.

  Another dragon, very much alive, was swooping down toward him; spears protruded from its flank and one wing was torn.

  And he recognized its face.

  You have betrayed us, it said. Already there are twenty, thirty new godlings in the wombs of this city's women. You could not wait another few years? You could not give us time to prepare?

  "Betrayed you?" Arlian shouted, raising the spear. "How can I betray a sworn enemy? I made no promises to you—Indeed, I swore long ago to destroy you, as you destroyed my home!"

  The dragon's reply was a burst of venom—but the fluid failed to ignite, and Arlian easily avoided most of the spray. Despite his exhaustion and the heavy pack on his back he sprinted across the shattered room to a stairway, and ran up the steps.

  The dragon dove into the house after him, and the floor shook beneath Arlian as he turned the corner at the top of the stairs, doubling back toward the open end of the upstairs hall.

  The dragon had thrust its head into the downstairs room, not realizing what Arlian intended; it was unable to withdraw or dodge in time.

  Arlian charged off the end of the broken floor, and landed atop the dragon's shoulders.

  No! The dragon's single word seemed to echo in Arlian's mind as the monster lifted its head, smashing the remainder of the upstairs hall, sending stone and wood flying in all directions.

  It was too late; Arlian plunged his spear into its back, sliding the obsidian point between two of the beast's ribs. He jumped, putting his entire weight onto the shaft, and the spear sank through a dozen feet of flesh and into the monster's black heart.

  Blood bubbled up, and the dragon thrashed briefly, then died, eyes open and staring blindly at a crooked sconce that still clung to one wall of the ruined house.

  Arlian stood atop the dying beast for a long moment, looking down at it.

  "Grandsir, you are avenged," he said.

  But it felt no different than the slaying of any other dragon—empty.

  His taste for revenge was gone.

  He had thought that this one might be different. This was the dragon, after all, the one he had sought for so long, the one for which all those others had been inadequate substitutes—but his strongest response to its death was merely a faint disappointment.

  When he had killed the other dragon in the kitchen of the Grey House he had been too busy to think about what he had done, to realize that he had finally killed one of the three dragons that had destroyed the village of Obsidian so long ago, and when the realization had sunk in later he had thought the lack of immediacy explained the emotional void, the lack of satisfaction he felt.

  This time, though, he had known exactly what he was doing, what he was killing, what oaths he was fulfilling—and he still felt little more than fatigue and a dull sense of relief that he had survived.

  He thought that perhaps he could blame this on his nature as a dragonheart, on the taint in his heart and blood, on the diminution of his soul—but he did not entirely believe that.

  The truth was simply that the flame of hatred, the need for revenge, had faded with time, unt
il vengeance had become merely a habit.

  Perhaps now, with this particular dragon gone, he could break that habit. He looked up at last—and saw three more dragons dropping toward him from the clouds.

  "Damn," he said. He tugged at the spear, but it had lodged against a rib, and he could not free it; he released it and half scrambled, half slid down the dragon's flank.

  There were other spears dangling from the monster's shriveling flesh, but there were three dragons coming toward him; he abandoned any thought of fighting, and instead ran for the fireplace.

  He had passed through the fireplace itself, and through the wedged-open stone door, and was beginning to think himself safe, when the great gout of burning venom swept down upon him, knocking him off his feet and burning the hair from his head, burning his clothing from his arms and legs, burning away much of his flesh. Only the massive pack on his back protected his head and body and kept him alive.

  He felt it all. He felt the skin tearing and peeling from his limbs, felt his blood burning from the exposed flesh, felt his hair flare up like a torch as his legs weakened and he tumbled forward. He had time for a single scream, and then the agony became unbearable and he fell unconscious to the tunnel floor.

  51

  Aftermath

  Arlian blinked, trying to understand what he was seeing and feeling.

