Dragonforge (57 page)

“I could give you the bag,” he said.

“Keep the bag.  Just share your kindness.”

Graxen nodded.  He held out the dried fish toward her.

“I’m not hungry at the moment,” she said.  She raised her fore-talon to the gray teardrop scale on her cheek and wiped away the moisture that lingered there. “We have miles to journey before we reach our new world.” 

The branch shuddered as Nadala leapt.

“Try to keep up,” she called back, rising into the pristine winter blue.

The matriarch closed
the door behind her. A soft talon reached out to touch her shoulder. She turned, and allowed herself to fall into Metron’s embrace. It was as comforting as she remembered.

“I did what you asked me to do,” she whispered. “I never could deny you.”

“You made the right choice,” Metron answered. “The books of our lives have reached their final chapter. But the story of Graxen and Nadala is just beginning, Sarelia.”

The matriarch sighed. “It’s been many years since I’ve been called by my true name. It’s been so long since anyone has known me as anything other than my title. They’ve forgotten the dragon underneath; perhaps I’ve forgotten as well.”

Metron slid his cheek along hers. She trembled at its smoothness.

“I’ll always be with you to help you remember,” Metron whispered. “I know you, Sarelia. You’re still the wise and wonderful dragon I met those long years ago; I love you still.”

The matriarch nodded as her cane slipped from her talon. As long as Metron held her, she had all the strength she needed to stand.

Jandra pulled Pet’s
tattered cloak more tightly around her as she approached the gates of Dragon Forge. The ring of invisibility sat on her wrist like a bracelet. She’d not used it on her journey. She’d walked from Shandrazel’s tent boldly, never looking back, and no guard had challenged her. She’d been at the edge of the encampment before she’d heard the shouts behind her as the bodies were discovered. She’d made it to the shelter of the forest shadows soon after.

Only as she’d reached the gleaner mounds had she’d glanced over her shoulder. She was certain she could hear the distant beating of wings. The sun-dragons were abandoning the camp in droves, dark shapes in a dark sky. Jandra didn’t know what the dawn would bring when the earth-dragons found their sun-dragon masters absent. Nor, for that matter, did she know the fate of the human slaves. Hex would have his victory, it seemed. An age of anarchy was upon them.

Or, perhaps, the age of a new order.

She reached the gates and looked up, shouting, “Let me in!”

A young man looked over the wall at her.

“That’s Pet’s cloak,” he said. “Who are you?”

“I’m Jandra,” she said. “Pet’s dead. Shandrazel killed him. But Pet killed Shandrazel as well.”

“Oh my gosh!” the boy said. “Pet’s dead? Oh my gosh!”

“What’s your name,” Jandra called out.

“Vance, ma’am,” he answered.

“Will you open the gate?”

“No, ma’am,” he said. He threw down a rope ladder. “You’ll have to climb up.”

As Jandra climbed, Vance said, “I’ve heard your voice before. You’re the girl who called out to Pet earlier. He seemed mighty excited you were here.”

Jandra reached the top of the wall. She looked around the tortured landscape.

“I still can’t believe you beat back the dragons,” she said.

“I’m kinda surprised myself,” said Vance. Jandra noticed how short Vance was; he was barely up to her chin. He was also slightly older than his voice let on, judging from his wispy mustache. “Pet really kept us together up here on the walls. He was a good man, ma’am. I’m sorry to hear he’s dead.”

She nodded. “I have to speak to Burke,” she said. “Pet said he was the brains of the rebellion.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Vance. “He made our bows, and he built that giant.”

“Good,” said Jandra. “Then I may have some information that will interest him.”

Vance ordered a man nearly twice his age and girth to watch his post. He led Jandra down into the fortress. She coughed as the full force of the sooty smoke hit her. Now that her nanites were no longer protecting her lungs, she felt especially vulnerable. She wished she could at least seal up the open back of her gown. Even beneath the cloak, her spine felt cold and exposed.

Vance led her through filthy streets toward the central foundry. The doors of the great factory were wide open. The sound of hammers on anvils rang through the air. Jandra raised her hands to shield her eyes as a cauldron of white-hot molten metal was poured into a form.

Vance led Jandra to a small office. He pointed toward a chair and said, “Wait here.”

