Dragonforge (13 page)

Unfortunately, the same wasn’t true of Hex. His sleep grew fitful. His jaws clenched with rapid snaps, as if he was biting at some unseen foe in his dreams. His claws flexed and twitched. Suddenly, he jerked his head up, his eyes open wide, as he shouted, “No!”

Jandra reached out and placed a hand upon his hind-talon.

“It’s okay, Hex. Just a bad dream.”

Hex stared at her, confusion in his eyes. He shuddered, and released a long breath. “I was dreaming of the contest of succession,” he said.

“Oh,” said Jandra. The contest of succession had pitted two of Albekizan’s sons against one another in a ritual hunt of human slaves. The victor had had a chance to challenge Albekizan in combat for the throne. The loser had been castrated, and sent into a life of servitude to the biologians. Jandra could see how such an event could lead to unpleasant dreams, even thirty years later.

Hex rose to his hind-talons, stretching his wings, shaking off the effects of sleep.

“Everyone expected me to win,” said Hex. “But the slave I hunted drowned while swimming the river. It took three days for his body to be discovered. The human my brother hunted broke his leg falling from a tree within sight of the palace. His howls of anguish made him easy to find. Dacorn tried to console me with talk of destiny. He said that fate required someone else to wear the crown.”

“Perhaps there’s truth to it,” said Jandra. “No one expected Shandrazel to become king. And now, he may be the king that brings an end to kings.”

“Destiny played no part in this,” Hex said. Now that his limbs were awake once more, he crouched down near the fire, his legs beneath him, his wings folded against his body. In this posture, with his long serpentine neck, he resembled a giant, scaly, blood-red swan. “Life is essentially random. Shandrazel is king by chance alone. Bitterwood killed Bodiel, then my father. No guiding power put him on the throne.”

“These things aren’t random,” said Jandra. “Bitterwood wanted revenge against your father because your father took his family. Things happen for reasons. Our lives are entangled with the lives of those around us.”

“Just because our lives are tied together doesn’t make us puppets. We’re free to cut our strings.”

“There’s a poet inside you,” Jandra said.

“Nonsense,” said Hex. “Poets seldom have any meat on them. I’d have to be starving to eat one. “

Jandra smiled. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard a sun-dragon make a joke before. Most always seem so serious.”

“Why do you assume I’m not serious?” Hex said. Then, he winked at her. “I decided long ago that life’s absurd. If you don’t develop a sense of humor, it will drive you mad. Especially in this part of the world.”

“What’s special about this part of the world?”

“Why, the noise, of course.”

“Noise?” said Jandra.

“The song of the mountains,” said Hex. “Though we are some miles distant, I can already hear whispers of the infernal melody. They may have caused my unpleasant dreams.”

“I don’t hear a thing,” said Jandra.

“Humans have always been deaf to the noise. It’s a low-pitched dirge that drives some dragons to insanity. Fortunately, it’s still faint. If the windows of this room were intact, I doubt I would hear it at all.”

“Hmm,” Jandra said. “I want to try something. Can I touch your ear?”

“If you wish,” said Hex, snaking his head closer to her. The ears of sun-dragons were saucer-sized disks just behind the jaws. The sheer size of the ear meant they could hear certain sounds that eluded humans. She gently traced the edges of the smooth disk. With the increased sensitivity of her fingertips, she could feel a faint vibration. Hex wasn’t imagining things. The noise was real, and coming from the direction of the fog-draped mountains. What caused it?

“I might be able to help you,” she said. “Vendevorex taught me that sounds travel through air like waves across water. You can neutralize sounds with a counterwave, just as you can disrupt ripples from a rock thrown into a pond by throwing in a second rock.”

She dipped her fingers into the pouch that hung from her belt, grabbing a fist full of the silver dust. These tiny machines were the key to her control over matter. Right now, however, she needed a bigger machine. The silver in her hand changed from dust to long metallic threads. The shimmering strings coiled into the shape of a concave disk the size of her palm. It pulsed slowly, like a heartbeat. The remaining threads braided through the air, forming a long silver chain that draped down to the floor. A moment later she was done. The firelight danced upon a silver amulet. The necklace that held it was no thicker than a human hair.

“Put this on,” she said. “Let’s see if it works.”

“What is it?” Hex asked, extending his fore-talon.

