by James Maxey
Metron turned away from the city. He stepped back inside, his wings wrapped tightly around him to fend off the chill. He said, softly, “What if, before then, I can give you your answer? I learn the secret source of life and reveal it? You will stop this plan?”
Blasphet cocked his head. “You’ve found the answer?”
“No.”
“My experiments will continue, then.”
“By my very profession, I am one who places faith in books,” Metron said. “It’s true that I haven’t found the answer in my studies, but there are still great stores of ancient knowledge kept by other biologians throughout the kingdom. I shall consult them. I ask only that you hold off on your experiments until such time as I can complete my search.”
“Bring me your answer when and if you find it, fellow conspirator. But I won’t stop my research while I wait.”
Metron started to speak, then stopped. Blasphet knew the old dragon had no choice but to agree to his terms.
“Very well,” Metron said. “I will go. The quicker I begin my search, the quicker I can halt this madness.”
“Of course,” Blasphet said. “May the flames of the ancestors bring you luck in your quest.”
“I didn’t think you believed in the flames of the ancestors,” Metron said.
“No. Neither, I suspect, do you. Now hurry on. My subject in the next room is most likely dead by now, but I wish to weigh his organs while they are still fresh.”
Metron hurried from the room, passing through the lab without turning his face toward the pale body on the slab. Blasphet locked the door behind him but didn’t return to his work, which suddenly bored him. He returned to the balcony to look at the Free City. Soon, the sound of construction would give way to the constant cries of men in torment as his city filled to overflowing. How pleasant it would be to sleep to such music.
PET STIRRED FROM sleep. He wasn’t alone. He opened his eyes and found Zanzeroth looming over him. Pet glanced to the door of the tent. The guards were gone.
Zanzeroth bent his face close to Pet’s. His wounds were terrible. Stained gauze was stuffed into the gaping hole in the center of the aged dragon’'s snout. Black blood caked between his teeth. His eye patch was gone, revealing a scarred, ragged hole where his right eye should have been. His left eye was fixed on Pet’s face. The old dragon’s breath reeked of gore and goom.
In his claw, Zanzeroth held one of the arrows that had been pulled from his body. He raised it to his bloodied face. His tongue flickered out, licking the notched end of the arrow where the fingers would hold it against the string.
Then Zanzeroth moved his head to Pet’s chained hands. Pet squirmed as the hunter’s raspy tongue danced along his fingertips for a long moment.
The aged hunter then sat back, contemplating Pet in the darkness. He reached out a claw and, one by one, undid the buttons of Pet’s silk shirt. He pushed the cloth open, exposing Pet’s bare chest.
“Not a scar on you,” Zanzeroth whispered. He pulled Pet’s shirt closed. He leaned down and said, so softly that Pet wasn’t sure of the words, “I wanted to make certain.”
Zanzeroth turned and moved back toward the tent flap, half limping and swaying like a drunkard. He cast one last glance back as he pushed open the tent flap. Pet could see the body of a guard sprawled in the mud outside. Zanzeroth nodded.
“Sleep tight,” he said before the tent flaps closed behind him, leaving Pet alone.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: SATISFACTION
A WEEK AFTER his visit with Blasphet, Metron restlessly flipped the pages of an illuminated tome, waiting for sunset. Earlier, he’d watched Kanst returning, leading a band of captured humans to the Free City. Little time was left to avert the impending atrocities. Fortunately, his fellow biologians had pledged their assistance in researching Blasphet’s question. Today held the appointed hour for their responses.
As the last rays of daylight faded, Metron closed the tome before him. He straightened the green sashes that hung across his chest, then descended from his private chambers into the main body of the library. Here the long, high bookshelves were arranged in twisting rows, forming a maze in which even experienced biologians might find themselves lost. The narrow passageways between the shelves barely allowed room for sky-dragons to creep between them; sun-dragons never ventured into this area of the library. Metron often wondered if this was by accident or design.
