by James Maxey
Bitterwood reached out to scoop up Zeeky, wrapping his arm around her chest as he ran past. Yet, Zeeky was not to be scooped. She stood her ground and seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. Bitterwood was thrown from his feet as his dash came to an abrupt halt. He skidded on the grass, trying to make sense of what had just happened. He rolled to his back as Zeeky came flying down from above, her small foot landing on his midsection with breathtaking force. He doubled over, unable to breathe, feeling as if her blow had pressed his bellybutton against his spine.
His vision blurred as he fought to remain conscious.
“What is it with you people?” Zeeky growled. “Do you go into other people’s homes and break all their pretty things? I should kill you right now, asshole!”
“Goddess, please,” Adam said, leaping from Trisky, throwing himself prostrate before Zeeky. “Spare him. He knows not what he’s done.”
Zeeky frowned. She stared at Bitterwood with murder in her eyes. Then, just as quickly, she relaxed, and grinned.
“Oh, why not?” she said. “You’re spared, Papa Bitterwood. But, I’m warning you.” Zeeky bent down and waved a finger in his face. “Damage one more of my toys, and I’ll break your arms and legs and dump you in the middle of the Nest wearing only a Bitterwood nametag. My valkyrie buddies would love using you for target practice. Understand?”
Bitterwood did understand. Zeeky was a machine like Jandra, also animated by the mind of the goddess. He should have known Zeeky wouldn’t be here without Poocher.
“If you’ve hurt Zeeky, I’ll kill you,” Bitterwood whispered.
“Yeah, yeah,” said the false Zeeky, shifting her foot to stand on Bitterwood’s throat, pinning him, cutting off his breath until the world faded away.
Chapter Twenty-One:
The Last Easy Kills of the Night
Pet had been allowed to sleep in Ragnar’s tent to recover from his grueling ride. He woke as night was falling. Distant shouts had pulled him from sleep, but when he sat up everything was silent. Perhaps he’d dreamed the voices. He hadn’t slept well. His bed was a mat of woven reeds over cold, bare red clay. He’d been given a scratchy wool blanket that might have once been white but was now a drab, uneven beige and carried Ragnar’s signature unwashed aroma. Despite the stench, Pet pulled the blanket tightly around him as he rose on aching, blistered legs. He stepped out into dying sunlight, teeth chattering. The air was thick with the smell of campfires and countless iron pots full of black beans and salt pork.
The camp was oddly quiet. All around, men stood by their fires, their eyes turned toward Ragnar. He was kneeling over a fallen horse, helping a woman rise. Pet’s sleep-clouded mind took a second to recognize her. It was Lin, the Sister of the Serpent who had split away from Shanna and him earlier. She looked as if she hadn’t slept in days. Her fallen horse was still alive, but its jaws were foaming; its eyes gazed off in the distance with a dull, unfocused stare. It looked as if the beast had collapsed from exhaustion only seconds before Pet left the tent.
Lin looked up into Ragnar’s bearded face. Her eyes were full of reverence as she said, “It’s done. The fox entered the henhouse.”
Ragnar nodded and looked over his shoulder toward one of his men.
“The hour is nigh,” said Ragnar. “Tell Burke we can tarry no longer. The great day of His wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand against us?”
The tunnel Nadala led them through was a tube nearly twenty feet in diameter. They had walked at least a mile, slogging through half a foot of icy water over slimy stone. Their way was lit by a small lantern Nadala carried.
“The humans who once ruled the world built this aqueduct to supply cities hundreds of miles from the lake,” Metron said. Though no longer high biologian, he still had a way of talking that made it seem that he was delivering a lecture. “Water once filled this pipe to the ceiling.”
“I’ve always been skeptical of legends that human built the dam,” said Nadala. “You biologians approach knowledge on an abstract level only. We valkyries actually get out and touch the world. We’ve maintained the dam and kept its floodgates and pumps functioning since time immemorial. Scholars think of holding back a thirty-mile-long lake as a math problem. We warriors think of it as merely another aspect of our world that can be managed with muscle, sweat, and iron gears.”
Graxen admired this aspect of Nadala. She was right. Biologians seldom solved problems because they never wearied of debating them. Valkyries were more practical-minded.