“It’s an amulet that emits a frequency that neutralizes the sound you’re hearing. Most of the things I make with the dust only exist a second or two, and draw power from ambient heat. This should be a stable construct, but it will need to be warmed by your body to keep working.”

Hex slipped the chain on. The amulet rested against his breastbone, just beneath his throat. He cocked his head, tilting his ear toward the broken windows above.

“I don’t hear the mountains anymore,” he said. “Let’s hope your magic dust doesn’t run out.”

“It won’t,” said Jandra. “It’s self-replicating and self-assembling. I drop raw materials in the pouch from time to time—iron nails, sand, the occasional bit of gold. I charge them with sunlight, and the machines draw everything else they need to function out of the air. With a little care, it will last forever.”

“With so much power, why are you a servant of Shandrazel?” Hex asked.

“I didn’t think I was,” said Jandra.

“Since Vendevorex served my father, I assumed you would serve my brother,” Hex said.

“When I was younger, I dreamed I would grow up and be Bodiel’s personal wizard. He was so clever and elegant; I would gladly have devoted my life to him. I like Shandrazel. I think he means to make life better for humans. Still, it’s difficult to overlook the fact that most dragons accepted Albekizan’s dreams of genocide. It would be difficult to swear my loyalty to a dragon, even one as visionary as Shandrazel.”

“So you’ll serve humans instead? Perhaps this young Bitterwood should he become the human king?”

“I most especially won’t be serving young Bitterwood,” Jandra said. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with my life. I haven’t had much time to consider the matter. It wasn’t so long ago that Vendevorex made all my decisions for me. I studied what he told me to study, and we traveled where he decided to travel. It’s still sinking in that I’m the only one in charge of my life now.”

“We sun-dragons believe that no son is truly grown until his father is dead. I, too, lived my life by my father’s choices rather my own.”

“Then you know how I feel. What are you going to do with your life?” she asked.

Hex fixed his eyes on the fireplace that warmed them. He studied the dancing flame with a long and thoughtful gaze before answering. “Somehow, I would like to change the world.”

Jandra thought this sounded like a noble, if broad, goal.

“Hopefully for the better,” Hex continued, “but I’ll take what I can get.”

Zeeky placed one
hand on Poocher’s shoulder, holding her other hand in front of her as they crept toward the entrance, guided by Poocher’s infallible sense of smell. Even blind, he knew where they had walked. When they got back to the entrance, she would grab every lantern she could carry, and this time she’d make sure they were full. She’d even let Poocher carry one.

The mine was full of odd noises. Water trickling down some unseen stream. A distant moaning, like wind passing through a tunnel. The echoes of Poocher’s hooves as he shuffled along. Her own stomach grumbling.

Then, ahead of her, the sound of something she couldn’t identify, a scraping, scratching, clicking noise. She stopped. It sounded like claws upon the stone, drawing closer. Poocher tensed, suddenly frightened.

“Is someone there?” she asked.

The scraping noise stopped. Now she could hear the deep, slow breathing of the beast ahead of her.

“H-hello?” she asked.

“Hello,” said a voice. It sounded like a man, but not someone from her village. The accent was one she’d never heard before.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“My name is Adam,” the man answered. “You must be Zeeky.”

“How do you know my name?”

“The goddess planted you,” Adam answered. “I’ve come to harvest you.”

Zeeky was confused by the man’s response, but her focus shifted to the beast that accompanied the man. It was drawing closer. Its hot breath washed over her like humid wind, carrying the odor of dead things. Then, the wind shifted direction as the creature took a long sniff. The beast was only inches from her. Something damp gently flickered across her cheeks. She scrunched up her face, recognizing the wet thing as the creature’s tongue exploring her features, tasting her. She reached out and stroked the beast’s nose. It was hard and smooth and cool, covered with individual scales the size of her palm—it felt like the same sort of dragon that Bitterwood had slain. The beast flicked its forked tongue across her fingers. She could tell the creature meant her no harm—it was merely curious. From the location of the man’s voice, she assumed he was riding it, which meant it was tame.

“Pleased to meet you,” she said, addressing the dragon. “I’m glad you found me. Can you see in the dark?”

“The long-wyrms can see shades of heat with an organ in their snout,” Adam said. “It helps them maneuver in absolute darkness.”

“How can you see?” Zeeky asked Adam.

