Dragon Venom (Obsidian Chronicles Book 3) (54 page)

The left-hand tunnel had eventually brought them out in an empty house in the lower part of the city, not far from the wall; the exit was through the back of a large fireplace, and they had propped it open before emerging.

Almost as soon as they emerged, however, the house came under attack. There were still loaded catapults in that part of the city, so Manfort's defenders had put up a fight, but Black had seen no point in staying where the dragons might eventually reach them, and had led most of the group back down into the tunnel. A few of the servants had scattered, with Black's blessing, to make their own way.

"We were going to try the side tunnel," Black said, "and if that was no better we would simply stay down here until the fighting was done."

"Wise, very wise," Arlian said. "It would seem the dragons can track Ithar, as they can track Brook and me. They are reluctant to dig down to this tunnel, however, as their size works against them in confined places." He glanced back the way he had come and did some quick estimating. "I would guess that the side tunnel leads to a certain abandoned establishment on the Street of the Black Spire," he remarked.

"You could be right," Black said. "Now, though, tell us what happened at the Grey House."

Arlian quickly explained, though he made no attempt to convey the entirety of his conversations with the two dragons.

"Wh . . . wh . . . what do we do now, my lord?" Stammer asked.

"You wait here—you, and Ithar, and Brook, and the children. I am going to go aid in the battle you describe, down by the wall, and see if I, as warlord, can give a few orders. And when the fighting is done I will return for you, if I can, or send someone, if I live but cannot come myself—or if I die, I would suggest you wait here until thirst and hunger become a serious issue, and then find your way out as best you can."

"Yes, my lord."

"I'm g o i n g . . . " Black began. Then he looked at his wife, his four children, and the long, empty tunnel. "I'll stay here, if you don't mind,"

he said.

"I entirely approve," Arlian said. "You have always been a protector, not a dragonslayer. Guard your family, and see that Ithar lives."

Then he pressed past Brook's chair and children and trotted quickly down the tunnel.

A Harvest of Death

50

A Harvest of Death

Arlian emerged from the cold fireplace into yet another firelit ruin one face of the house had been torn away, and the stinking black remains of a rotting dragon, bristling with spears, now lay across the broken stones of what had once been an entryway, one of its tattered wings stretched upward to where the tip of the wingbone had caught on a jagged fragment of cornice.

The rest of the house was largely intact, and the effect was somewhat disorienting—dusty drapes hung undisturbed, and closed doors guarded rooms that were now open to the street.

Arlian picked his way across the scattered stones and past the dragon's staring dead eyes, then stopped in his tracks as a drop of venom fell from its jaws and hissed on the pavement. He stared for a moment, then turned and headed back into the house, searching.

A moment later he returned with a glass jar in his right hand and a kitchen knife in his left, and knelt to slit open the venom sac at the base of the dead monster's jaw. He filled the jar, then stood and made his way carefully out into the street.

The fighting had moved on again, as he had expected—the drag-

ons were tracking Ithar, flying above the city out of catapult range, waiting for the infant to emerge again. He could neither see nor hear any actual combat at present, though he could see flames and smoke rising from the Upper City, and there were still soldiers hurrying through the streets, their white and blue uniforms bright against the gray stone and black smoke, black-tipped spears in their arms.

"Ho!" he bellowed, as best he could with his dry throat. "You there, guard!"

A soldier stopped and demanded, "Who are you?"

"I am Lord Obsidian, the Duke's warlord," Arlian replied. "I have new orders."

"Orders?" The entire party of half a dozen soldiers had stopped now, and turned to listen. "We don't have any orders; we're just fighting the dragons and the fires wherever we can, and gathering up spears we can bring back up for the catapults to use anew."

"Good man! I commend your courage and initiative. I have instructions, though, that might put an end to the dragon's attacks."

The guards traded uncertain looks.

"How do we know you're the warlord?" one of them asked.

Before Arlian could reply another said, "That's Lord Obsidian. I was with him at Norva eight years ago."