Jandra remained standing as Vance tapped on the door beyond the office. He looked back apologetically as several long moments passed. Finally, the door creaked open. The woman who’d been dressed in buckskins earlier was now dressed in a cotton nightgown and carrying an unsheathed sword. Jandra’s eyes were still highly tuned; apparently some of the physical changes the helmet had made were permanent. She noted the razor edge of the blade. It was the sharpest thing she’d ever seen.

The raven-haired woman glared at Vance. Then she cast her gaze at Jandra. Her expression softened as she saw the blood staining Pet’s cloak.

She gave Jandra a slight nod, and waved her inside.

The room beyond was pitch black. Jandra stood still inside the door as the woman struck a match. Seconds later, a lantern fluttered to life. Burke the Machinist lay in his bed, looking still as death.

The woman sheathed her sword and touched Burke on the shoulder. Burke’s eyes slowly opened. He stared up at his daughter, and then turned his head toward Jandra. He, too, nodded slowly as he saw Pet’s bloodstained cloak.

“Shandrazel gave his answer, then,” he whispered.

“Shandrazel is dead,” said Jandra. “Pet killed him, as he killed Pet.”

Burke rested his head back on the pillow. “That doesn’t end this. But it buys us time. We might win this thing yet.”

He turned back to Jandra. “We could win it tomorrow if you’d share your so-called magic.”

“It’s gone,” said Jandra. “Stolen by a dragon.”

“Oh,” said Burke, sounding weary. “Well, we’re screwed, I guess.”

“No,” said Jandra. “The dragon won’t be able to use the technology. Only I can use it. Pet said you were the brains behind this rebellion. I need your help to get my tools back.”

Burke sat up, intrigued. “I’ve always had an appreciation for tools. If we get them back, will you share your secrets? Will you help me bring an end to the Dragon Age?”

“I’ll help even before we get it back,” she said. She took a deep breath, searching her soul, trying to decide if she should speak the words that had echoed in her mind on her journey here. Whatever remained of the goddess within her grumbled at the thought of revealing the secret. And, the part of her that was the daughter of a dragon also rebelled, knowing that her words might bring death to all dragons.

But the part of her that was human knew it was her duty to speak.

“How can you help if you’re powerless, girl?” Burke asked.

Jandra narrowed her eyes, and spoke in a firm, calm tone: “I know how to make gunpowder.”

Dragonseed Preview: Hope of the Slave

The human rebels have won Dragon Forge, but they face their greatest challenge yet in holding on to it as the cruel and cunning Slavecatcher General Vulpine instigates a siege and launches biological warfare by sneaking a plague-ridden child into the town. Even more dangerous to the rebellion than the dragons are the growing tensions between Burke and Ragnar. Jandra, meanwhile, must lead Anza, Vance, and an escaped slave named Shay on an epic journey to recover her lost magic—a journey that leads her back into the underground kingdom of the goddess. Bitterwood, on the other hand, is contemplating retiring from his days as a dragon-slayer so that he can provide a proper home for Zeeky and Jeremiah—though there is one last dragon who he must battle before he lay down his bow: Hex. All this, and Blasphet too.)

Clouds the color
of bruises stained the winter sunset. Shay hoped that the yellow-brown sky meant they were near the foundries of Dragon Forge. He wasn’t certain Hemming would make it if their journey lasted another day. Shay, Hemming, and Terpin were at the edge of a pine forest on a steep hill leading down to a slow muddy river. On the other side of the water a broad, flat field had been trampled to muck. Shay wondered if this was evidence of the retreat of Shandrazel’s army. Thousands of earth-dragons had fled on foot. The ground would surely bear witness.

“I don’t think I can go on,” Hemming whined as he slid down the bank, landing on a bed of gravel beside the river. Hemming was the oldest of the three slaves, a stooped, white-haired man in his late sixties. In a perfect world, Hemming’s age and experience would have endowed him with wisdom and toughness, but in practice it had left only a fragile shell of a man with an unceasing passion for complaint. “My blisters have popped,” Hemming moaned. “My boots are filled with blood.”

“All the more reason not to stop,” said Terpin, sliding down beside him. Unlike Hemming, a house slave, Terpin had worked the grounds of the College of Spires. He was a short man, but heavily muscled. His wispy hair clung in a band around his ears, as white as Hemming’s more ample mane, though he was at least twenty years younger. Terpin’s face was a mass of wrinkles and he only had teeth on the left side of his jaw. His voice was authoritative and gruff as he said, “Walk while you still can, old man. If you can’t go on, we’re not going to carry you.”

