by James Maxey
Graxen approached as Shandrazel and Androkom quietly conferred. The king glanced up as he neared.
"Welcome, Graxen," Shandrazel said. "Thank you for your work in summoning everyone. They day is still young, but already many of the guests have arrived. However, I won't need your services today. You've worked hard these past weeks. You should take today to rest. Tomorrow as well."
"History will unfold here today," Graxen said. "I can think of no other place I'd rather be."
"Understood," said Androkom, sounding impatient. "However, you can't stay here. The talks must remain closed. Everyone who isn't a representative of their race must leave the chamber."
Graxen looked toward Shandrazel. The sun-dragon looked apologetic as he said, "He's right, I'm afraid. You can remain while the guests arrive, but I must request that you leave when the discussions begin."
Graxen nodded. He could see the logic of having the talks be private, but there was still something condescending about Androkom's emphasis on the words "representative of their race." Graxen looked around the room. If he couldn't remain, he still might play one small role in helping the talks succeed. The historic tapestries on the wall may have been effectively invisible to Shandrazel; no doubt he'd seen them his whole life, and paid little attention to their contents.
"Before I leave, may I assist in removing the tapestries?" he offered.
"Why?" asked Shadrazel.
Graxen motioned with his gaze to a tapestry behind Shandrazel's left shoulder. It showed a young Albekizan with a human body crushed in his jaws and a severed human head hanging in his left fore-talon. The glorified dragon stood upon a mountain of dead men.
"It hardly seems fair to the humans to negotiate a new government under such a reminder of the power of dragons," Graxen said.
"I understand your concerns," Shandrazel said, contemplating the image. "However, I value truth above all other virtues. My father was known for his blind spots. He acted as if Hex had never been born. He claimed that the map inlaid on the floor showed the entirety of the world when it actually only shows the narrow sliver he conquered. My father erased history as it suited his needs; I prefer to let the evidence of the past stand. Perhaps these glorifications of violence will inspire us to greater fairness."
Graxen thought this highly unlikely. He said, "But what if the humans-"
"The tapestries will stay, Graxen," Shandrazel said. "There's no point in arguing with me. You know that during my time at the College of Spires, I never lost a debate."
Graxen himself had witnessed many of these debates. Did Shandrazel truly believe he'd always won due to his superior intellect? Was he blind to the fact that he owed his victories to being Albekizan's son more than to any special gift for logic?
"Of course, sire," said Graxen.
He glanced once more at the growing crowd of humans, wondering what their thoughts on the matter were. He took note of a tall young man with long blonde hair dressed in silk finery-he'd seen this human before, often in the company of Shandrazel. It was the one Albekizan had labeled as Bitterwood. Perhaps Shandrazel was right about Albekizan's blindness to truth. The man was obviously too young to be the source of the original Bitterwood legend.
The young Bitterwood was leaning in close to talk to a shorter man. The second man was bald save for a few whispery gray hairs, and sported a long braided mustache. In contrast to the robust form of Bitterwood, the man was stooped and thin, supporting himself with the help of a gnarled stave. Watching the two whisper to each other, Graxen was struck by a possibility. What if the older man were the original Bitterwood?
"I'm glad to see you again," Pet said, keeping his voice low as he leaned in to confer with Kamon. Kamon was a prophet from the town of Winding Rock. His people had been among the first brought to the Free City. Kamon was well known throughout the kingdom; for decades he had preached a philosophy of subservience to dragons, telling men they must not take up arms until the arrival of a nameless "savior." Kamonism was a popular philosophy. It promised better days coming, without requiring any immediate action on the parts of his followers.
Kamon nodded. "It was my duty to answer this call. For over half a century I've preached of the day when men would be free. I'm glad I lived long enough to see this day."
"You certainly had a loyal following in the Free City," said Pet. "Speaking of loyal followings, any idea where Ragnar is?"
Ragnar and his men had been the most ferocious fighters in the battle of the Free City. Pet owed his survival to Kamon and Ragnar. Both were genuine leaders, while Pet knew, deep down, he was a fraud. People believed him to be a fearsome dragon-slayer. In truth, even during the heavy fighting of the Free City, he'd never so much as scratched a dragon.