Soon they arrived at a pump station. Nadala produced a key that led them through a gate of welded steel bars. They passed through a long, tall tunnel with hundreds of pipes running overhead. Water dripped and drizzled from a hundred tiny leaks, producing staccato splashes that echoed through the concrete tunnel like drumbeats. The passage went on for many yards before ending at a platform with cement steps leading up to a set of double iron doors.
“Ah,” said Metron. “I remember this well. The Thread Room lies directly above us.”
Nadala handed the lantern to Graxen as she walked up the stairs. The twin doors were bound together with a heavy steel chain. The lock was a strange one—there was no slot for a key, only a dial with numbers upon it.
“We’ll have to break it,” Nadala whispered.
“No,” said Metron. “I recall the combination.”
His aged talons took the lock and spun the dial in precise turns. Seconds later, the lock clicked open.
“Sarelia didn’t change it,” he said, sounding relieved. “A good omen.”
As the doors creaked open, Graxen thought he heard something behind them, near the leaky tunnel. A splashing sound, like footsteps.
“Did you…?”
“What?” asked Nadala.
“I thought I heard something,” Graxen whispered, walking back down to the platform. The singing of the falling water, like countless fountains, was all he heard now.
“Perhaps it was a rat,” said Metron.
“It’s gone now, whatever it was,” said Graxen.
Graxen climbed back up the stairs and pushed his way through a curtain of thick cloth to join Nadala and Metron in the Thread Room. They weren’t far from the giant chalkboard, with its dense jotting of notes. Metron moved to better see the board. The room was lit with a series of lanterns. Graxen could read the board clearly from where he stood. His father studied the chalkboard and chuckled when he reached Vendevorex’s name surrounded by questions marks.
“What’s so funny?” whispered Nadala.
“I knew Vendevorex would vex her,” said Metron. “The most famous sky-dragon in the kingdom and his origin an utter mystery. He came to Albekizan’s court long after Sarelia and I had stopped speaking. I wrote her a letter concerning my theories about Vendevorex. I never sent it. Though I wrote it in the most professional voice I could manage, I feared she might read between the lines of the subject and find that I still loved her. At the time, it seemed as if it would only cause pain to send that missive.”
“Whose pain?” a voice asked from across the room. Graxen looked behind him to discover the hunched form of the matriarch standing before a fluttering tapestry. She walked toward them, her cane clacking on the tiled floor.
“My pain?” the matriarch asked. “You should know the females of our species may endure limitless agony, biologian. If you’ve not spoken to me for nearly two decades, the weakness lies with you, not me.”
“You’re correct,” Metron said. “You were always the stronger one.”
“Not always,” said the matriarch, now only a few yards away. “I gave in to your request not to destroy our great mistake.” She cast Graxen a baleful gaze. Then she narrowed her eyes at Nadala. “Why are you in the presence of a tatterwing and a freak? Where are your armor and spear, valkyrie?”
Nadala bowed her head respectfully. “Matriarch, I’ve fallen in love with your son. I’ve admired him since the day he visited this isle. We’ve come to ask your permission to…” her voice trail
ed off. She took a deep breath, then raised her head and looked at the matriarch with bold eyes. “We seek permission to breed.”
The matriarch scoffed. “You’ve gone mad, Nadala. Even if you were allowed to choose your seed-giver, you know you couldn’t breed with this discolored freak.”
“Of what importance is the color of his hide?” asked Nadala. “Why must all sky-dragons look so much alike?”
“Because physical variability leads to hatred,” said the matriarch. “I’ve studied histories forbidden to you. I know what happens when different colors are allowed to spread within a race of intelligent beings. It leads to strife and warfare. I would spare our race these evils.”
“You perpetuate these evils,” said Nadala. “Why would we fear difference if we aren’t taught to fear it?”
“Enough, valkyrie,” the matriarch snapped. “It’s not your position to decide the genetic make-up of our species. It’s your job to kill intruders—a job you have failed miserably.”
“Mother,” said Graxen, “Don’t speak to Nadala this way. She only wants—”
“Yes!” the matriarch cried, lifting her cane and waving it at Graxen. “She only wants. She is poisoned by desire. Her hormones have addled her mind. I know too well the danger of only wanting.”