Metron navigated the rows with a speed born of experience. He entered into a side chamber that was filled with crates of uncataloged books and looked around to make certain no one was watching. Then he pushed aside the crates along the far side of the room, revealing a smooth stone wall. The illusion of solid rock would have fooled Vendevorex himself. The builders of this place had access to many secret arts. Metron stepped forward, the wall rippling as it swallowed him.
Beyond the false wall, Metron’s scales bristled. The air here was thick and electric, ice-water cold yet smelling of heated iron. From all directions came a buzz of angry bees. Most unnerving off all, the room had no floor, no walls, no ceiling. All around him was a uniform, blank whiteness. It had been seven decades since he first stepped foot in this strange space, and still the sensation of toppling into an unending void threatened to overwhelm him. Despite the information his eyes gave him, he knew his feet rested on a solid surface. He tapped his staff against the unseen floor to assure himself.
This was the Snow Room, the secret meeting chamber of the biologians. There were thirty such chambers throughout the kingdom, and all predated the libraries that surrounded them. From this point, it was possible to see all who stood in those distant chambers, though hundreds of miles separated them. As he stared into the nothingness, he soon began to see the image of another biologian, materializing beside him like a traveler emerging from a fog.
It was Daknagol, the only biologian older than himself. Daknagol had initiated him in the secret of the Snow Room all those long years ago.
“Cursed place,” Daknagol grumbled. The fine scales around his eyes crinkled into a mask of disgust. “How this chamber filled me with wonder in my youth. Now, following every visit, I’m seized with prodigious vomiting. The humans who built this place must have been wicked indeed.”
“Hold your tongue, honorable Daknagol,” Metron said.
As he spoke, a second dragon emerged from the mist. It was Androkom, the youngest of the initiated biologians and, some said, the most brilliant. Despite his rank, Androkom still had the air of a student. This was due in part by his youth and the brightness of his feathers, but also because of the deep ink stains that covered his claws; scribe work was usually left to the novice biologians.
“Why would you have him hold his tongue?” Androkom asked. “Everyone present knows the truth. We live in a world of lost wonders. We scavenge among the miracles of a vanished human civilization. The pathetic, ignorant beasts we use to tend our fields once strode this world like gods.”
“Yes,” said Metron. “And they destroyed themselves with their own dangerous technology. Let me remind you, we aren’t here to debate the ancient past. We are here to discuss a more urgent question: what is life?”
By now, ten or more dragons had appeared. The question set them all talking at once. Metron banged his staff on the floor, regaining order. All fell silent save for Androkom.
“Exalted brothers,” Androkom said, raising his inky talons, “I have the answer that eludes the High Biologian. I know the secret source of life!”
Metron wasn’t surprised by this response. Androkom was famed for his intelligence—and his arrogance.
“Speak,” said Metron.
“Nothing contradicts the Book of Theranzathax. Life is flame.” Androkom held his head high as if to dare any of his fellow biologians to challenge him.
A cacophony of voices arose instantly, shouting in protest.
“Brothers,” Metron urged, banging his staff. “Restrain yourselves.”
When the assembly regained order, Metron
said, “Androkom, why insist on the validity of the Book of Theranzathax? All here know that the book is a fabrication, composed not in ancient times but mere centuries ago.”
“I am aware that the biologian Zeldizar created the book,” Androkom said. “He wrote in the belief that dragons would only be truly liberated when they lost the knowledge of their lowly origins and embraced his new mythology. However, my studies lead me to believe that Zeldizar didn’t simply fabricate these myths. Rather, he disguised truth with metaphor and parable. His assertion that life is a flame is based on his knowledge of chemistry, for life and flame are analogous chemical processes.”
“Blasphet won’t be content with such a broad answer,” Metron said. “Many processes are chemical.”
“Acknowledged,” said Androkom. “The full details of my answer are not easily grasped, but I can provide evidence of their truthfulness.”
Metron nodded, then addressed the assembly as a whole. “Brothers, have any others among you found another answer?”
