by James Maxey
"Those aren't for poetry," said Shay.
"Your words were quite moving," said Hex. "I think you've said what needed to be said."
Shay shook his head. "I think that with every day that passes, I'm coming to understand the inadequacy of words." He unfurled his metal wings. The wind played across his silvery feathers. In the valley, white circles of light danced on the dark leaves, reflections of the sun on his wings.
"Let's go," he said, tilting forward, his feet lifting from the earth. Now driven by the urgency of their cause, Shay had lost all fear of flying and was grateful for the twists and turns of fate that had provided him wings. They traveled a hundred miles in the span of a few hours.
Shay could have traveled further, faster. His mechanical wings were tireless. They also propelled him more swiftly than Hex could follow, a literally breathtaking speed at which the wind made it difficult to fill his lungs. Hex required several breaks. The sun-dragon flew at a speed that any could outpace any horse, but he couldn't keep up with Shay.
They paused to drink by a stream at the edge of a farm. Off in the distance, cows gave them nervous glances. Shay noticed the big dragon trembling when he lowered his head to the water. Hex's right limbs looked shakier than their counterparts.
"Are you all right?" Shay asked. "Are you still recovering from Jazz's attack?"
"Somewhat," said Hex. "Half of my body is numb. Perhaps it's my imagination, but my speech feels slurred."
"I never heard you talk before, so I can't judge. Have you always lisped?"
"I suspect Jazz's attack had the practical effect of a mild stroke," said Hex. "A more sustained assault might have killed me."
"We don't have to keep pushing on if you don't feel up to it. We don't know where Jazz is."
"We don't have the luxury of resting," said Hex. "It's difficult to counter the speed advantages of a foe who can traverse great distances in a heartbeat by taking a shortcut through unreality. I want to go to the Free City as swiftly as possible to recover the genie, then travel to Dragon Forge."
"Dragon Forge? Why?"
"Bitterwood was heading there to rescue Zeeky's brother, Jeremiah. He may linger there still. If he's moved on, no doubt someone can provide us with clues to their next destination."
"I'm not really welcome in Dragon Forge anymore. You definitely aren't welcome. They'll shoot you from the sky the second they see you."
"I'll approach on foot, fully armored. I hid my armor near Rorg's cavern to travel more swiftly. If needed, I'll recover it. I'm not afraid of archers."
Shay held up the shotgun. "Forget the archers. This is what you need to worry about. It can punch holes in armor. The earth-dragons we fought at Burke's Tavern had armor and we cut right through them."
"Hmm," said Hex. "I'm sure we can think of something. Perhaps you can enter the city in disguise."
Hex peered toward the western sky. "It will be dark before long. Perhaps we should rest. I don't like to fly after dark. Landing is often problematic."
"It's a shame the visors don't fit you," said Shay, pulling his own silver visor from the satchel that hung at his side. He looked down into the leather bag, at the many treasures within it he'd taken from the long-wyrm rider barracks. He had a second bag slung over his other shoulder-Jandra's pack. He'd stuffed her coat into it. It was probably pointless to hold on to her things, but it felt wrong to leave them behind. "If you could use the visor, we could fly all night."
"At some point, you'll need sleep as much as I do. You can't move forever on pure adrenaline."
Shay stretched his back. He ached all over from his earlier efforts in digging. "You're probably right. A couple of hours of sleep might do us both some good. At the first light of dawn, we'll split up. You go to the Free City and get the genie. I'll go to Dragon Forge and find Bitterwood."
Hex took another sip from the stream as he thought about this plan, lapping the water like a giant cat. His tongue looked awful, with a circular wound all purple and raw right in the center of it.
"Your plan is sound," said the sun-dragon. Water streamed from the right side of his mouth. "I only hope that the goddess doesn't find him first."
BURKE GROANED AS he stretched out on the burlap sack they'd spread on the chicken coop floor, a filthy mess of waste, feathers, and straw. They'd traveled to Nat Goodsalt's farm near Burke's Tavern and found the house and barn burned to the ground. The chicken coop had been the only building still standing, though it was blackened on one corner and the door lay on the ground a dozen yards away. All the chickens were gone. The spoils of war, no doubt.