Kamon lowered his eyes at the mention of Ragnar. His lips trembled as if he was about to speak, but after several long seconds the old prophet merely shook his head.
"You don't know?" Pet asked.
"The most accurate answer is, yes, I don't know," Kamon said.
"What's a less accurate answer?"
"All I've heard are rumors. It may amount to nothing."
"I've always listened to rumors," said Pet. "What's going on?"
Kamon's voice fell to a whisper that Pet strained to hear. Kamon's breath smelled like sour milk as Pet leaned closer. "After the fall of the Free City, many of the captives returned to their homes. But I've heard that some of the men have formed a small army led by Ragnar."
"Small army? How small?"
"A few hundred. Perhaps a thousand at most."
Pet silently contemplated the news. Maybe this wasn't so bad. One right that was going to be discussed was the right for humans to assemble militias to defend themselves. Just because Ragnar had an army didn't mean he planned to go out and kill a bunch of dragons.
"According to rumor," Kamon said, so close now his mustache touched Pet's cheek, "Ragnar plans to capture the Dragon Forge and kill all the dragons within it."
"I see," Pet said neutrally. He kept his face impassive as various scenarios boiled in his mind. Ragnar would launch a war and lose, showing humans to be both hostile and weak. Or, Ragnar would win, showing humans to be hostile and dangerous. Neither was a good position for negotiating peace. Pet thought of informing Shandrazel of the rumor and possibly halting Ragnar's army before it did real harm. Yet, on a gut level, this felt wrong. He'd be dead if not for Ragnar. He couldn't just betray him. Where was Jandra when he needed her? She was the one with the brains. Not to mention an actual sense of right and wrong. Pet's moral compass normally steered him toward the path of least resistance. He wasn't entirely without his limits; having been the victim of torture, he'd had no trouble standing up to Androkom when he'd suggested torturing the captured assassin. Right now, however, he didn't know what to do, so he decided to do nothing.
Before he could confer further with Kamon, the doors of the Peace Hall swung open and six earth-dragons marched in, clanking and clunking as they advanced toward Shandrazel. Most earth-dragon soldiers wore light armor, but these were arrayed head to tail in elaborate steel exoskeletons, the individual pieces polished to a mirror finish that reflected the room's vivid colors. The earth-dragons snapped to a halt before Shandrazel. They saluted crisply and, in unison, removed their helmets.
Pet couldn't help but stare at the one in the center. The dragon's face was horribly disfigured, with a crack in his beak large enough that Pet could see his tongue even with his mouth closed. All that remained of the eye above this gash was a horrible tumor of scars.
"My lord Shandrazel," the earth-dragon said, his voice deep and authoritative, with a slightly wet whistling noise from his injured beak. "I am Charkon, commander of the Dragon Forge, a loyal servant of your father for sixty years. I've received your summons and am here to serve you."
"Thank you, esteemed guest," Shandrazel said. "Though, it is not your service I seek today, but your wisdom and counsel."
"Sire," Charkon said, "my wisdom comes from my service. Fo
r an earth-dragon, there is no greater purpose than to devote his life to the will of his superiors."
"I do not like the word 'superiors,'" said Shandrazel. "It implies that your race is an inferior one; these talks are to promote the equality of all races."
"Yes, sire. So I've heard. Let me be blunt: We earth-dragons aren't the equals of sun-dragons. You winged dragons see the world from up high. You're dreamers and planners and leaders because of your elevated view. We earth-dragons are simple creatures. We think of little in life beyond what we will eat next. We seldom ponder the world outside our immediate grasp. Our greatest joy comes from hitting things. We make fine soldiers and blacksmiths; we have no gift for politics."
"The eloquence of your words argues differently, noble Charkon," said Shandrazel.
Charkon started to answer, but his voice was drowned out by a flapping of wings. Pet looked toward the balcony to find a small army of sky-dragons alighting on the marble rail. Pet instantly recognized them as valkyries. He'd never actually been in the presence of these fabled female warriors, but as a performer he knew the ballads that sung their praises, and the valkyries had been popular subjects of the painting and sculptures at Chakthalla's castle.