“You’re correct,” said Metron. Graxen felt betrayed by the words, but Metron continued. “Our own chemistry can ruin our reason. Fortunately you’ve had two decades to free yourself from the biology of desire. Tonight, we can have the conversation our bodies prevented us from having so many years before. No dragon alive has studied the question of our genetic destiny more than you. However, as high biologian, I was guardian of the true secret history of our race. I’ve come to persuade you that the age of guided genetics can now end. Everything the early biologians wanted to accomplish has been accomplished. We’ve flourished as a species without falling into the many genetic pits that could have doomed us. We needed many generations of careful guidance to avoid inbreeding and allow for the slow rise of mutations to give our shallow gene pool depth. Now, however, that guidance is crushing genetic variability. Graxen does possess visible mutations. Yet, despite his coloration, he has also shown speed and agility that is nearly unmatched in our race. He has excelled in scholarship despite the burden of constant abuse from his peers. Losing Graxen from the gene pool would be a tragedy.”
The matriarch shook her head. “Our genetic threads were always contraindicated. I wouldn’t have allowed Graxen to breed if he’d been born blue as the winter sky. It’s my duty to keep the threads untangled. If not for the wisdom contained in this room, our species would have vanished from the earth long ago.”
“You can’t know that,” said Graxen.
“She can know that,” said Metron in a scolding tone. “These threads guided us from almost certain extinction. Yet we’re no longer the same fragile race we were when the first tapestries were sewn. Our species numbers in the tens of thousands. We can safely let go of the old ways and begin to experiment with new ways. Humans have endured eons without a guiding hand. There may be advantages to allowing individuals to choose their mates.”
The matriarch grimaced, as if she’d just bit into something bitter. “Do you truly advocate the breeding practices of savages?”
“Humans have survived disasters we couldn’t,” said Metron. “Plagues, for instance. Dragons have been spared plagues due to our relative newness as a species. A thousand years is insufficient time for a microbe to have adapted to us as a carrier. What happens when that day comes? With all the females clustered together in the Nest, a single disease could wipe out our species overnight.”
“We’re spared plagues due to our superior breeding and fastidious hygienic practices,” the matriarch said, in a tone that made it seem she was addressing a hatchling instead of the most learned sky-dragon in the kingdom. “Our isolation is a barrier to disease, not an opportunity.”
“An intriguing hypothesis,” said Metron. Then his eyes twinkled. He looked as if he’d just guided the matriarch onto the exact intellectual ledge he’d wanted her to stand upon. “Since we’re rational creatures, we can test it. We can select a pool of candidates to live outside the Nest and the Colleges. The test subjects may settle where they please, and find mates as they please. A hundred members of each sex should provide a reasonable study group. Then, we will track their offspring for ten generations in a second Thread Room to analyze if the genetic health of their offspring improves or declines compared to the main population.”
The matriarch tilted her head in such a way that it looked as if the idea had lodged in her brain and suddenly weighed down her left lobe.
“A second Thread Room?” she said, her voice almost dreamy. “I can think of many questions that such an experiment could answer.”
“Nadala and I could be the anchor for such a population,” said Graxen.
“No,” the matriarch said, raising her fore-talon dismissively. “The control group must start with untainted candidates. Neither you nor Nadala would meet the criteria.”
“I would hope, as designer of the experiment, that I would have some say in selecting the population,” said Metron. “I will choose half the males and half the females without restriction; you shall select the other half.”
“No. No, while I’m intrigued by your proposal, I fear you’re overlooking a rather clear set of facts,” said the matriarch. “You’re a tatterwing. Your wings still stink of pus and scabs, and already you’ve forgotten your status? Your presence here is a crime punishable by death. Graxen, too, was told that if he returned he would face execution. It would be poor precedent for me to reverse that decision. And Nadala… my poor, deluded, hormone-poisoned Nadala… your sins are greater than either of these males. You’re a traitor to the Nest. As such, your punishment will be far worse than either of these fools.”