It was dark outside; the wind whistled as it pushed through the cracks in the thin walls. Scratching noises within the straw told Burke he was sharing his bed with mice, but he was too tired and sore to worry about his bedmates. Covering ninety miles on uneven terrain with one leg had narrowed the focus of his world these last few days. It was difficult to think of anything other than the bloody, puss-filled blisters that the crutch had worked into his armpit.
Burke barely moved when a shadow fell across him. From the smell, he knew it was Thorny.
"Vance is hunting up some grub," said Thorny. "I looked around and can't find any bodies. Goodsalt must have fled before the dragons got here."
Burke nodded slightly, too worn out to speak.
Somewhere not too far away, there was a crisp, musical ZING as a sky-wall bow was fired, followed by, "Woohoo!"
Thorny left the doorway and peeked around the edge of the coop. "Dang if that boy hasn't got us a possum!"
Burke's stomach gurgled at the thought of food. "Let me rest my eyes for a minute, then I'll help cook it."
Thorny said something in response, but the words sounded distant. Sleep yawned before him like an open pit. He slipped into its depths.
When he woke, there were voices outside the door. It was still dark outside; he could smell a campfire and charred meat, and something else, something he couldn't identify at first.
It smelled musty, slightly sour, almost like… a dragon? He sat up, his eyes wide as they probed the darkness. He bit his lower lip to keep from crying out in pain as he tried to move his left arm. The blisters had scabbed over as he slept; it was like his upper arm had been glued to his rib cage. His eyes watered as he peeled his arm free.
Burke was freezing. They'd escaped Dragon Forge with only the clothes on their backs, plus the few meager supplies they'd stolen from the cabin. His toes were full of tiny little knives of ice. His phantom leg shared the symptoms. He reached down and rubbed the toes of his remaining foot through his boot. Though he knew it was irrational, he moved his hand to where his nerves told him his other foot lay. On some instinctive level, he was disappointed when his fingers closed on empty air. On a more rational level, he was relieved that he still had at least some tenuous understanding of reality.
He scooted closer to the wall and carefully peeked through a crack to see what was happening. That tenuous understanding of reality took a sharp blow as he found himself staring at the side of an impossibly long, multi-limbed dragon covered with overlapping copper scales. The head of the beast reminded him of old prints he'd seen of eastern dragons-purely mythological creatures, unlike the flesh and blood dragons he was used to fighting. For a mythical beast, it looked solid enough. Its breath came out as great puffs of steam in the frosty night.
The beast turned its giant head toward the chicken coop. Burke jerked his eyes from the crack and pressed his back against the wall, his heart racing. He searched the blackness of the chicken coop for a weapon. The shotgun must be outside with Vance.
As the seconds ticked past, he began to assemble a theory about the oversized lizard waiting at his door. Jandra had talked about a new kind of dragon, a long-wyrm, that fit the description. More importantly, she'd told him about the long-wyrm riders. These creatures weren't as smart as other dragons and were closer in intelligence and temperament to horses.
He could still hear Vance and Thorny talking. They d
idn't sound particularly nervous. From time to time a little girl's voice chimed in. And, there was an older male voice, gruff and gravelly. Bitterwood?
He steadied himself with a hand against the wall and rose. He didn't bother trying to find his crutch. He hopped into the doorway and studied the scene once more. Beyond the long-wyrm, there was the glow of a fire. This is where the voices were coming from.
The long-wyrm turned its head to him once more, but didn't show any signs of attacking. It seemed merely aware.
"Thorny?" Burke called out.
Thorny stood up on the other side of the long-wyrm. "Burke! Sorry. We didn't mean to wake you. We have visitors."
"I see," said Burke.
A second man rose up beside Thorny. He wore a heavy cloak, his face hidden in the shadows of the cowl. "You look like hell, Kanati," the man said.
"It is you," said Burke. "Now I see why you didn't want a horse. I take it this beast is yours?"
"He belongs to Zeeky, actually."
The little girl's voice called out, "No he doesn't! Skitter's my friend, not my property!"
