by James Maxey
"Thank you," said Graxen.
"You've delivered your message," the matriarch said, turning her back to him once more. "Now take your leave.
"I've had a long journey," said Graxen. "Isn't it customary to offer a messenger of the king time to rest, to partake of food and water?"
"You have said Shandrazel doesn't respect custom," said the matriarch. "He could have sent a member of his aerial guard. Why send you, if not as deliberate taunt?"
"Shandrazel has no interest in the bloodlines of sky-dragons. I don't believe he knows I am your son."
"I am to believe it is only coincidence he chose you?"
"No. When Shandrazel was banished by Albekizan, he sought shelter at the College of Spires. Chapelion sent him away. But I felt pity for Shandrazel and followed him. I served as his messenger in exile. Now, I serve him openly. Still, you are correct. My presence here isn't chance. I asked for this mission. It was my one chance to ask… to ask…"
"Don't stammer," she snapped
Graxen felt as if the simplest words were almost impossible to utter. He stared at the frayed threads that had been Androkom, and suddenly grew aware of hundreds of similar threads representing the conclusions of bloodlines. He knew he was one of them.
"I want to mate," said Graxen. "It grieves me to think that your thread ends with me. The color of my hide is only a superficial flaw. In every other way, I believe I am an excellent candidate to carry on your bloodline. I'm strong, I'm studious, I'm-"
"Get out," she said.
"But, if you'll-"
"Valkyries!" she shouted.
The tapestries on the wall bulged outward. A score of valkyries emerged from hidden passageways, spears readied. Graxen's gut twisted as he realized they must have been listening to his every word. Sky-dragons were supposed to be creatures of intellect, devoid of the lusts that fouled lesser beings. His shameful confession of the desire to breed had no doubt been heard by all these warriors.
"I'll go," he said.
"You arrived with great speed," one of the valkyries growled. "Let your departure match it."
Grinding gears vibrated through the stone walls as Graxen climbed the steps from the Thread Room back toward the tower he'd entered. Arriving at the high chamber, he found the iron bars now raised. Valkyries stood in twin rows, forming a living hallway through which he passed. He lowered his eyes as he walked, unable to bear the icy stares of the females.
As he leapt to the balcony rail and spread his wings, he heard a muttered word from one of the guards behind him: "Freak."
He tilted forward, falling toward the spikes below. Rust and moss and damp sand scented the air that rushed across his face. His feather-scales toyed with the air, pulling him out and away from the spikes in a gentle arc, until, an instant before he dashed against the rocky shore, he flapped his wings and shot forward, then up, into a bright winter sun that failed to warm him.
A moment later he passed over the edge of the dam. The sky in all directions was thick with valkyries. He felt a stir of grim pride that he was sufficiently threatening to justify such a force.
He followed the river once more, adhering to its twists and turns, lost in thought. What did it matter that he wouldn't be allowed to breed? There were hundreds of dragons who shared his fate. More, there were male dragons who refused the chance even when offered. Many prominent biologians believed that any mingling of the sexes would muddy the mind; they dared not risk the damage even a single night of passion might cause to their intellect. The fact that Androkom wouldn't be invited to breed would perhaps not bother him at all. Metron, the former high biologian, had famously refused an invitation to the Nest with the words: "I would rather history judge me by my works rather than the quality of my biological debris."
As he flew, Graxen's musing about breeding slowly gave way to thoughts of food. The king's messengers traveled light, relying on the hospitality of those they were sent to speak to. Fortunately, his next destination wasn't far. The town of Dragon Forge was no more than thirty miles distant.
The terrain changed as Graxen neared the town. The nearly pristine forested mountainsides that surrounded the Nest gave way to rolling hills, many of them stripped of trees. Giant mounds of rusting metal dotted the landscape, and ragged shanty towns sat beside muddy stream banks. Humans in rags trudged along, hauling carts full of rusting scraps. These were gleaners, men who made their living by scouring the landscape in search of relics from a previous age, incomprehensible artifacts crafted from steel that had long ago decayed into rust. Yet, even rust had value-the gleaners sold their wares to the foundries of Dragon Forge, where immense furnaces melted down the scraps of metal, freeing the ores, which were then refined and cast into the armor and weapons used by the armies of the dragons. The humans below were fueling the engines of their own oppression.