Hemming’s lower lip quivered. “Y-you’d leave me behind? After we’ve come this far?”

Shay cleared his throat. He still clung to a skinny tree on the steep slope. The last ten feet down to the river looked particularly treacherous. He couldn’t get the memory of the horse’s broken leg out of his mind. He announced, “We’re not leaving anyone behind. I’ll drag you both if I have to.” He was the youngest of the slaves, only twenty-two. He was lanky, tall despite his hunched posture, with a thick head of orange hair bright as the scales of a sun-dragon. Unlike the drab, threadbare outfits of the older men, Shay was dressed in a long red coat with shiny brass buttons. His black boots were scuffed and muddied from walking, but the upper parts still showed their former polish.

Shay had led a more privileged life than either of the older slaves. He’d been the personal attendant to Chapelion, the sky-dragon scholar who oversaw the College of Spires. Few humans knew how to read, but Shay’s precociousness had been recognized at an early age and encouraged by Chapelion, who’d seen advantages in having a literate slave. Chapelion had thought that his bright-eyed favorite had been smart enough to recognize the benefits of life in his service. Instead Shay’s relatively easy life in the face of the hardships of his fellow men had only made his status all the more intolerable. Not that his life had been all that easy—as a slave, he’d been subject to beatings for minor mistakes. His back bore scars from the bite of whips. When news of a human rebellion at Dragon Forge had reached the College of Spires, Shay instantly knew that he belonged there. He’d persuaded Terpin to accompany him, because he liked Terpin and hoped that the older slave knew a thing or two about surviving in the world. They’d taken Hemming because the older man had eavesdropped on their plans and asked to come, and they’d both been certain he would betray them if left behind.

“Hemming, I’m as tired as you,” Shay said. “I want nothing more than to stretch out on the ground and drift to sleep. But look at those clouds. That has to be the smoke from Dragon Forge. I’ve heard the sky above it is always tinted this way at sunset. We’re close.”

“It’s Terpin’s fault we don’t have horses,” Hemming grumbled.

Shay sighed to hear this argument brought up again.

“Oh lord,” Terpin groaned, throwing his hands up.

“If you’d listened to me, we’d be there already,” Hemming said.

This was arguably true, but Shay didn’t think it mattered. They’d left with two horses, with Hemming and Shay sharing a mount. On their first day out, they’d pushed too far. Terpin had assured them the horses could go another mile, then another, and he’d beaten the horses with branches to keep them moving. After hours of rough treatment the horse that carried the two of them fell dead, its heart burst. The next morning, they’d taken turns with the last horse, and as Terpin rode down a ravine the horse had stumbled and broken its leg. Shay knew they had made mistakes that cost them dearly, but he couldn’t see any advantage in dwelling on them, not when they were so close to freedom.

“What’s past is past,” said Shay. “We’re all cold and hungry. Dragon Forge will have fireplaces, and food to fill our bellies, and it wouldn’t surprise me if there’s whiskey as well. It’s worth another hour of walking, even in the dark.”

“Whisky gives me heartburn,” Hemming grumbled. “And you think they’re just giving out food? You think they’re going to welcome three runaway slaves with open arms?”

“It’s a rebellion. They need soldiers, and workers, and cooks, and any other talents we can bring,” said Shay. “They’ll feed us. Especially once they see what I’m carrying.”

He tapped the leather pack slung over his shoulder. It had been a heavy burden to tote all this way, but he thought the contents were the most precious thing in the world. He held onto the faith that Dragon Forge would welcome them with the same certainty that dawn would follow the night. Hemming didn’t look convinced.

“You youngsters think you’re immortal,” Hemming said. “But if we’re stumbling around out here in the dark with numb feet, we’re likely to break our legs. You remember the horse, don’t you? You remember the way that bone jutted right out of the leg, the way that blood shot out in a fountain?”

Shay did remember this. Any time he closed his eyes, he could see it. This was one reason he was still clinging to the tree instead of jumping down to the gravel.

Perhaps sensing he was touching Shay’s fears, Hemming went on: “None of us can see worth a damn in the dark, but the slavecatchers can. They’ll find us while we’re lying there in the open field with broken legs. Those bastards have eyes like cats.”