The valkyries quickly fell into formation behind the tallest of the sky-dragons. Their armor and spears glinted in the warm morning light. The tallest valkyrie was unarmed and unarmored, but something about her eyes told Pet she was the most dangerous of the group. Her claws seemed especially sharp as they clacked upon the marble on her march across the room.
"Sire," she said, in a short, clipped syllable. Unlike the deferential Charkon, this valkrye showed no hint of submissiveness or even respect as she stared into Shandrazel's face. "I am Zorasta, commander of the valkyrie legion, the matriarch's appointed representative for these so-called 'talks.'"
"So-called?" asked Shandrazel, sounding somewhat taken aback by Zorasta's forcefulness. "I assure you these talks are genuine. I hope that all of us working together will be able to form a more perfect union."
"Sire, you're still quite young," Zorasta said in a condescending tone. "You've led a sheltered life. The biologians who educated you have failed you, filling your mind with unhealthy philosophies. I've been sent to bring you back to the sane and rational path."
Shandrazel wrinkled his brow, looking quite bewildered by the aggressive manner of a creature half his size.
Kamon cast a sidelong glance at Pet and whispered, "This is their diplomat?"
"At least the talks aren't going to be boring," said Pet.
Pet looked at Androkom, trying to judge his reaction, since he was one of the biologians most responsible for Shandrazel's "unhealthy philosophies." The new high biologian didn't look all that worried. Indeed, while dragons could neither smile nor frown, there was a tilt to Androkom's head and a gleam in his eye that told Pet he was amused by Zorasta's attitude.
But the thing that really caught Pet's eye was the sky-dragon standing behind Androkom-Graxen the Gray. Graxen's eyes were positively starry as he cast his gaze at Zorasta. No, not Zorasta. Graxen was focused on a different valkyrie, the one standing behind the right shoulder of the diplomat. At first, Pet couldn't spot anything particularly unusual about this sky-dragon, who stood stone-still, a living prop to symbolize Zorasta's authority. However, Pet had finely tuned instincts for spotting sexual attraction. There was a flicker in the valkyrie's eye, a slight change in her breathing, that told Pet that she was fully aware of Graxen's presence. Did the two know each other? Or was this some kind of love at first sight thing? Pet was an expert in human romance and knew more than he wanted to about sun-dragon affairs, but he had no clue what would stoke the flames of passion for sky-dragons.
He felt himself relax a bit at the sight of this unspoken emotion between the two dragons. He stopped worrying about Ragnar and felt a flicker of hope. Dragon's weren't so unlike people. They had the same basic needs-food, clothing, shelter-and an all-consuming desire to mate. As long as he could help insure a world where those basic needs were met, perhaps it was possible for all the species to live in harmony.
"…which brings me to my next demand," Zorasta said. She'd been talking this whole time, Pet realized, he just hadn't been paying attention while he was focused on reading Graxen's body language. He suddenly wished he'd been listening, though, as Zorasta swung toward him and extended her wing in an accusatory fashion.
"Bitterwood cannot be a representative of the humans. No dragon can know peace until this man has been brought to justice for his crimes. If these 'talks' are to take place at all, he must be arrested and taken to the executioner's block without delay!"
Blasphet, the Murder God, rested upon a giant cushion stitched together from the hides of sky-dragons. The Sisters of the Serpent demonstrated remarkable aptitude for tanning and taxidermy. The only downside was that Blasphet's temple reeked of the tanning solutions. Huge vats of brine and urine and various tree saps gave off fumes that permeated the air.
Perhaps another god might have taken offense that his temple had such a foul atmosphere, but Blasphet was too impressed by the ingenuity of his worshipers to judge them harshly. From the air, Blasphet's temple was indistinguishable from the thousands of abandoned and derelict buildings scattered through the kingdom. It had been a warehouse in centuries past. Now it was almost completely buried beneath a tangle of vines and brush; there were low, gnarled dogwoods growing upon the roof. Yet, somehow, the warehouse had survived the assault of centuries of vegetation and remained mostly intact. The vast, open space within proved comfortable for a creature of his stature. The Sisters of the Serpent had painted the walls of the place black. The floor was carpeted with the hides of various beasts; even the skins of sun-dragons. His followers had been busy. Colobi, the human leader of this sect, said they had worked on the temple for some years, long before he'd been released from his first imprisonment to design the Free City. He was touched that they had shown such faith in his eventual return.