Three plumes of smoke rose in the distance. Graxen's nose wrinkled as the stench of the foundries reached him. He traced a wide arc around the town, looking for a good landing spot. The earth-dragons below looked like small beetles from this height, as they hurried across the packed-earth streets of their town. Nowhere within the fortress was there any hint of vegetation. The surrounding hills were nothing but rust-colored clutter and weeds, with a few bare and scraggly trees here and there. Earth dragons weren't known for their appreciation of beauty.
At the far side of his arc, glancing back through the smoke plumes, Graxen caught a glimpse of sparkling light. Continuing in his orbit, he discovered the light was the gleaming helmet of a valkyrie a few miles distant. Was he being pursued this far from the Nest? Or was it mere coincidence? Valkyries must do business with Dragon Forge-all the steel grates and spikes that turned the place into a fortress must come from somewhere.
He slowed his flight. The valkyrie continued toward him. Was this some messenger from the matriarch? Perhaps she'd changed her mind? The instant he had the thought, he dismissed it, and was embarrassed by his heart's willingness to hold onto hope.
Graxen decided to meet the valkyrie head on. He adjusted his path to match hers and the distance between them rapidly closed. As they drew within a hundred yards of each other, he was struck with recognition. It was Teardrop, the dragon who'd given him such a chase. She'd once more donned her armor, though she wasn't carrying her spear. Was she pursuing him out of some desire for revenge? If so, why come unarmed? She began to glide in an arc and he joined her in a counter path, so that they traced a large circle through the air. They looked at each other across the gap as they glided leisurely in their orbit.
"You dropped your bag," she said, the hint of a smirk showing in her eyes. Graxen noted the leather satchel hooked over her belt where her manacles had once hung. She flicked her tail forward and knocked the sack free. It fell slowly, dancing in the wind. Graxen dove and snagged it in his hind-claws. The bag felt heavy-something was inside. He jerked his head up. Had this been a ploy to distract him from a sneak attack? The valkyrie continued in her slow circle, looking toward him with an expression devoid of malice.
"Thank you," he said, flapping his wings to reach her flight level once more.
"I'm sorry Sparrow attacked you. She should never have been allowed on that patrol."
"She was only doing her job."
"Our job is to defend the island, not to abuse innocent messengers."
"I'm used to hostility," said Graxen.
"It's left you with remarkable reflexes," she said.
Graxen wasn't used to complements. He found himself unsure how to respond. There was a long moment of silence.
Teardrop took his quietness as an invitation for further explanation. "Sparrow only became a valkyrie a year ago. On her first patrol, she and two more experienced guards were ambushed by a band of tatterwings."
"Oh," said Graxen. The only thing lower in the ranks of the sky-dragons than a freak was a tatterwing. These were criminal sky-dragons whose wings had been slashed as punishment. Forever condemned to the ground, tatterwings survived by beg
ging or by banditry. It sounded as if Sparrow had fallen victim to the latter kind.
"The elder valkyries were killed. Sparrow was… abused. She only recently returned to duty. Her attack on you was an attack upon the ghosts that haunt her. And, of course, she is from the lineage of Pachythan. So, she perhaps felt an extra obligation to be tough with you."
Graxen wasn't certain what her lineage had to do with anything. Pachythan was the younger brother of Metron. Was she saying Sparrow was more diligent due to being the niece of such a prominent sky-dragon?
She added, "I didn't want you to think ill of all valkyries. Most would never have attacked you unprovoked."
"I'm glad you don't think of the events that followed as a provocation," Graxen said.
"If you'd been near when I freed myself, I would have gutted you. But, I bear no grudge. You simply outflew me. I won't be such an easy opponent should we meet again."
"Noted," said Graxen. "Although, it seems unlikely we will meet again. The matriarch has vigorously uninvited me from the Nest."
"As is her duty," said Teardrop. "Fly far, Graxen the Gray. Go with the knowledge that you've earned my respect."
