by Wesley King
8
Marcus groaned and rolled onto his back, lying sprawled out in the middle of a Draconian city street.
“We really need a better system,” he said.
Dree pulled herself up beside him, helping Jack up as well. “Agreed.”
There was a small trail of blood running down Dree’s cheek from the bullet. She touched it and winced.
“You okay?” Marcus asked.
She nodded. “Just grazed me.”
Marcus looked around as he stood up, massaging his sore shoulder. They were in the busy dragon market near the city center, lined with stalls and shoppers, and once again people seemed confused as they picked up their scattered, windblown possessions. Instead of newspapers and coffee cups, they were chasing after coiffed scarlet wigs, bizarre currency notes, and silken scarves. Many of the younger patrons were dressed in the new style: leather clothes and fire-resistant armor, shaved eyebrows, and necklaces, earrings, and rings of dragon teeth and scales. It was all a grim reminder of the dragon purge and the wave of terror that Francis Xidorne had unleashed.
People began to stare at them and mutter.
“We’d better go,” Dree said, taking charge. Her eyes tracked the stalls darkly, though, and Marcus knew she was barely restraining her anger. Those stalls were selling the body parts of dragons.
The three of them started quickly down the worn cobblestone, heading deeper into the crowd. The Draconians looked curiously at Marcus and Jack and their unusual attire.
“Incredible,” Jack whispered, staring at the strange city around them.
The drones weren’t attacking these more affluent areas, and the homes and buildings of red brick and gray mortar loomed around them, while steel chimneys spouted smoke in the distance. Metal was slapped onto the buildings in the form of doors, window frames, or sometimes with no purpose at all other than to show the owner’s wealth. Everything smelled of fire and ash.
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” Marcus said, thinking of Lourdvang and the other dragons.
Marcus was amazed by how . . . normal everything looked here. It was as if the residents weren’t even aware of the war raging outside their city. People were simply milling about, talking and laughing in their fang necklaces and gleaming ebony armor—crimson-dyed hair shaved into elaborate patterns or Mohawks. The market stalls were lining the streets even here, busy as ever, and Marcus saw more dragon fangs and scales—the emerald green of Outliers, the black of Nightwings, and the rarer gold of Sages. As always, there was no crimson. The Flames were untouched. Marcus felt his skin crawl at the sight and saw Dree eyeing the booths again with her fists clenched, but he squeezed her arm.
“We have to keep a low profile,” he reminded her.
The eastern mountains rose up before them, and Marcus knew that Dree’s family would be hiding in the caves there, hopefully safe from danger. He checked the sky—the drones would begin searching for them soon. They had to leave the city immediately, before Francis could track them down.
“So this is where you were born,” Jack said, glancing at Marcus.
Marcus nodded. “Apparently.”
“Do these people even care about what’s happening?” Dree said furiously, watching as a young couple walked past, laughing and holding hands.
“Easy,” he said.
Dree nodded, obviously trying to control herself. But Marcus could see in her eyes that she was struggling to keep herself calm. He watched her hands start to clench, and little tendrils of fire began to dance over her skin, fiery red intermingled with orange and yellow and even a radiant blue. It moved like the currents in a stream, traveling up her fingertips and dissipating into the air. Her eyes flashed.
“Dree,” he said, grabbing her arm gently. “Relax.”
Jack was watching her now. And he wasn’t alone. A few other people were glancing at her hands.
“I’m okay,” Dree said, shoving her hands into her pockets. But her bare arms were still blazing.
Marcus looked ahead and saw that two soldiers were walking down the street in their direction, holding long spears propped over their shoulder and dressed in gleaming black armor. Dragon armor. It was the Protectorate—Francis’s personal guard and warriors. And they were heading right for Dree, Marcus, and Jack.
“Come on,” Marcus said, pushing Dree toward an alley.
As soon as they were out of view, they took a sharp left, emerging onto another busy street. Marcus risked a look back and saw that the guards had walked away. They had lost them for the moment.