  He was lying on his back on something hard, looking up at a pattern of dark squares edged in gold. He could smell lamp oil and dust, and the light on the ceiling, if it was a ceiling, was the orange of lamplight. He felt no pain, no weariness, though his last memory was of exhaustion and agony.

  He was, however, desperately thirsty.

  And he felt strange, in a way he could not describe, as if his blood had somehow become simultaneously warmer and cooler.

  This made no sense. He had been burned in dragonfire; he should be suffering horribly, but he was not.

  He cautiously lifted a hand, expecting a jolt of pain, but there was no pain. He turned his head carefully to look, to make certain his hand had actually moved. It had—and beyond it he saw a cabinet with a row of human skulls arranged atop it, and he knew where he was.

  He was in the hall of the Dragon Society, in their old headquarters on the Street of the Black Spire, deserted since the Society was driven from the city by the Duke's orders. The dark squares overhead were the coffered and gilded ceiling.

  And he was lying on a table.

  "What..." he said, his voice a croak.

  "He's awake!" Kerzia's voice called. "Look, he's awake!"

  Clothing rustled, chairs scraped on the floor, voices muttered, and a moment later Arlian found himself being helped into a sitting position, surrounded by familiar, concerned faces—Black, Brook, their children, and Lilsinir. None of the other servants were there.

  And now there was pain—faint discomfort, really, as if from a very old injury—in his chest. He looked down, and for the first time realized that he was naked, his lower body covered only by a sheet.

  His chest was bare, and a long, thick scar ran down the center. He could not see the top, but the bottom was at the base of his rib cage.

  He had seen such a scar before. He turned to Lilsinir. She nodded.

  Then Black was handing him a waterskin, and he put aside further questions long enough to drink deeply.

  When his thirst had been assuaged he swallowed, coughed, and

  asked, "What happened?"

  Several voices spoke at once, but he raised his hands for silence—

  noticing, as he did, that his right shoulder was entirely healed—and then gestured to Black.

  "What happened?" he asked again. "How long have I been here?"

  "Two days," Black said. "Almost three, really."

  Arlian looked down at his chest again, then at Black. He did not bother to put his question into words; the meaning was obvious. The scar on his chest gave every appearance of being weeks or months old, not mere days.

  "Ithar healed you," Black explained.

  Arlian closed his eyes, then opened them again. "Start at the beginning," he said. "The last thing I remember is running into the tunnel, and being caught from behind by dragonfire."

  "You screamed," Black said. "We heard you, from farther up the tunnel, and found you dying of your burns—from the venom, more than the flame, I suppose, but whatever the cause the flesh had been eaten down to the bone in places, your blood boiled away. Any ordinary man would have been dead before we got there, but you, of course, were a dragonheart—and that was both your salvation and your doom. Ithar would or could do nothing for you, because of the heart of the dragon—

  at least, so we assume; he cannot tell us why, but he would not touch you. Lilsinir could keep you alive for a time, but could not heal so much damage. She removed your heart and cleaned it of the dragon's taint, and when it was restored to your body, then when we brought Ithar to you, his touch healed you."

  "Clever," Arlian said. "Thank you." He looked around, and spotted Ithar sleeping in his mother's arms, tiny and peaceful, a picture of divine serenity. "Thank you," he repeated. The baby did not stir.

  "We used the side tunnel to bring you here," Black continued. "It seemed the safest place at the time."

  "Indeed," Arlian said. "Well done. I take it, from Ithar's presence, that the last few dragons broke off their attack?"

  "Few dragons survive, so far as we can tell," Black replied. "The clouds broke yesterday, and it rained half a day; today the sun is out, and the weather is cool. There is no sign of the remaining dragons."

  "Many fled before the battle was over," Arlian said, remembering.

  "They have their factions and quarrels, just as we do, and not all of them chose to fight to the end. I have no doubt that many survive—but I would assume the fighters, the troublemakers, were the ones that died."

  "That would make sense."

  "Are there many dead ones?"

