Dragon Venom (Obsidian Chronicles Book 3) (55 page)

Blood bubbled up, and the dragon thrashed briefly, then died, eyes open and staring blindly at a crooked sconce that still clung to one wall of the ruined house.

Arlian stood atop the dying beast for a long moment, looking down at it.

"Grandsir, you are avenged," he said.

But it felt no different than the slaying of any other dragon—empty.

His taste for revenge was gone.

He had thought that this one might be different. This was the dragon, after all, the one he had sought for so long, the one for which all those others had been inadequate substitutes—but his strongest response to its death was merely a faint disappointment.

When he had killed the other dragon in the kitchen of the Grey House he had been too busy to think about what he had done, to realize that he had finally killed one of the three dragons that had destroyed the village of Obsidian so long ago, and when the realization had sunk in later he had thought the lack of immediacy explained the emotional void, the lack of satisfaction he felt.

This time, though, he had known exactly what he was doing, what he was killing, what oaths he was fulfilling—and he still felt little more than fatigue and a dull sense of relief that he had survived.

He thought that perhaps he could blame this on his nature as a dragonheart, on the taint in his heart and blood, on the diminution of his soul—but he did not entirely believe that.

The truth was simply that the flame of hatred, the need for revenge, had faded with time, until vengeance had become merely a habit.

Perhaps now, with this particular dragon gone, he could break that habit. He looked up at last—and saw three more dragons dropping toward him from the clouds.

"Damn," he said. He tugged at the spear, but it had lodged against a rib, and he could not free it; he released it and half scrambled, half slid down the dragon's flank.

There were other spears dangling from the monster's shriveling flesh, but there were three dragons coming toward him; he abandoned any thought of fighting, and instead ran for the fireplace.

He had passed through the fireplace itself, and through the wedged-open stone door, and was beginning to think himself safe, when the great gout of burning venom swept down upon him, knocking him off his feet and burning the hair from his head, burning his clothing from his arms and legs, burning away much of his flesh. Only the massive pack on his back protected his head and body and kept him alive.

He felt it all. He felt the skin tearing and peeling from his limbs, felt his blood burning from the exposed flesh, felt his hair flare up like a torch as his legs weakened and he tumbled forward. He had time for a single scream, and then the agony became unbearable and he fell unconscious to the tunnel floor.

51

Aftermath

Arlian blinked, trying to understand what he was seeing and feeling.

He was lying on his back on something hard, looking up at a pattern of dark squares edged in gold. He could smell lamp oil and dust, and the light on the ceiling, if it was a ceiling, was the orange of lamplight. He felt no pain, no weariness, though his last memory was of exhaustion and agony.

He was, however, desperately thirsty.

And he felt
strange
, in a way he could not describe, as if his blood had somehow become simultaneously warmer and cooler.

This made no sense. He had been burned in dragonfire; he should be suffering horribly, but he was not.

He cautiously lifted a hand, expecting a jolt of pain, but there was no pain. He turned his head carefully to look, to make certain his hand had actually moved. It had—and beyond it he saw a cabinet with a row of human skulls arranged atop it, and he knew where he was.

He was in the hall of the Dragon Society, in their old headquarters on the Street of the Black Spire, deserted since the Society was driven from the city by the Duke's orders. The dark squares overhead were the coffered and gilded ceiling.

And he was lying on a table.

"What..." he said, his voice a croak.

"He's awake!" Kerzia's voice called. "Look, he's awake!"

Clothing rustled, chairs scraped on the floor, voices muttered, and a moment later Arlian found himself being helped into a sitting position, surrounded by familiar, concerned faces—Black, Brook, their children, and Lilsinir. None of the other servants were there.

And now there was pain—faint discomfort, really, as if from a very old injury—in his chest. He looked down, and for the first time realized that he was naked, his lower body covered only by a sheet.

His chest was bare, and a long, thick scar ran down the center. He could not see the top, but the bottom was at the base of his rib cage.