“We need to get out of the city fast,” Marcus said, eyeing Dree. “Keep it together, all right?”
“Fine,” Dree murmured, looking away.
They hurried out of the downtown core and soon found themselves in the outskirts of Dracone. At the sight, Marcus felt his stomach drop into his feet, and stinging, acrid bile crept up his throat, threatening to come out. There was no longer any question whether or not a war was raging here. Ruins lined the streets—houses and shops were blown to pieces, leaving only piles of charred wood and blackened stone. Half-burned toys and clothes lay scattered everywhere like fallen leaves. Worse still, ashen survivors sat huddled in the ruins, sitting around small fires and draping rags over the protruding wooden beams like curtains. In some places Marcus saw bodies covered with white sheets or shrouded in the dust. Silence reigned, broken only once in a while by a shout or a baby’s crying.
Marcus stopped, pressing his hand over his mouth. Dree was white as snow beside him.
“The drones did this?” Jack asked softly.
“Yes,” Marcus said. “In many places. And they have killed countless dragons by now too.”
Jack blanched, looking at another white-shrouded body. Marcus recognized the look on his face. He had been wearing the same one when he first came here. Guilt. Guilt for bringing the drones when he thought they had simply followed him back. And he still felt it eating away at his insides. Not guilt for anything he had done . . . he knew now that the drones had been tracking him from Dracone. This guilt was for his father. For bringing these terrible machines here in the first place.
“I . . . I never knew our invention might be used . . . for this,” Jack managed, sounding faint.
“It wasn’t the invention that did this,” Marcus said. “It’s the man who is using it.”
“So much death,” Jack said, still stunned.
“And that’s why we have to stop him,” Dree said, grabbing Marcus and leading him on.
They cut through the decimated streets, heading farther and farther out to where the houses had all been ramshackle wooden huts bordering the meadows. Now nothing was left but timber and ash. They passed a young woman sitting against a broken piece of wood. She glanced at them, and they saw that her face had been partially burned. Ash clouded her teeth.
“Hello,” Dree said, crouching down beside her.
She nodded. “Good day.”
Marcus saw two young kids sleeping on the ground, wrapped in threadbare blankets.
“When did this happen?” Marcus asked the woman.
She looked at him, and the blankness in her gray eyes struck him deeply.
“A week or two ago, I guess,” she said, her voice faint. “I think, anyway. The machines came in the night. Destroyed the block. It was all screams and fire. I don’t remember much.”
Dree knelt down beside her. “They didn’t give you any warning? No chance to run?”
She shook her head, and her knotted, filthy hair swayed over her gaunt cheeks. “No. We were asleep. This . . . this was our home.”
She looked at the pile of charred logs, and her dull eyes started to water.
Dree squeezed the woman’s hand. “We’re going to make them pay for this.”
The woman roughly wiped her eyes. “We can’t fight those things,” she said. “And we have
nowhere to go. Nothing to eat but rats and whatever wild potatoes I can find in the meadow. The machines . . . they said it was the rebels controlling them. But the machines don’t touch the city. They don’t.”
“They are controlled by Francis Xidorne,” Dree said. “He is doing this to you.”
She looked at Dree, frowning. “The Prime Minister?”
Dree nodded. “You can tell the others. Don’t trust him. He will wipe you all out if he can.”
She looked at Dree, and then at Marcus and Jack. “And you’re . . . you’re trying to stop him?”
“Yes,” she said. “We’re going to make him answer for all of this.”
She forced a smile. “I hope you do, girl. But if you’re fighting those machines, it’s no use. Best run far away if you can.”
Dree narrowed her eyes. “I won’t hide from that monster. Take care of yourself. Take care of your children. We’ll handle Xidorne.”
Dree stood up again, and the three of them started for the mountains. Dree stormed ahead, fuming.
“You can’t blame her for losing hope,” Marcus said, catching up to Dree.
“No,” Dree agreed coldly. “But we can save her.”
Marcus nodded and looked toward the mountains. “Yes. But not alone.”