  "Scores of them, strewn about the city and the surrounding towns.

  There is a trench above the tunnel where we hid that's filled with them, like the offal pit in a butcher's shop—they tried to burrow down to us, and Quickhand brought a party of spearmen who slaughtered them while they were confined there."

  "Quickhand?"

  "Yes—he took charge of much of the defense, since so many officers of the guard died in the destruction of the Citadel, and since he had experience in slaying dragons."

  "Ah! Good for him. And there were dead dragons as a result."

  "Scores of them, as I said. We have been collecting their venom, trying to get as much as possible before the sacs rot away, so that we can create more beings like Ithar, and we have been successful; I think almost every mother-to-be in Manfort now carries a child that's more than mortal."

  "That should be enough, I would think," Arlian said. "After all, we need merely ensure that the land's free magic is not permitted to reach unsafe levels; there's no need to create an entire population of gods."

  "The remaining venom may have its uses, all the same," Black said.

  Arlian nodded. He felt no need to argue the point. "Save some of the bone, too," he said. "The fangs in particular."

  "Why?"

  Arlian glanced at Brook and Ithar. "I'll explain later," he said. He looked around. "Where are Stammer and Venlin and the rest?"

  "Safe at Obsidian House. They had no reason to stay here, and the damage there was slight."

  "And why did you all stay?"

  "Lilsinir and Ithar stayed in case you needed further healing, and the rest of us stayed to be with Ithar. We are all a single family, you know."

  "Of course." He looked at Brook and nodded. "Has the babe . . . "

  He stopped, unsure how to complete his question.

  "He sleeps most of the time," Brook said. "Like any baby. He does not nurse; when he wakes he looks about himself, and if he sees anyone in pain—well, anyone but a dragonheart—he reaches out to touch and heal. And when he has healed, he goes back
to sleep. It is as if he drinks the pain of others as his mother's milk."

  "We have told others," Black said. "But Ithar has his limits; he can only do so much before dozing off, and if awakened he cries like any other infant and will do no more until he has rested. Since the dragons departed and we emerged from the tunnel we have taken him among the injured, and allowed the injured to be brought to him, but we save his touch for those who need it most, those who would die without it, or whose suffering seems greatest."

  "Those like me."

  "Yes. And even then, there are too many for him to attend them all."

  Arlian considered that, and considered Ithar. He was just one godling—but there were others on the way.

  The world would be a different place with such beings in it, there could be no doubt of that. Arlian tried to imagine what it would be like.

  Miraculous healing might be only the beginning of the gods' power; the world might be transformed into a paradise.

  Or not. After all, while the ancient legends spoke of the days of the old gods as a golden age, those days had ended long ago and legends often exaggerated. There were the darker elements—the fact that the gods could not exist without dragons, that the dead gods had once fed their dragons human souls.

  Dragonbone could kill gods, if it ever became necessary. He would want to make certain that secret was never lost—but he hoped it would never be needed.

  The next few years would be interesting, with dozens of newborn gods growing up in and around Manfort, and Arlian was intrigued that he would be there to see them.

  For now, though, there were more mundane matters to consider.

  He looked down at himself again. "By any chance, have I any clothing? "

  "I'm afraid all yours was in the Grey House. What little we found in the rubble had all been ruined by the fires," Black said.

  "Are there any tailors left alive? How fares the city?"

  Black exchanged glances with the others.

  "It's hard to be certain how Manfort fares," he said. "I spent most of yesterday inquiring after its well-being, though. Most of the population seems to have survived; after all, the dragons were not particularly trying to kill anyone but us. The Upper City, though, was largely destroyed. The Citadel is embers and ash—and the Duke of Manfort is dead, along with his wife and most of his court, with no known surviving heir. He died valiantly, commanding his soldiers, Arlian—I always thought him a fool and a wastrel, but I will never deny his courage, as he made no attempt to flee."