As the matriarch spoke, she punctuated her words with sharp, rapid taps of her cane against the tiles. The tapestries that lined the room bulged outward. Fifty valkyries poured into the chamber from unseen doors. Nadala sprang to place herself between Graxen and the guards. “Run back to the stairs,” she hissed. “I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”
Graxen moved to her side. “I’ll not abandon you.”
“How romantic,” said the matriarch. Then, to the valkyries, “Take them!”
A handful of the valkyries advanced, spears lowered. Things quickly became confused as the nearest valkyrie stumbled drunkenly. Spears clattered on the tiles as they slipped from trembling talons. One by one, the valkyries began to drop, unconscious. Graxen noted an acrid odor, like the smell of burning peanuts wafting through the room. A faint haze of blue smoke could be seen swirling as the valkyries continued to fall. Nadala suddenly swooned, her eyes rolling upward in their sockets. Graxen caught her before she hit the floor.
“W-what treachery is this, Metron?” the matriarch growled as she swayed unsteadily, reaching out one fore-talon to the blackboard to maintain her balance.
“I am not to blame for… oh. Oh, no,” said Metron. “No! By the bones, he’s played me for a fool! Why didn’t I see his plan? I swear I didn’t know he followed me!”
As Metron spoke, the last of the valkyries toppled. Then the matriarch, too, succumbed to the mysterious smoke. Only Metron and Graxen remained standing.
“What’s happening?” Graxen cried out. “Who has followed us?”
The tapestry where they had entered was suddenly torn asunder. Bald human girls clad in leather armor danced into the room, brandishing black, wet blades. Metron moved as fast as his old body could manage to stand over the matriarch’s fallen form. Graxen dragged Nadala to Metron’s side, laying her carefully upon the floor, then taking a defensive stance next to his father as group of girls surrounded them. Graxen took note of the tattoos on their shaved heads. These must be the Sisters of the Serpent, the cult that had attacked the palace.
The doorway to the stairs darkened. The black-scaled form of a su
n-dragon squeezed through the too-tight opening, then stood erect in the much larger Thread Room, stretching his wings. Graxen was used to the company of Shandrazel, but this dragon seemed even larger, more menacing, as his black hide sucked in the light.
“Blasphet,” said Metron, his voice cracking, on the verge of tears.
One of the girls darted forward. Graxen tried to stop her, but time felt distorted. The smoke that had felled the others slowed him. He couldn’t reach the girl before she landed a savage kick in Metron’s gut. The elderly tatterwing doubled over, falling to the floor.
“Your unworthy tongue may not speak the holy name!” the girl snarled.
“Greetings, old friend,” Blasphet said, looking down at Metron’s curled form. “For your own safety, I’d recommend use of my proper title.”
“Murder God!” cried Metron, as his tears erupted.
Ragnar stood atop a mountain of rusted rubble. His army stretched out around him in the thousands, a motley collection of slaves and farmers and mercenaries, most dressed in rags, many carrying only the crudest of weapons. Ragnar’s voice was loud as thunder as he shouted, “The Lord is our light and our salvation! The serpents who’ve devoured our flesh shall stumble and fall! Though they raise their weapons against us, we shall not fear! The Lord shall give us strength to break their swords and shatter their shields. He shall delight in the desolation of our enemies!”
The army of men cheered, and Pet was certain that any element of surprise they might have possessed was lost. They were only half a mile from the eastern gate of Dragon Forge, hidden among the man-made hills of scrap. The debris blocked them from sight of the fort; he wondered if it would also swallow up the noise.
Pet, by his unearned reputation as a great archer, had been placed with a small contingent of men with long bows. The bows weren’t the best weapon for attacking a sleeping city. If they fired blindly over the walls, their arrows would most likely lodge into rooftops or empty city streets, harming no one. When Ragnar’s army poured through the gates, firing into the city would be as likely to injure a human as an earth-dragon. So, the archers had been told to hold back from the initial assault, to await further orders from one of Ragnar’s closest companions, a white-bearded man everyone called Frost. Pet found himself disappointed not to be part of the main attack. He’d reached the moment in his life where he needed to know if he truly possessed the courage to fight. In the Free City, he’d been rescued by Ragnar and Kamon, then assumed the role of shouter of inspirational words. In actual combat, however, he’d lagged near the back, and had finished the battle without ever giving a dragon so much as a scratch.