Dragonseed da-3

by James Maxey

  VULPINE WATCHED AS the small, shadowy figure crept up the hill. Sagen shook his head in amazement.

  "I can't believe he fell for that," said Sagen.

  Vulpine chuckled. "I'm a bit surprised myself. You lack talent as an actor, I fear. Could you possibly have been any more wooden in the delivery of your lines?"

  "I'm a soldier, not an actor," said Sagen.

  Vulpine placed his fore-talon on Sagen's shoulder. "I cannot possibly express how happy I am this is so."

  Sagen looked away, embarrassed by the praise. He watched as the boy vanished over the hill. "You're sure he's infected?"

  "He'd better be. I'd hate to think I carried him wrapped in that reeking corpse blanket all this way for nothing. But if we waited for him to develop symptoms, it would be too late. We need him to get inside while he still looks healthy. How goes the blockade?"

  "It's… solid," said Sagen.

  "I sense some doubt in your voice."

  Sagen shook his head. "There's no need for concern. The blockade is perfect. We're penning up the healthy humans we find on the road as you ordered. Whatever their lives once were, they'll be sent to the slave markets. I did, however, deviate slightly from your orders."

  "Oh?"

  "I've allowed some of the more pathetic refugees to pass through. Men who are too blind, lame, or old to be of any use. My calculation is that this gives the humans more mouths to feed without giving them any more warriors to stand against us."

  Vulpine nodded slowly, appreciating his son's cleverness.

  Sagen still seemed tense, however. "There is… one more thing."

  "Yes?"

  "Some of the guard has gone missing."

  "Some?"

  "Four."

  "Do you suspect humans killed them?"

  Sagen clamped his jaw shut. He looked as if he were choosing his next words carefully. "I must also report that four valkyries have gone missing."

  "Ah," said Vulpine. "I see why the math concerns you."

  "The members of my guard are unaccustomed to working so closely with females, sir. I've noticed… unprofessional behavior. I've established the highest standards of discipline possible, but… bluntly, sir, I don't trust the valkyries. Their commander for this blockade is named Arifiel. She's too young for her duties. I fear she can't keep her soldiers in control."

  "I've never heard of her, I admit. Still, her youth is unsurprising. The Nest lost over 800 valkyries to the Murder God. I imagine this created gaps in their ranks that required many premature promotions. That said, the matriarch is committed to this cause and wouldn't have chosen Arifiel lightly. I'll talk to her."

  Sagen nodded, apparently satisfied that Vulpine would solve the problem. Vulpine wasn't as confident. There was a reason the sexes had been separated for centuries. Military discipline was a powerful force; hormones and instinct, however, were just as powerful, and sometimes more so.

  "Shall I continue the policy of allowing the more pathetic refugees access to the fort? Arifiel disagreed with the policy. She said that, should the rebels eventually turn to cannibalism to deal with food shortages, we're simply helping stock their larder."

  "If it reaches that stage," said Vulpine, staring at the blood-tinted clouds that hung over the fort like an omen of doom, "I think we can chalk this up as a victory."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN:

  VIOLENCE AS AN ACCEPTABLE ARGUMENT

  SKITTER RACED DOWN the winding hillside path at a speed that would have put the fastest horse to shame. The winter wind stung Bitterwood's eyes. Whenever he blinked, dozens of yards had passed. At the bottom of the hill was a broad rocky stream crossed by a covered bridge. Skitter shot into the darkness of the bridge without hesitation. His claws raced through the wooden structure like a drum roll. A second later they were back in daylight, and Bitterwood squinted as the sun glinted on Skitter's coppery scales.

  When Bitterwood first laid eyes on a long-wyrm he hadn't put any thought into whether or not he should kill it. It was big, it had scales, it would die. He had dispatched that first long-wyrm in a matter of seconds, despite being armed with nothing more than a fireplace poker. Twenty years of constant war with dragons had honed his reflexes to a razor's edge, and his pure and total hatred of all dragons was quick to draw that edge across any serpentine throat.