When they finally reached the opening to the Nightwings’ lair, Forost, all three were exhausted. It had taken almost a full day to get there, as they traveled through the lush green valleys before finally scaling the mountain. It was already dark, and the sky was covered with a tapestry of stars, unfettered by light pollution. It was cold, and Jack shivered at the icy wind that was howling across the mountains.
Dree led the group into Forost, and they immediately felt dragon heat wash over them. The main cavern bordering the entrance was mostly empty, expect for a few Nightwings perched together in shadowy corners, speaking in their low, growling language. Jack froze, staring at one of them.
“Oh, right,” Marcus said, smiling. “These are dragons.”
“I see that,” Jack murmured. “I guess I didn’t know what to expect.”
“I still don’t,” Marcus agreed. “But we need to find Lourdvang—”
He was interrupted by an earsplitting roar that erupted in the cavern, causing Jack to stumble backward in surprise. Marcus turned to see Lourdvang racing across the chamber, almost at a full run. Dree shouted in delight and hugged his massive snout as he knelt down, nuzzling her.
Lourdvang snorted. “You took longer than you said you would,” he said, black smoke curling from his nostrils.
“We ran into some . . . issues,” Dree said.
The dragon stood up, towering over them. Marcus could just imagine what Jack was thinking. Lourdvang was about twenty feet tall, with great furled wings that could stretch out as long as a commercial jet. His skin was a shimmering ebony black, contrasted sharply by huge, icy-blue eyes.
But the most amazing thing about Lourdvang was the intelligence in his face—the expressive way that his eyes and mouth worked together, which was almost humanlike.
Marcus smiled up at him. “Hey, Lourdvang. This is my uncle Jack. He’s here to help.”
Jack’s eyes widened as Lourdvang looked him over, exposing his gigantic, two-foot-long fangs in something like a grin. Jack took a hesitant step backward, trying to force a smile.
“Hello,” he said weakly.
Lourdvang inclined his head, a sign of respect among dragons.
“Welcome, Jack. Any help is appreciated. The war turns against us.”
“Dree!” a shrill voice shouted out.
Abi came running out of the tunnels, followed closely by her mother. Even in the caves Abi still looked far more composed than Dree ever was: Her hair was neatly braided and tied with a ribbon, though there was just a bit of dirt visible on her usually scrubbed cheeks. Dree’s two little brothers were grabbing on to her mother’s legs as they jogged over. Marny and Otto looked just as wild and carefree as ever. Both had light brown hair, always overgrown and unruly, and were laughing gaily as they ran. Dree felt her spirits lighten at the sight of them.
She picked up Abi into a firm hug, squeezing her until she laughed and shouted to be let down. Then their mom wrapped her in an equally firm embrace, and Dree let herself relax, feeling like a kid again for a second. She knelt down and mussed up her younger brothers’ hair.
And then Rochin stepped up behind them, and her smile disappeared.
“What are you doing here?” Dree said coldly.
Erdath appeared as well, watching the encounter with his usual emotionless gaze.
“I . . . heard the family was in danger,” Rochin said. “I wanted to help. I’m sorry about the last time I saw you . . . in the apartment when the drone attack came. I didn’t mean to just run away like that. I was afraid. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“That’s because you’re a coward,” Dree spat. “Always have been.”
“Dree,” her mother said.
Rochin held up a hand. “It’s fine. I deserve that and more.”
“We can worry about that later,” Marcus said. “What’s happening out there?” he asked, turning to Erdath and Lourdvang.
The two dragons exchanged a grave look. “It’s not good,” Lourdvang said, exhaustion apparent in his voice. “The drone attacks have become more frequent in the last week. Both on the humans and my kin. The Outliers are nearly extinct. The great factory churns out more and more drones every day. They fill the skies now.”
“Did you get the Egg?” Erdath asked.
“Yes,” Dree said. “But it’s useless to us until we create another hybrid. We need time. And materials.”
“We have retrieved another fallen drone,” Lourdvang said. “But we need to do something in the meantime to stem the flow of drones. Too many humans and dragons are dying out there. The Resistance has made a plan to destroy the factory. To cut off Francis at the source and make sure he can’t create any more drones.”