He had seen such a scar before. He turned to Lilsinir. She nodded.

Then Black was handing him a waterskin, and he put aside further questions long enough to drink deeply.

When his thirst had been assuaged he swallowed, coughed, and

asked, "What happened?"

Several voices spoke at once, but he raised his hands for silence—

noticing, as he did, that his right shoulder was entirely healed—and then gestured to Black.

"What happened?" he asked again. "How long have I been here?"

"Two days," Black said. "Almost three, really."

Arlian looked down at his chest again, then at Black. He did not bother to put his question into words; the meaning was obvious. The scar on his chest gave every appearance of being weeks or months old, not mere days.

"Ithar healed you," Black explained.

Arlian closed his eyes, then opened them again. "Start at the beginning," he said. "The last thing I remember is running into the tunnel, and being caught from behind by dragonfire."

"You screamed," Black said. "We heard you, from farther up the tunnel, and found you dying of your burns—from the venom, more than the flame, I suppose, but whatever the cause the flesh had been eaten down to the bone in places, your blood boiled away. Any ordinary man would have been dead before we got there, but you, of course, were a dragonheart—and that was both your salvation and your doom. Ithar would or could do nothing for you, because of the heart of the dragon—

at least, so we assume; he cannot tell us why, but he would not touch you. Lilsinir could keep you alive for a time, but could not heal so much damage. She removed your heart and cleaned it of the dragon's taint, and when it was restored to your body, then when we brought Ithar to you, his touch healed you."

"Clever," Arlian said. "Thank you." He looked around, and spotted Ithar sleeping in his mother's arms, tiny and peaceful, a picture of divine serenity. "Thank you," he repeated. The baby did not stir.

"We used the side tunnel to bring you here," Black continued. "It seemed the safest place at the time."

"Indeed," Arlian said. "Well done. I take it, from Ithar's presence, that the last few dragons broke off their attack?"

"Few dragons survive, so far as we can tell," Black replied. "The clouds broke yesterday, and it rained half a day; today the sun is out, and the weather is cool. There is no sign of the remaining dragons."

"Many fled before the battle was over," Arlian said, remembering.

"They have their factions and quarrels, just as we do, and not all of them chose to fight to the end. I have no doubt that many survive—but I would assume the fighters, the troublemakers, were the ones that died."

"That would make sense."

"Are there many dead ones?"

"Scores of them, strewn about the city and the surrounding towns.

There is a trench above the tunnel where we hid that's filled with them, like the offal pit in a butcher's shop—they tried to burrow down to us, and Quickhand brought a party of spearmen who slaughtered them while they were confined there."

"Quickhand?"

"Yes—he took charge of much of the defense, since so many officers of the guard died in the destruction of the Citadel, and since he had experience in slaying dragons."

"Ah! Good for him. And there were dead dragons as a result."

"Scores of them, as I said. We have been collecting their venom, trying to get as much as possible before the sacs rot away, so that we can create more beings like Ithar, and we have been successful; I think almost every mother-to-be in Manfort now carries a child that's more than mortal."

"That should be enough, I would think," Arlian said. "After all, we need merely ensure that the land's free magic is not permitted to reach unsafe levels; there's no need to create an entire population of gods."

"The remaining venom may have its uses, all the same," Black said.

Arlian nodded. He felt no need to argue the point. "Save some of the bone, too," he said. "The fangs in particular."

"Why?"

Arlian glanced at Brook and Ithar. "I'll explain later," he said. He looked around. "Where are Stammer and Venlin and the rest?"

"Safe at Obsidian House. They had no reason to stay here, and the damage there was slight."

"And why did you all stay?"

"Lilsinir and Ithar stayed in case you needed further healing, and the rest of us stayed to be with Ithar. We are all a single family, you know."

"Of course." He looked at Brook and nodded. "Has the babe . . . "

He stopped, unsure how to complete his question.