“Let me show you.” There was a crunch of coal dust as he hopped from his saddle. He walked toward her, drawing very close. He smelled a lot better than the long-wyrm. He put something cold and metallic in her hand. It was a circle of metal, with a gap at one end. It felt like the visor poocher had taken from the rider Bitterwood had killed. She still had the object in her bag.

“Put that on,” he said.

She slipped the visor over her eyes. Suddenly, she could see clearly. Adam crouched before her. Unlike the first rider, Adam was handsome, with a mane of chestnut hair and boyish features. He stood up, smiling. “Better than stumbling around in the dark, isn’t it?”

“We were doing okay,” Zeeky said. “Poocher wasn’t lost.”

“Oh?” Adam asked, sounding skeptical. “I didn’t know pigs could see in pitch black.”

“He can see with his nose almost better than with his eyes,” Zeeky said, kneeling next to Poocher. Poocher turned his snout toward her as she opened the bag over her shoulder and pulled out the visor. He quietly advanced into her hands as she slipped the visor onto him. Poocher’s head was bigger than hers. In a few months, he’d be too big for the visor. As it was, he gave an approving grunt.

“Yes,” she said. “It is better isn’t it?”

“So it’s true,” said Adam. “You understand the pig?”

“Of course,” said Zeeky. “Mama says I was born able to talk to animals. I could talk with Mulie, our old hound-dog, before I could talk to Mama.”

Zeeky took a closer look at the long-wyrm. She gave it a scratch near the back of its jaw. It tilted its head to accept her touch. Its claws flexed in the packed coal dust.

“Yes, I know you like that,” she said.

“You can understand Trisky too?”

“That’s his name? Trisky?”

“Her name. Her full name is Triskaidekaphobia.”

“That’s a funny name.”

“It means ‘fear of the number thirteen.’ It’s appropriate because she was the thirteenth and final egg to hatch, and, unlike her siblings, she only had thirteen pairs of legs instead of fourteen. She was born when I was only seven; it was lonely for me growing up underground because I had no parents, and I felt sorry that Trisky had no parents. I asked the goddess if I could care for her and she said I could. I fed her cave crickets when she was little—she was no bigger than a garden snake. Now, she’s the strongest and fastest of the long-wyrms.”

“Granny told me there was no goddess,” said Zeeky. “She said that the goddess was really the devil, and the only things that lived underground were demons. But I knew that wasn’t true, because I’ve talked to bats, and they aren’t demons.”

“Do you know why you can talk to animals, Zeeky?” Adam asked.

“Nope,” she said. “I just can.”

“I know why,” said Adam. “The goddess is always trying new things in the world. She gave the long-wyrms life out of clay.”

“I thought you said they came out of eggs?”

“But she sculpted the eggs out of clay. They weren’t laid by a mother. And, sadly, Trisky and her siblings never laid any eggs themselves. When they die, they’ll all be gone. The goddess said it’s just part of life; most kinds of animals that have ever lived died out long before you and I were born.”

“That’s sad,” said Zeeky.

“The goddess says it isn’t sad. She says the world must constantly change; nothing lives forever, save for her. And, for all the things that die, she makes new things. Some thrive, some don’t.”

“If Trisky and her kind are so rare, why do you ride them? Why do you attack people? It will only make them get hurt.”

“Trisky likes to be ridden. She enjoys having a purpose in life, as long as that purpose is to serve the goddess.”

Trisky let out a bubbling gurgle that showed that she agreed with Adam’s words.

“See?” said Adam.

“You can understand her?” Zeeky asked.

“Yes, but I need the visor. It contains all the knowledge of the subtle sounds and gestures that allow me to talk with her. Though, 'talking' isn’t exactly the right word.”

“No,” said Zeeky. “It’s like talking, but it’s more than talking. Animals speak with their whole bodies. They even speak with smells.”

“Right,” said Adam. “I need the visor in order to talk to long-wyrms, and that’s the only animal I talk to. But you can talk to most vertebrates, and I know why.”

“Why?”

“You were born with a catalogue of animal signals already memorized. You instinctively know the right tones and postures to convey your thoughts to animals, and you can read all the signals they give off and understand their intentions. The goddess made you this way. She reached into your mother’s womb and shaped your brain so that you would be gifted with a thousand times more knowledge than my visor holds.”