Burked hopped out of the chicken coop, keeping his hand on the wall for balance. Vance ran to his side to help him hop to the fire.
In addition to Bitterwood and Thorny a boy slept on a blanket by the fire, and a small, blonde girl he assumed was Zeeky sat next to him. There was also a pig, wearing a metallic visor and a sneer.
Vance helped lower Burke to the ground only a few feet from the fire. Burke welcomed the heat. He hadn't been truly warm since he crawled out of the river. Not so long ago, whenever he closed his eyes, he would see visions of new weapons he might design. Now, he kept imagining bath tubs continuously filled with hot water, regulated by a finely balanced system of pipes and gauges.
"This is Zeeky," said Bitterwood. "The pig is Poocher."
"I've never been introduced to a pig before," said Burke.
"Poocher's family," said Bitterwood. "Sleepyhead over there is Jeremiah. Keep your distance. He's got yellow-mouth."
"Oh," said Burke. He'd never had the disease. He wasn't certain in his weakened state he'd survive it. "How'd you find us?"
"Skitter smelled cooking possum," said Zeeky.
"Skitter?"
"The long-wyrm," said Bitterwood.
Zeeky said, "Normally, I would have had him ride past the campsite, but the villagers whispered that a friend of Bitterwood's was nearby, so I let him follow his nose."
"The villagers?" Burke asked. "From Burke's Tavern?"
"No. From Big Lick."
"They're ghosts," said Bitterwood.
Burke frowned.
"You don't believe in ghosts, do you?" Bitterwood said. "I remember back at Conyers-you didn't believe me when I told you I'd seen a devil get his head chopped off, stick it back on and kill the dragons that had decapitated him. You didn't believe in gods or ghosts, angels or devils. I've fought all these things and worse. There's more to this world than you understand, Burke."
The toes of Burke's phantom foot thawed as the fire penetrated into his phantom boot. He wasn't in the mood to reopen this old debate.
Zeeky opened it for him. "They ain't ghosts," she said. She held out a crystal ball. The firelight danced across its surface. "They never died. They just don't have bodies no more. The world inside this crystal ball isn't like our own. There's nothing solid there. Everything exists like a dream. The villagers can see into our world if they try, but, for the most part, they're learning to get by in their new world."
The hair on the back of Burke's neck rose. "Are you talking about underspace?"
"That's what the goddess called it," said Zeeky.
"That's Atlantean science," said Burke. He scratched the stump of his leg as he pondered this. His training was in metallurgy and engineering. Over in Tennessee, he'd had relatives charged with solving the mysteries of extra-dimensional space, but Burke had always preferred to study things he could do something about.
"I met an Atlantean once," said Bitterwood. "She healed my hands after they'd been bit off by a dragon."
"Your hands were… of course. Atlanteans were masters of technologies far beyond our imagination. Jandra said she used to have healing powers." He looked toward Vance. "Could that seed you ate have been from Atlantis?"
Vance shrugged, looking as if he didn't understand the question.
"Jandra's healing powers are the reason we're traveling this way," said Bitterwood. "Hex stole the source of her powers-"
"The genie," said Burke, feeling like his mind was full of jigsaw pieces that he could almost, but not quite, fit together.
"When I met Hex in Rorg's cavern, he told me he'd buried the genie in the one place humans would never look for it. The way I figure, the last place humans would go look for anything would be the Free City. So we're going there to hunt for the genie. I don't know how to use it, but it's something I have to try. It may be able to cure Jeremiah."
Two puzzle pieces clicked together in Burke's head. "Shanna said she'd come from the Free City. She had healing seeds. Her body had been repaired to the point that she no longer had tattoos. It suddenly makes sense. Someone has found the genie in the Free City and is using it to heal people. Jandra told me the genie wouldn't work for anyone but her, but it looks like she was wrong."
"There are humans at the Free City?" Bitterwood asked. "When I was there a few weeks ago, I saw earth-dragons around it. I figured refugees from Dragon Forge were using it."
Burke looked down at his missing leg. His armpit throbbed. He thought of Vance's restored vision and Bitterwood's regrown hands. Could he one day walk again?