Dree frowned. “The Resistance? What Resistance?”
Lourdvang looked at her for a moment, and then gestured with his head toward an adjoining cave—the same one where Marcus and Dree had built Baby Hybrid. Dree and Marcus started for the cavern, with Jack trailing close behind. He was still staring at the dragons in awe.
They reached the adjoining cavern, and Dree stopped in her tracks. There were about twenty men and women gathered in a circle, listening to someone speak. Charts and blueprints of the factory covered the walls. And in the middle of it all stood a man.
Dree stared at him in disbelief.
“Dad?”
Chapter
9
Dree stood in shock as her father rushed across the chamber, the others parting before him in near deference. Though Abelard’s back was still a little bent, he stood straighter than Dree had seen him since she was a child. For a moment, she saw a Dragon Rider striding across the room toward her, tall and proud and stern. It seemed almost surreal, like she had slipped into a dream. And then it was her father again, and he pulled her into a fierce hug, his strong arms wrapped around her.
Dree buried her head into his shoulders. She felt her eyes stinging with unexpected tears. It was like her father had returned from the dead, and now he could protect her.
She pulled away, looking at him in amazement. “But how? What is this? When did . . . who are these people?”
Abelard ran a thumb along her cheek, smiling as he wiped away a tear. His face was covered in heavy stubble that crept down his neck, while his chestnut hair was unruly and spotted with flecks of dried mud. “This is the Resistance, Dree,” he said. “Welcome.”
He turned to Marcus and clasped his hand.
“Good to see you again, son.”
“You too, sir,” Marcus replied, exchanging a surprised look with Dree. “You look . . . different.”
/> Abelard laughed, but a sudden hardness returned to his eyes. “Yes, I can imagine. A lot has happened since you were gone, even in so short a time. And yes . . . to me as well. But when the time came to stand up again, I think I realized that much of my broken body was here.” He tapped his temple.
“I had quit, Dree. And I’m sorry for that. Francis tried to beat me . . . but he didn’t finish the job. Perhaps I can finally hit back.” He gestured toward a huddled group. “Let me introduce you both to some people.”
He led them toward the group—about twenty strong—and a young man stepped forward. He had curly blond hair and bright blue eyes—he couldn’t have been older than fourteen. He was tall, though, with the broad, strong shoulders of a fighter. He shook Dree’s hand, squeezing hard.
He looked vaguely familiar, though she couldn’t place him.
“This is Nathaniel Terrowin,” Abelard said. “His mother was a great Rider, Allewyn Terrowin. Allewyn was in the Ruling Council when I was a Rider—she rode a wise old Sage named Olway. She passed away in the many years since, but her son is her spitting image. Nathaniel handles most of the missions into the city these days. He has been providing us with a lot of our intelligence.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you two,” Nathaniel said coolly. “Did you succeed on your mission?”
Dree bristled a little at the imperious tone in his voice. It reminded her of Master Wilhelm, her former employer, who treated her like she was dirt on his boots.
“Yes,” Dree said, meeting his cool gaze, before turning back to her father “And who are the rest of the Resistance fighters?”
Abelard led them around the cavern, shaking hands and greeting the rest of the Resistance. There was a vast range of ages and occupations—teenagers to elders, butchers to tailors to former soldiers. But the one defining factor was that this group represented the last of the Dragon Riders and their families—twelve of the twenty-one in all. Some were actually former Riders that had been disbanded by Francis Xidorne, while others were the children of those now dead. They met Ciaran Rose, the daughter of famed Rider Helene Rose, who had died in battle some fifteen years ago. Though strikingly beautiful with her dark eyes and long, raven hair, Ciaran seemed quiet and reserved, giving Dree a curt nod and shaking her hand. But Dree saw a familiar fire in her eyes when they talked about the drones—Ciaran was bursting with rage. Dree liked her already. She noticed Marcus flushing bright red when he shook her hand, so she assumed he did too.