  So Bitterwood was a more than a little disturbed that he was starting to like Skitter. Over the course of his personal war on dragons, he'd traveled many thousand miles on horseback. He was, among his almost endless list of sins, a horse-thief many times over. He'd developed good judgment in sizing up any horse he met. Skitter surpassed them all. The big lizard could gallop along at twice the speed of the swiftest steed. His stamina was phenomenal as well. No horse could cover a hundred miles before resting the way Skitter could. And when Bitterwood had ridden horses at a full gallop for even a few miles, his body paid for it. Riding a horse at full speed was demanding work. Riding Skitter was like riding the wind. He moved with such smoothness it was easy to believe the beast was flying.

  If it had only been Skitter's advantages as a steed that Bitterwood admired, he wouldn't have been uncomfortable. He was also starting to appreciate the aesthetics of the beast. The copper-colored scales caught the sun the way that goldfish had flashed in the fountains at Chakthalla's palace. The sheen also reminded him of the metallic wings of the angel Gabriel. Bitterwood had slain Gabriel without remorse. When Zeeky had found Skitter on the shores of the goddess's island, Bitterwood had assumed he'd eventually kill the beast. Now, he couldn't imagine hurting Skitter. Riding the long-wyrm stirred unfamiliar emotions within him. As they crested the next hill and zoomed down into another gray-green valley he felt something he suspected might be joy. For two decades, he'd seldom felt a moment of peace, let alone happiness.

  Something was changing within him. Instead of planning his next kill, his thoughts these days were more like dreams. He would rescue Jeremiah, then take the boy and Zeeky, Skitter and, yes, even Poocher, and ride far away from here, beyond the Cursed Mountains, to a land where there were no men or dragons. He'd build a small cabin, and hunt deer rather than winged serpents. He could once again have a family, or something not unlike a family.

  The idea made him… hopeful? Could this actually be hope? He frowned, remembering his advice to Jandra in the shadow of the Free City.

  Life is easier without hope.

  NIGHT HAD FALLEN when they finally reached the caverns. The bones scattered around the big hole were stark white in the pale moonlight. Red light glowed deep inside the cavern, and smoke rose from dozens of holes around the forests. The ground beneath them vibrated and an unearthly howl rose from the mouth of the cave. It was the sound of dozens of dragons singing in unison.

  Bitterwood watched from a grove of trees at the edge of the bone-field as a trio of sun-dragons spiraled down from the sky and crawled into the hole, summoned by the otherworldly song.

  Bitterwood grunted at the new arrivals. "Beastialists," he said.

  "Beastialists?" asked Zeeky.

  "You noticed none of them carried spears? Beastialists think it's a show of weakness. They believe the only weapons a dragon needs are his teeth, his only armor his hide."

  "Their hide looks pretty tough to me," she said, as yet another big bull dragon drifted down to land in the bone-field. It paused, sniffing the air. Bitterwood tensed. Could it smell Skitter? Finally, the dragon turned and skulked into the cavern.

  "Trust me," said Bitterwood. "Sun-dragon hide is tough enough. Hit a dragon on his breast scales with the edge of a sword and you'll be lucky to scratch him. But I can put an arrow through two inches of oak-a dragon's hide isn't as tough as that. Once an arrow has punched through the hide, the veins of a dragon bleed as freely as any other animal."

  "You really know a lot about dragons," said Zeeky. She was finally accepting the fact that Bitterwood was, in fact, Bitterwood. When they'd first met, she thought he was lying.

  "I've taken enough apart to kno
w how they're put together. The breast scales are tough, but there are plenty of spots on a dragon where the hide is no thicker than your skin, some with big arteries right beneath them. I can kill a dragon without damaging the meat if I need to. I'd make a good butcher."

  Zeeky furrowed her brow. "You wouldn't eat a dragon, would you?" She had strong opinions on what should and should not be food.

  "Fighting dragons is hard work," he said, apologetically. "I get hungry."

  He looked at Poocher, who he could swear was grinning. The pig appeared to be taking pleasure at Bitterwood's discomfort. "I told you I was a dragon-slayer when I met you," he said. "If I'm willing to kill them, I should be willing to eat them. It would be wasteful otherwise."

  "You killed Jazz also," Zeeky said. "And all those long-wyrm riders. Would you have eaten them?"

  "I'm not a cannibal."

  "Dragons talk," Zeeky said. "Even you can understand them. I talk with dogs and owls and horses. I talk with long-wyrms and ravens and pigs. They're all smart creatures who don't deserve to be eaten."