"He sleeps most of the time," Brook said. "Like any baby. He does not nurse; when he wakes he looks about himself, and if he sees anyone in pain—well, anyone but a dragonheart—he reaches out to touch and heal. And when he has healed, he goes back to sleep. It is as if he drinks the pain of others as his mother's milk."

"We have told others," Black said. "But Ithar has his limits; he can only do so much before dozing off, and if awakened he cries like any other infant and will do no more until he has rested. Since the dragons departed and we emerged from the tunnel we have taken him among the injured, and allowed the injured to be brought to him, but we save his touch for those who need it most, those who would die without it, or whose suffering seems greatest."

"Those like me."

"Yes. And even then, there are too many for him to attend them all."

Arlian considered that, and considered Ithar. He was just one godling—but there were others on the way.

The world would be a different place with such beings in it, there could be no doubt of that. Arlian tried to imagine what it would be like.

Miraculous healing might be only the beginning of the gods' power; the world might be transformed into a paradise.

Or not. After all, while the ancient legends spoke of the days of the old gods as a golden age, those days had ended long ago and legends often exaggerated. There were the darker elements—the fact that the gods could not exist without dragons, that the dead gods had once fed their dragons human souls.

Dragonbone could kill gods, if it ever became necessary. He would want to make certain that secret was never lost—but he hoped it would never be needed.

The next few years would be interesting, with dozens of newborn gods growing up in and around Manfort, and Arlian was intrigued that he would be there to see them.

For now, though, there were more mundane matters to consider.

He looked down at himself again. "By any chance, have I any clothing? "

"I'm afraid all yours was in the Grey House. What little we found in the rubble had all been ruined by the fires," Black said.

"Are there any tailors left alive? How fares the city?"

Black exchanged glances with the others.

"It's hard to be certain how Manfort fares," he said. "I spent most of yesterday inquiring after its well-being, though. Most of the population seems to have survived; after all, the dragons were not particularly trying to kill anyone but us. The Upper City, though, was largely destroyed. The Citadel is embers and ash—and the Duke of Manfort is dead, along with his wife and most of his court, with no known surviving heir. He died valiantly, commanding his soldiers, Arlian—I always thought him a fool and a wastrel, but I will never deny his courage, as he made no attempt to flee."

Arlian nodded—but he could not help wondering how much of the Duke's courage had been despair, a conviction that there was nowhere to flee to and no purpose in flight.

"The remaining nobility are planning to convene a council to arrange for the city's governance and assign command of the army,"

Black continued. "I am not certain who is involved."

"Lady Rime? Did she survive?"

"Alive and well, though her mansion burned—she fled before the fires reached her. She and all her family are safe—the servants and children carried the cripples and their chairs." Black hesitated. "In fact, I offered her the use of Obsidian House until other lodging can be arranged. She has estates outside the city, of course, and I suppose she will rebuild in time, but for the moment she needed a roof."

"And Obsidian House still stands, you said?"

"I had its exterior built entirely of stone," Black said, "I saw what became of the Old Palace, and did not care to see a repetition. And no dragon bothered to break in and set the interior ablaze—after all, it was empty."

Arlian nodded. "Excellent. You've done very well, Beron; thank you. And Rime and her family are welcome to remain as our guests as long as they choose."

Black bowed.

Arlian turned to Lilsinir. "You cut out my heart?" he asked.

"Yes, my lord."

"You acted without my consent."

"I acted to save your life."

Arlian nodded. "Thank you," he said. Then he turned back to Black.

"About that tailor..."

52

Homecoming

Over the next few days Arlian's wardrobe was gradually restored—not to anything remotely resembling its previous extent, but to the point where he could go out in public without embarrassment. Two tailors, a seamstress, a hatter, and a cobbler saw to the task of outfitting him.

He did not, however, go out in public, embarrassed or otherwise—

rather, the clothiers were brought to him. Ithar's miraculous healing had removed the pain and restored his flesh, but he was still weak, and did not feel ready to face the outside world. He remained in the dusty, windowless halls of the Dragon Society while he recovered.