"I'm honored," he said. "May I ask your name?"
She banked away, flapping her wings, her body aimed for the Nest. She glanced back, then called out, "Nadala."
Graxen drifted in a slow gyre, watched Nadala grow smaller as she flew away, until she was only a speck, then only a memory.
Graxen returned his attention to Dragon Forge. He dropped down into the city, toward a broad avenue that ran near the central foundries.
In unison, thousands of earth-dragons were filing into the street chanting,
"Yo ho ho!
The slow must go!
Yo ho ho!
The slow must go!"
The verse lasted all of five seconds, with the "yo ho hos!" rising in tone, and the "slow must goes" falling. The verse was then repeated, and was then repeated, and was then repeated, until Graxen was struck by the intense urgency to complete his mission here and move on. He dropped the bag in his hind-claws just before landing. Coming to rest, he retrieved the satchel and slung it over his shoulder. He again noticed the weight, but before he could examine it he was nearly run into by an earth-dragon marching straight toward him. Earth-dragons were squat, wingless creatures, resembling the unholy union of a human, a turtle, and an alligator. Most stood little more than five feet high, and were almost as broad due to their powerful musculature. Their green, beaked faces resembled the heads of turtles. As a species they were notoriously nearsighted, which could explain why the one that approached him was only inches away from collision before he stopped, looking befuddled.
Graxen figured this creature was as good a guide as any, and said, "I'm here to see Charkon. Can you tell me where to find him?"
The earth-dragon looked at him dully, as if trying to fathom what Graxen might be saying. Earth-dragons varied a good deal in intelligence. None were as smart, on average, as sky-dragons, but many managed something approximating human intelligence, and most were smart enough to obey commands and hit the things they were told to hit. Still, a fair number weren't smart enough to talk. Graxen wondered if he'd grabbed one of these by mistake, even though the earth-dragon was still tonelessly repeating, "the slow must go, yo ho ho…"
Finally something sparked in the dragon's eyes.
"Charkon's our boss," he said.
"Right," said Graxen. "I need to find him. Is he around?"
"It's hatching day," the dragon said.
Graxen was about to give up and try another dragon when this one said, "Follow me." Graxen fell in behind the creature, taking care not to step on the dragon's thick, alligatorish tail as it dragged in the dirt.
Graxen joined a crowd of earth-dragons heading for the center of town. All the human gleaners he'd spotted earlier had vanished. The crush of earth-dragons at the town square was worrisome. Though Graxen stood taller than anyone in the crowd, even the smallest earth-dragon outweighed him four to one. Graxen had a grim vision of being crushed by these horrid creatures. What were they all here for anyway? And would they never tire of that damn song?
Fortunately, his guide proved to be quite effective at moving through the crowd. The earth-dragon simply pushed ahead, knocking down and trampling those before him, occasionally pausing to bite a particularly slow moving obstacle to encourage it to move more quickly. Graxen mumbled apologies as he hopped over the dragons pushed down by his guide.
Finally, they reached the center. A large mound of red clay was piled here, resembling an ant hill ten feet high and twice as wide at the base. The clay was cracking and crumbling, giving it a surface resembling shattered flowerpots. It looked as if it was being wracked by small earthquakes.
Next to the mound stood a figure that Graxen instantly recognized as Charkon, though they had never met. Charkon was old for an earth-dragon, nearly eighty. Earth-dragons continued to pack on ever denser muscles as they aged, giving Charkon arms and legs thick as tree trunks. But it was his face that identified him. Charkon was a veteran of the southern rebellion, and at one point had found his face on the wrong end of a battle axe. A large jagged chunk of his left beak was gone, and where his eye had been there was now only a nasty bulb of scars. Yet, despite Charkon's hideous visage, his remaining eye gleamed with a savage intelligence, and he stood with a bearing that was as close to noble as an earth-dragon could ever hope to be.
Charkon gave Graxen a nod, then waved him closer.
"You're Graxen the Gray," Charkon said, shouting to be heard above the chanting crowd. "I thought I'd be seeing you."