  Poocher snorted, as if saying, "Amen!" Bitterwood didn't plan on giving up bacon, but right now wasn't the time to debate it.

  "I don't want you eating dragons any more," she said.

  "Do you mind if I go in now? I should warn you I might kill a dragon or two trying to save your brother."

  "There's a difference between killing to eat and killing to save a life," she said patiently.

  Bitterwood grabbed a fist-sized chunk of half-inch rope from the saddle bags. The rope was lightweight; it was also a vibrant shade of pink that glowed faintly in the gloom. They'd found this fragment of rope in the kingdom of the goddess. It was, as near as he could determine, unbreakable. It was also sensitive to his thoughts, just as Gabriel's sword had been. It would grow as long as he wanted it to grow and never get any heavier. With a thought, the rope would shrink back to this convenient size. He had no idea why it worked, but, like his new bow and arrow, he found it hard to remember how he'd ever gotten along without it.

  "I scouted this area five years ago," he said. "I wiggled down some of chimney holes into the main cavern. I came here to kill Rorg, but had to abandon the mission. Since he was always surrounded by his family, it was too risky a fight."

  "The way you throw yourself into a fight, I didn't know you were worried about risk," said Zeeky.

  "I spent a lot of years tracking down dragons responsible for the atrocities at Conyers," he said. "Albekizan, was, of course, the big target. Rorg was there too. He was a few hundred pounds lighter, and a good deal less insane. By the time I tracked him down, he'd gotten too heavy to fly. His beastialist philosophy made him more of a joke than a threat. I decided to focus my efforts on other targets. I always knew I'd be back."

  "If this dragon's a joke, saving Jeremiah shouldn't be so hard."

  "It's not Rorg I'm worried about," Bitterwood said as he tied one end of the rope to a tree. "It's the few dozen other bulls who are part of the clan. Until now, I didn't really have a good way of carrying in enough arrows to make sure the job got done." He reached back and fingered one of the arrows in his quiver. "I'll try to do this quietly. If you start hearing screams, don't be alarmed."

  He walked to one of the smoke vents and dropped the rope down. "Stay in the shadows," he said. "You've got six hours until daylight. If I'm not back, ride up the mountain and find a safe place to wait out the day. Meet me back here at sunset."

  Bitterwood slung the bow over his shoulder and backed into the hole, the smoke tickling his nose. He climbed down the twisting, natural chimney, his hands growing increasingly black with soot. He reached a junction where the shaft opened into another shaft. The hole was barely two feet across. He shoved his bow through, then his quiver, balancing them on narrow ledges. He shed his cloak and wiggled through, then reached back and grabbed the cloak. He willed the rope to lengthen, letting it dangle down the shaft to the next level spot fifty feet below. From there, he would have to crawl through a shaft only three feet tall for almost a quarter mile, until he reached the side cave where Rorg's slaves slept.

  He doubted that they would be sleeping much tonight. The deep bass rumble of the singing sun-dragons shook the stone. A haunting melody accompanied it, played on an instrument Bitterwood couldn't identify. It sounded something like bells, only not as metallic in tone. He could make out various bits of the lyrics. Dragons are mighty, humans are weak, and other such puffery. As long as they were singing, their attention would be focused on Rorg.

  He wriggled through the last narrow gap of the long tunnel and found himself in a cavity of a rock wall thirty feet up in a large, round chamber. Several small fires were scattered around the cave. Perhaps a hundred humans sat around the fires, staring sullenly into the flames. The singing from the nearby dragon rally echoed within the room.

  "With our claws we rend their flesh!" the dragons sang. "With our jaws we crush them! Their blood slakes our thirst!" Beastialist lyrics weren't famed for their subtlety.

  Bitterwood dropped the rope into the room. Instantly, every eye turned toward the motion. Frightened humans tended to be hyper-alert. Fortunately, no one screamed.

  Bitterwood held his fingers to his lips, signaling for silence, then rappelled down to the floor. The walls were slimy. Due to the condensation of breath, the whole cavern glistened as if it were coated with a fine layer of spit. Urine and shit fouled the air. The humans were boiling turnips in carved stone bowls sitting in the fire pits.