Daknagol was next to speak. “I, too, arrived at the answer that life is a chemical process. It is described in many ancient texts. But the writings are arcane and complex. Though we have insights into the true answer, understanding will no doubt forever elude us, despite young Androkom’s boasts.”
“I agree,” Metron said. “My own studies tell a similar tale. The words and symbols lie before me on the page, but their context has been lost over the centuries.”
“Not lost,” Androkom interrupted. “Not any more. I understand the context. For too long we biologians placed our faith in books alone, searching them for secrets and wisdom, growing frustrated at the contradictions we’ve discovered. I have moved beyond books and followed the experiments described in the texts. Though I lack much of the equipment available to the ancients, I believe the experiments I’ve conducted to be valid. Let me travel to Albekizan’s palace. I can demonstrate my knowledge to Blasphet. He won’t be able to deny the truth.”
Metron contemplated Androkom’s offer. He envied the young dragon’s confidence, and the fearless way he desired to enter Blasphet’s presence.
“Very well,” Metron said. “Leave your post and travel here at once, my brother. How quickly can you arrive?”
“I anticipated your approval. I have already gathered the texts and materials I need. My flight will take two days, perhaps three, for my load is a heavy one.”
“Bring only what you must,” said Metron. “The Free City begins to fill. Time grows short if we’re to prevent the coming tragedy.”
Metron said farewell to his brother biologians and turned from the white chamber, stepping toward an unseen door. As he emerged into the library, he was greeted by a frightened cry and a flurry of papers thrown into the air. Wentakra, one of his newer assistants, stumbled away from him, looking prepared to run.
“Do not be alarmed,” Metron said. “It is only I.”
“B-but… the wall!” Wentakra said. “You passed through it like… like a-a—”
“Ghost? Yes. Try not to let it haunt you. Tell no one you witnessed this.”
“Y-yes, sir,” Wentakra said. Then his eyes brightened as if remembering something important. “Did Flanchelet find you? He searched for you in this chamber only moments ago.”
“No. I haven’t seen him. What did he want?”
“Albekizan wants to see you at once. Kanst has returned.”
“I know of his return. I witnessed it earlier.”
“They say he’s captured Bodiel’s killer.”
Metron needed half a second to fully grasp the importance of the statement. “Bitterwood?” he asked, his voice betraying his excitement. “They’ve captured Bitterwood?”
“So Flanchelet said.”
Metron turned at once from his subordinate, feeling a glimmer of hope as he hurried back through the maze of books. Perhaps Albekizan might change his mind about the genocide he had ordered once he had his revenge against Bitterwood. With any luck, Blasphet might be back in his cell before Androkom arrived.
BLASPHET DISMISSED THE messenger with a wave and turned back to the balcony overlooking the Free City. The balcony was decorated with pots of a dozen colorful species of plants, most of them poisonous. Normally, he felt something akin to peace standing in his little garden. Now, watching the new arrivals entering the city, peace was replaced with a cold anxiety. Bitterwood captured. Would Albekizan break his word and spare the remaining humans after slaking his thirst for revenge with Bitterwood’s blood? Many influential dragons spoke against the king’s plans. The labor of humans provided the wealth of the kingdom. They tended the fields, toiled in the mines, and harvested the sea. Perhaps in the afterglow of Bitterwood’s death, his brother’s reason would return. Blasphet couldn’t allow this.
Blasphet leapt from the balcony, feeling his feathers catch the wind, and for an instant all his worries vanished in the joy of flight as he slipped between the stars above and the ragged darkness beneath. For long years this pleasure had been denied him as he moldered in the dank recesses of the castle dungeon.
As he thought of the dungeon, the sensual pleasure of the air racing across his wings faded, the memory of the cruelty of cages returning to his mind. The bars of a cell could restrict humans in one plane—the horizontal. For a dragon, the pain was squared, the inability to walk about on the earth being secondary to the denial of flying above it. He added this thought to the list of debts to be repaid to the fellow members of his race once their usefulness to him had been exhausted.