Zeeky looked up from the crystal ball with a serene smile upon her lips. "We shall all be healed."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX:
RESPONSIBILITY TO MANKIND
BURKE GRIPPED THE edge of the saddle so hard his knuckles turned white. The long-wyrm flew across the landscape at a breakneck speed. They avoided the main road, splashing along the twisting beds of a stream as they raced eastward toward the Free City. The creature veered up a steep river bank, running perpendicular to the water below. Given the speed with which they traveled and the ruggedness of the terrain, Burke couldn't believe he hadn't been thrown off the beast. His butt stayed planted firmly on the smooth saddle, as if it were a powerful magnet and the seat of his pants were steel.
As strange as the circumstance of his ride were, there were stranger things still on his mind. Bitterwood rode on the saddle before him carrying Jeremiah in his arms. The boy's face was corpse white, glistening with sweat. The boy somehow slept through the convolutions of the long-wyrm, his mouth hanging open. His gums were puss yellow. Bitterwood risked his life by carrying the boy. Yet, not only did he hold him, he cradled him. He stroked the boy's brow and whispered encouragements.
"This is a side of you I've never seen, Bant," said Burke. "I didn't know you had such fatherly instincts."
"I wasn't always the Ghost Who Kills. I had a family once, long ago. I would rather have lived my life as a father than as an avenger."
Burke shook his head as his own regrets welled up. "I've had the opportunity to live as both and I've failed at both. I have no idea where Anza is. You tell me she's gone off to try to recapture the shotgun Vulpine stole, but that could be anywhere, and it will be heavily guarded. It's a terrible risk to chase after it. She'll keep trying to retrieve it until she succeeds, or she's killed. Why didn't I tell her that her life means more to me than the gun does? What if I never learn of her fate?"
"Anza struck me as a woman who could take care of herself," said Bitterwood.
"Maybe. But then what? She'll return to Dragon Forge looking for me, and Ragnar's men will ambush her. Ragnar has a whole army to throw against her, all armed with the guns I designed. Anza's fast, but not faster than a shotgun blast. I can't believe how badly I've let things spin out of control."
Bitterwood narrowed his eyes. "This has always been your great flaw. You treat the world as if it's a giant
machine, and if you can only find the right screws to tighten, you can make the whole thing hum."
"Someone's hand needs to be on the controls," said Burke.
"There are no controls," said Bitterwood. "There is no mainspring. Your pride blinds you to this simple truth."
"What have I done to piss you off?"
"You started another revolution you couldn't finish," said Bitterwood.
"Technically, Ragnar started it," said Burke. "One might even argue that you started it by killing Albekizan."
Bitterwood turned his back on Burke.
Burke reached out with his crutch and poked him on the shoulder. "I'm not done talking."
"I am," said Bitterwood.
"I've listened to your criticism. You're going to listen to mine. I'm not angry that you killed Albekizan. Your guerilla warfare tactics of the last twenty years have been far more effective than I would have guessed. But I've never figured out what it was you were hoping to accomplish. Ridding the planet of one dragon at a time isn't going to save humanity."
Bitterwood looked back. His face was in shadows beneath is hood. "I care nothing for the fate of humanity. I only want to make certain that dragons suffer at least a fraction of the pain they've caused me."
"That's where we differ. All I've ever wanted was to give humans an equal footing-or better still, an upper hand-when dealing with the dragons. That's never going to happen while men choose to follow fanatics like Ragnar. Mysticism and charisma have a way of trumping logic."
"'Choose' is an interesting word," said Bitterwood. "Did you ever offer the men of Dragon Forge a choice? Did you ever say to them, 'I lead, or Ragnar leads, decide?'"
Burke shook his head. "Ragnar gathered the army. They were loyal to him. They cheered his firebrand speeches. What did I have to offer anyone other than gadgets and advice on sanitation?"
Vance, on the saddle behind Burke, spoke up. "I would have chosen you as the leader in a heartbeat. So would any of the sky-wall team."
Burke shook his head, rejecting Vance's words. "The members of the sky-wall team cheered Ragnar on during his little fire-sermon before the invasion. They lift up their hands in rapture whenever he preaches of war."