"I've seen him in the Citadel," another confirmed.

The others did not appear to be completely convinced, but they turned their attention to Arlian without further protest.

"You live in Manfort, all of you?" Arlian asked.

The uncertain looks became more hostile. "Yes, we live here," one man replied. "What of it?"

"You have family here?"

"Some of us. Why?"

"Are any of your wives or sisters expecting children? I have a magic that may drive the dragons away, but it requires pregnant women—as many of them as we can find."

The soldiers stared silently at him for a long moment; then one said,

"My aunt is expecting a child."

"Excellent!" Arlian lifted the jar of venom. "Take me to her."

"What will this spell of yours do?" the soldier asked, not moving.

Arlian hesitated.

The temptation to lie was strong, but he resisted. He was trying to create a new and better world from the ruins that surrounded them; to found that world on a lie would be wrong.

uIt will make the mother-to-be a dragonheart," he said, "and it will make die child a god."

The disbelief was plain on their faces. One turned away in disgust.

"I have done this before," Arlian said hastily. "I have made a god of my steward's child—that is why the dragons have broken the truce and attacked Manfort, because they fear these godlings above all else. They sought to destroy the one I made, and kill me before we could make others."

The departing soldier ignored him, but the others exchanged

glances. "You caused this?" one soldier demanded, waving his spear at the surrounding chaos.

Arlian glanced around at the tumbled walls, the scattered spearshafts and shards of obsidian, the broken shutters and shattered tile strewn in the streets; he took a deep breath of the smoky, dusty air.

"The dragons did this," he said, "and whatever my part in it, it is too late to undo it. The dragons have come, and they seek to kill the child, even at the cost of many of their own kind." He gestured at the rotting black hulk behind him. "But if there were many children—dozens, or hundreds, spread through the city—the dragons could not destroy them all before they, themselves, are slain, and in a few years we will have divine assistance, gods who will guard us as the dead gods did thousands of years ago."

"I don't believe in the gods," another soldier said.

Arlian grimaced. "Whatever you believe, at least offer your aunt the chance to become a dragonheart, and transform her child into something magical and new."

The guards exchanged glances again.

"I want no part of this," one of them said, turning away.

"This is all madness," said another, "but the world has gone mad."

"How do we do it?" asked the man with the pregnant aunt.

Arlian smiled, and explained.

"Tell others," he said, when he had finished. "Tell everyone. There are dead dragons scattered across the city, and each holds enough venom to make a hundred new gods." If the word spread far enough, fret enough, the dragons would be unable to contain it, unable to suppress it. "You understand?"

The soldiers nodded. Arlian handed over the jar of venom; then he went in search of more recruits, more bottles and jars, more venom.

For hours he ranged through the city, picking his way across fields of rubble, dodging scattered fires, avoiding flame and venom, occasionally hiding from swooping dragons—but everywhere that he found the corpses of dragons he harvested their venom, and everywhere he could find anyone able to listen he explained and cajoled, and distributed the venom he had gathered. Evening wore on into night, and the first hint of dawn, faint behind the thick layers of smoke and cloud, touched the eastern horizon.

Arlian was on a rooftop, speaking to the crew of a catapult, when a dragon screamed high overhead, wheeled and plummeted—not randomly, but clearly aiming at a specific target. The catapult crew heaved the heavy mechanism around and fired.

"There," Arlian said, pointing, as the missiles flew. "Perhaps someone has done as I directed; it may be that the dragon senses the creation of its most feared enemy."

Most of the spears missed the hurtling dragon, but one tore through its wing, sending it spinning out of control. Another barrage of obsidian struck at it from another rooftop catapult, and it fell.

"If someone has contaminated a woman, as you say, then that means another dragonheart," one of the soldiers said. "And in a thousand years, another dragon."

"Perhaps, perhaps not; we have the means to prevent it, and a thousand years is a very long time," Arlian said, satisfied, as he gazed down over the parapet at the streets below.