  Everyone rose as he reached the ground. These humans were a wretched lot. They were clothed in thread-bare rags. Both men and women had their hair cropped close to the scalp in uneven clumps, no doubt to make it easier to pick off fleas and lice. All stood with slumped shoulders. They stared with sunken eyes set in faces that were little more than skulls covered with paper-thin, boil-covered skin.

  "I'm looking for a new arrival," said Bitterwood. "A blond boy, no older than twelve. His name is Jeremiah." Not a voice was raised as the crowd watched him with unblinking gazes. "He would have arrived about a week ago." He waited. Did they understand him?

  "Our wings block the sun!" the dragons sang. "The earth trembles as we land!"

  A woman took a tentative step forward. She was covered in brown smudges, thin as a sapling, and perhaps seven months pregnant. She cradled a small bundle wrapped in rags. The bundle wasn't moving; if it was a baby, Bitterwood hoped it was asleep. She cast her gaze toward the floor as she spoke, in a voice so soft and hesitant he barely understood it: "He's gone."

  "Gone?" Bitterwood asked. "Dead?"

  The woman shook her head. "Vulpine took him."

  "Took him where?"

  "Dragon Forge?" the woman said. She didn't sound certain of this.

  Bitterwood furrowed his brow. Why would the Slavecatcher General want Jeremiah? And why would he take him to Dragon Forge? His heart froze in his chest.

  "Was the boy well?"

  The woman shrugged.

  "No sign of yellow-mouth?"

  The woman raised her head when he mentioned the disease.

  "We've lost hundreds to yellow-mouth since winter came. Most of us who're left have survived it and are immune. The boy said he'd never been exposed."

  Nor, for that matter, had Bitterwood. The foul atmosphere suddenly felt especially heavy in his lungs.

  "Who are you?" the woman asked.

  "I'm nobody." He turned away, taking the rope in hand. If Jeremiah was gone, there was no reason to linger.

  "Your cloak… your bow… are you the hope of the slave? Are you Bitterwood?"

  Bitterwood flinched at these words. He didn't mind that his legend was widespread among dragons. The more dragons who feared him, the better. But he regretted that so many humans knew his name. To dragons he was death incarnate, a soulless, faceless force of nature stalking them in every shadow. There was a dark thing inside him that shivered with delight knowing he caused so much fear. This same darkness had no desire to be anyone's
hope.

  He looked back at the sad, hungry, skeletal crowd. Any one of them, even the pregnant woman, could have climbed through the dragon-free tunnels he'd navigated. True, they didn't have the advantage of a magical rope, but he'd explored these tunnels five years ago without one.

  "Why do you stay here?" he asked, his voice low. "There's an open path between this cavern and freedom. It's a risky climb, but certainly better than remaining here."

  "Anyone who runs winds up as part of the bone-field," the woman said.

  The darkness inside Bitterwood rose up in a great angry wave. "You fear death more than you value your freedom," he said. "Humans outnumber dragons. All that keeps the dragons in power is the cowardice of mankind."

  The crowd flinched at his words. Grown men fell to their knees, as if he'd kicked their feet out from under them. Tears welled in the pregnant woman's eyes.

  "You have no right to scold us," she said, swallowing a sob. "Who are you to judge us?"

  Bitterwood turned back to the rope. The dark thing that had once been his soul now clawed at his skull from the inside, shouting curses. In truth, as much as Bitterwood hated dragons, he held a special contempt for other humans. He'd once been this soft. He'd once been a slave to fear and doubt. Hatred had burned away these weaknesses. Why did other humans not share this hate?

  "You're just going to leave us?" the woman asked as he took the rope into his hand and began to climb the wall.

  "What if your own wife or child was a slave?" she asked.

  Bitterwood stopped climbing. Recanna and Ruth and Eve, his now dead wife and daughters, had been sold into slavery after the fall of Christdale. He'd thought them dead, when in truth they'd lived as the king's property for almost twenty years. Did he hate them for not escaping? If they had been among this rabble, would he have held them in the same scorn?

  The dark thing inside suddenly grew quiet. Bitterwood dropped back to the floor. In the chamber beyond, the dragons stopped singing.

  "Anyone who has the courage can climb this rope," he said, facing the crowd. "Follow it and you'll be outside. From there, you can go wherever you wish."