The temple was lit by the light of a thousand candles; the scent of burning tallow mixed with the tanning fumes. In this candlelight, a score of his followers were guiding a flat-bedded wagon drawn by an ox-dog. Upon the wagon lay the immobile form of a sun-dragon. Blasphet knew him: Arvelizan, a distant cousin, and the sun-dragon charged with the administration of the territory of Riverbreak, a rather poor and unimportant domain on the edge of the Ghostlands. Arvelizan had been captured within sight of Shandrazel's palace. He now lay paralyzed by Blasphet's poisons, though Blasphet could see the slight rise and fall of his belly that signaled he was still alive.
Colobi, the serpent of the first order, approached him. She was dressed in robes created from the soft leather of a sun-dragon's wings, stained black. Her face was in shadows below a broad hood, revealing only her blood red lips and pale chin in the candlelight.
"We have captured a live sun-dragon as you commanded, O Murder God," Colobi said, kneeling before him. "Two sisters were killed in combat with his guards; no one who traveled with him escaped. His absence at the talks will be a mystery."
"Well done," Blasphet said. "Have the sisters administer the antidote. I wish to speak to Arvelizan."
"At once, my Lord."
Arvelizan was now only a few yards away. Blasphet watched as Colobi issued her orders and one of the sisters injected the antidote into Arvelizan's long, scaly neck using the fine tip of a hollow dagger. Moments later, the sun-dragon's eyes opened. His deep green irises were still dilated, leaving his eyes mostly black.
"W-where…" he whispered, still too weak to lift his head.
"Hello Arv," Blasphet said. "Remember me?"
Arvelizan's gaze drifted toward the voice. Suddenly, he jerked his head up, the motion halted by the sturdy hemp ropes that bound him to the wagon's bed.
"Blasphet!" he cried.
"Here in the temple, I prefer to be addressed as Murder God," said Blasphet. "Lord is acceptable as well. My true name is sacred, you see."
Arvelizan r
esponded by increasing his struggles. His tail came free and whipped around blindly, catching one of the sisters off guard and knocking her from her feet. Other sisters leapt back and drew daggers as the ropes groaned and the wood creaked.
"You'll only injure yourself if you keep struggling," said Blasphet.
Arvelizan showed no fear of self-injury. He kicked and strained and wriggled, working slack into the ropes. Suddenly his left wing extended, now free of its bonds. Three more sisters were thrown to the ground by his struggles.
"Colobi," said Blasphet. "Feed him this paste." He held out a gallon-sized iron pot. Colobi grabbed it and removed the lid. In contrast to the background stench of the room, a pleasing aroma of orange scented honey rose from the oily yellow paste within.
Colobi grabbed the iron pot and fearlessly jumped onto the bed beside the thrashing dragon. He turned his jaws to snap at her; she crouched down inches from his teeth. She calmly slipped on a waterproof leather glove that covered her slender arm up the elbow. Arvelizan snapped his jaws again, straining harder to reach her as she dug her hand deep into the pot. The paste within was the consistency of dung; she lifted a large fistful. Arvelizan opened his jaws to attempt to bite her a third time and she flung the golden gunk toward the back of his throat. Arvelizan coughed, spraying Colobi's black robes with flecks of yellow. She readied a second handful, then a third, tossing it with expert aim into the creature's gullet as he strained to reach her with his teeth. Soon the sun-dragon's entire tongue was coated in the stuff, and his saliva dripped like mustard-colored paint. His struggles slowly calmed. Colobi reached out and placed her hand upon his snout, then nudged his lower jaw open as he stared at her vacantly. She rubbed the last few scoops of paste directly onto his tongue.
"There," said Blasphet. "Isn't that better?"
Arvelizan turned toward Blasphet once more. "Yes," he whispered.
"Yes what?"
"Yes, Murder God," said Arvelizan.
"Untie him," Blasphet said.
Colobi looked calm as she stood and removed her paste covered glove. She tossed it aside as the other sisters ran forward and cut away Arvelizan's ropes.