He remembered that he had intended to find and either kill or cleanse every dragonheart, once he had killed every dragon, yet here he was, cheerfully creating more—but he considered the bargain entirely worthwhile. For every god created, there was a dragonheart, yes—but the god would arrive in no more than nine months, the dragon not for a millennium. Dragonhearts could be cleansed. Dragons could be slain—

or if his foes had spoken the truth, controlled by the words of a god.

A thousand years from now the world might look very different indeed. The arrival of dozens or hundreds of new dragons might well be of no great consequence by then, in a land protected by dozens of gods.

And it would certainly be no worse than the past. Arlian now knew that when he was born the caverns beneath the Lands of Man had held perhaps three hundred dragons, perhaps more, perhaps many more—

but he had slain more than eighty of them, and now dozens had perished in this desperate attack on Manfort. Unless there were hundreds still lurking in caverns, hundreds that had never joined in the attacks, then roughly one-third to one-half of the dragons' entire population must have died in his lifetime. Allowing a replenishment centuries in the future did not seem unforgivable.

Hundreds of innocent men and women had undoubtedly died as

well, and much of the city had been destroyed, but there was little Arlian could have done—he had had no way of knowing the dragons would be so desperate as to attempt a direct assault into the massive defenses the Duke had built. He had not known that little Ithar would be so great a threat to them.

They had come to Manfort inviting death, and they had received it—and that meant that more of the land's magic would be free. More gods must be created, not merely to control the dragons, not merely for the sake of future generations, but to absorb that magic so that the borders of the Lands of Man might hold.

Arlian watched the dragon tumble into the street, where a dozen spearmen waited, then turned to the ladder. He had delivered his message to the crew, as he had to scores of others throughout the city, and he was on the verge of collapsing from exhaustion; he had been awake and active for almost twenty-four hours now. He descended from the rooftop and looked around, then up.

The number of dragons weaving in and out of the low-hanging firelit clouds over the city was greatly diminished; many of the survivors were tiring of the attack, and the less determined had already departed, returning to their lairs. Only a scattered handful still seemed determined to strike, flinging themselves desperately earthward despite the obsidian defenses, trying to strike what blows they still could against their multiplying unborn foes.

It was time to return to the tunnel, to bring Black and his family and the rest of the staff some food and drink- Arlian had collected supplies from military stores and abandoned houses in the course of his wander-ing; now he hefted a heavy pack onto his back, picked up a long spear he had found in the street, and headed for the house where the tunnel entrance lay.

He was climbing past the skull of the dead dragon when he heard a rush of air and looked up.

Another dragon, very much alive, was swooping down toward him; spears protruded from its flank and one wing was torn.

And he recognized its face.

You have betrayed us,
it said.
Already there are twenty, thirty new
godlings in the wombs of this city's women. You could not wait another few
years? You could not give us time to prepare?

"Betrayed you?" Arlian shouted, raising the spear. "How can I betray a sworn enemy? I made no promises to you—Indeed, I swore long ago to destroy you, as you destroyed my home!"

The dragon's reply was a burst of venom—but the fluid failed to ignite, and Arlian easily avoided most of the spray. Despite his exhaustion and the heavy pack on his back he sprinted across the shattered room to a stairway, and ran up the steps.

The dragon dove into the house after him, and the floor shook beneath Arlian as he turned the corner at the top of the stairs, doubling back toward the open end of the upstairs hall.

The dragon had thrust its head into the downstairs room, not realizing what Arlian intended; it was unable to withdraw or dodge in time.

Arlian charged off the end of the broken floor, and landed atop the dragon's shoulders.

No!
The dragon's single word seemed to echo in Arlian's mind as the monster lifted its head, smashing the remainder of the upstairs hall, sending stone and wood flying in all directions.

It was too late; Arlian plunged his spear into its back, sliding the obsidian point between two of the beast's ribs. He jumped, putting his entire weight onto the shaft, and the spear sank through a dozen feet of flesh and into the monster's black heart.