"Shandrazel has sent me to-"
"I know," said Charkon. "He wants me at the palace. I'll set out tomorrow. The dragons of the Forge have served sun-dragons for centuries. It will be an honor to confer with Shandrazel."
"Oh," said Graxen, leaning in closer so he could better hear over the deafening singing. "I was hardly needed here at all, was I?"
"I've stayed alive this long by listening to the right voices," said Charkon. "Don't feel bad. Gleaners constantly bring me rumors. I have a good instinct at picking which ones are right."
"I see," Graxen shouted back. He cast an eye toward the red clay mound, which was now positively trembling. "What's happening here?"
"It's hatching day!" said Charkon. "I'd take to the sky if I were you. Now!"
Though he didn't understand what was going on, Graxen recognized wise advice when he heard it. He leapt skyward, climbing into the air with sharp, rapid strokes. Below he heard a cracking sound, and the crowd roared: "The slow must go!"
He looked down to see the mound disintegrate in a cloud of red dust. Tens of thousands of mouse-sized earth-dragons spilled out of the crumbling clay. Though they looked like turtles, the hatchlings hopped and darted with the speed of rabbits, dashing off in every direction at once. Instantly, the crowd of earth-dragons surged forward, falling to their hands and knees, slapping at the hopping creatures, cramming those they caught into their beaks.
Charkon's beefy fingers reached out and snatched three of the infant beasts, then tilted back his head and opened his disfigured beak wide. He dangled the tiny dragons above his maw, their stubby tails trapped between his digits, before dropping the critters down his gullet one by one.
Despite the crush of bodies, or perhaps because of it, many of the hatchlings escaped between the legs of the assembled dragons, or leapt over the crowd, from head to head, before vanishing into gaps in the walls of nearby buildings, or burrowing into the bins of coal that sat next to the foundry.
Graxen wasn't completely ignorant of earth-dragon biology. He knew that, unlike the winged dragon races, they were egg-layers, and they hatched their young in community mounds. He'd also heard they were unsentimental in winnowing out the weaker members of the hatch. He just hadn't expected them to be so enthusiastic about the process.
Graxen rose up through the foundry smoke and soon found his bearings, locat
ing the Forge Road, which he would follow back to Shandrazel's castle. He flapped away from Dragon Forge, eager to leave behind the foul air and brutish inhabitants, and especially eager to get beyond the range of that damned song. Still, this was twice today he'd delivered a message and not been offered food, drink, or shelter. Messenger of the king was proving to be an unrewarding job.
Once he was out of range of the smoky air and had cleared the barren hillsides where the gleaners lived, Graxen alighted in the upper branches of a tall tree. He was weary from his flight. As he landed, the shifting weight of his satchel reminded him once more of its mysterious contents. He opened it.
Within was a loaf of dark-crusted bread and a ceramic flask of water, sealed with a cork. Four dried trout were wrapped in a sheet of oily parchment, and beneath them sat two apples, red as rose petals.
Graxen drank half the jug, the cool liquid feeling like life as it flowed into his body. He bit into one of the trout and found the flavor smoky and salty. It was a fine meal, fueling his spirit and his body, giving him the strength to fly further. Yet he didn't move from the tree branch for many hours. Instead he looked back in the direction of the Nest, watching the sky, contemplating the restorative power of unexpected kindness.
Chapter Three:
Mad in the Timeless Dark
The Burning Grounds lay in the shadow of Shandrazel's palace. Winged dragons honored their dead by cremation, releasing the spiritual flames that remained trapped within the body. In the aftermath of the battle of the Free City, the pyres of the Burning Grounds had burned every night from dusk to dawn. Tonight, Vendevorex, the sky-dragon who had served as Albekizan's wizard for fifteen years, would be placed upon the flames.
A choir of sky-dragons sang, their eerily high voices echoing the ephemeral nature of flame. Jandra stood stoically at the base of the pedestal of logs on which the wizard would be burned. A human female sixteen years of age, Jandra had been raised by Vendevorex almost as a daughter. He had trained her in his arts. She alone knew the secrets of his powers, although there were many more secrets he had carried with him into death.