As he turned a wide circle in the moonlight, his eyes caught movement outside the walls of the Free City. A handful of earth-dragons marched away from the gates, herding before them a mixed collection of cattle, sheep, and pigs. Blasphet turned the edges of his wings upwards, slowing himself to descend into their path.
“You there,” he said to the apparent leader of the earth-dragons who flinched at his sudden appearance. “Who are you? What are you doing with this livestock?”
The earth-dragon looked confused. “I’m Wyvernoth, sir. This livestock was taken from a human village. The citizens were taken to the Free City earlier today. We’re taking the spoils back to the barracks to stock the larders.”
“I gave no orders that the humans were to be deprived of their livestock. Take this herd back inside. The humans raised them and shall feast upon them.”
“Begging pardon, sir,” Wyvernoth said. “That don’t make no sense. Blasphet plans to kill all the humans. Why feed them?”
Blasphet realized that Wyvernoth had no idea who he was speaking with, which amused him. He said, “The reasoning is simple, my thick-headed friend. The food supply will remain constant in the Free City. Those now within the walls, and those arriving in the next few weeks, will want for little. As more humans arrive, their shares will grow smaller and smaller. Due to the simplicity of the human mind, the humans who were here first will blame their hunger upon the new humans who arrive, rather than the dragons who once fed them so generously.”
“They’ll be at each other’s throats, then,” Wyvernoth said. “They’ll be impossible to control, fighting and squabbling among themselves.”
“Precisely,” Blasphet said, then realized from Wyvernoth’s expression that the earth-dragon had raised this point as an argument against, rather than in support for, the plan.
“Whatever, sir,” Wyvernoth said. “When a sun-dragon wants something done, I do it. If you want the livestock inside, it goes inside.”
Blasphet again took to the air, disgusted by the encounter. Wyvernoth had obeyed him simply because of his race and not because of his reason. There were days when Blasphet felt like the only intelligent being in the world. No wonder he found the lives of others to have so little value. They were simply too stupid to live.
BREATHLESSLY, METRON CLIMBED the stairs leading to the king’s hall. He remembered wistfully the days when coming to this hall had been effortless, when it was just a simple matter of stretching his then yo
ung wings and letting the wind carry him to his destination. He felt a slight envy for the earth-dragons who would never have age steal the freedom of the sky away from them.
As he entered the flame-flickered hall, all eyes turned toward him.
Only the king’s most trusted advisors were present. Kanst stood before the throne platform, bedecked in full uniform, the steel plates and chain mail draped across his body in such a way as to reveal the well-defined musculature of a warrior still in his prime. Beside him stood Zanzeroth. A horrible black scab dominated the center of his swollen snout. Metron noticed the bandages on the hunter’s shoulders and legs, and the slight crook in his posture, as if standing caused him pain.
Like a chill in the air, Metron sensed the presence of one other. He turned to the far corner of the room where the torches cast deep shadows. Blasphet waited there, his dark scales blending with the gloom with only the red glow of his eyes in torchlight to reveal him. The Murder God’s gaze briefly acknowledged Metron’s glance, then looked beyond him to the arrival of the royal family.
Albekizan walked forward slowly, his untrimmed claws clicking on the marble floor. Tanthia followed Albekizan, her wings trailing long, lacy ribbons, the feather-scales around her eyes newly dyed in a rainbow of colors. Metron noted a faint blurring of the colors, however, as if recent tears had been shed and wiped away.
Albekizan took his place on the pedestal throne. Weeks had passed since Metron had been in the king’s presence. He was startled by the change. When he’d last seen the king, his hatred of humans still flashed in his eyes as lightning illuminates a storm. He’d spoken with passion about the great deeds that lay before him. Now Albekizan’s eyes looked dark and tired. Indeed, everything about the king seemed weary, from the rarely seen downward turn of his neck to the heavy way he slouched onto the throne pedestal and hissed, “Speak.”