Dragonforge (14 page)

“Oh,” said Zeeky. This news worried her. Sometimes, the other kids in Big Lick would whisper behind her back that she was a witch child. Had the devil touched her while she was still in her mother’s belly? She shook her head. She wasn’t a witch child. She was a good girl. Maybe the goddess wasn’t the devil. But then—

“What happened to my village, Adam?” Zeeky asked. “Did you help destroy it?”

“We didn’t destroy it,” said Adam. He smiled, but Zeeky could tell this wasn’t a real smile. “We simply returned it to nature. In a year or two, no one will know it was ever there.”

“But that was my home!” Zeeky said, in her sternest voice, placing her hands upon her hips. Poocher drew close to her, his head tilted toward Adam, his head lowered, as if prepared to attack with tusks he hadn’t yet grown. “Where is everybody? What did you do with Mama and Papa? Tell me!”

Adam shook his head. “I can’t tell you. However, I’m supposed to bring you to Gabriel. You can ask him.”

“Why can’t you tell me?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t have permission. And, truly, I don’t know what the goddess plans for them. She’s been preparing the people of Big Lick for many generations, I’m told. She’s given all its people magical gifts. Gabriel said that the goddess planted her seeds in Big Lick, and decided now was the right time to harvest them. Be assured that if the goddess wants your family brought to her, it must be for some greater purpose.”

Zeeky frowned. Judging from his body language, Adam was telling the truth. He didn’t know what was in store for her family. She didn’t see any choice but to go with him to Gabriel, whoever he was.

“Looks like I’ll get to ride you, Trisky,” she said, stroking the beast’s copper-scaled neck.

Trisky gurgled her approval.

Chapter Eight:

Burke’s Tavern

Every town needs
an old man whose only purpose is to sit near the main road and talk to strangers as they pass. Dealon served that role at Burke’s Tavern, a small village on the Forge Road, ninety miles from Albekizan’s palace and equally as far from Dragon Forge. Dealon had filled the role of unofficial greeter for over forty years, since his wife had died in labor. He’d been too lonely simply sitting alone in the ramshackle cabin he’d built for her. The place looked abandoned after all these years, with weeds all about and moss growing on the wooden shingles. Dealon only returned to the cabin late in the evening to sleep, sharing his bed with a one-eyed cat named Gamble. The rest of his time was spent on the porch at the local tavern, or had been since the tavern was built.

The curious thing about the village of Burke’s Tavern was that it had possessed the name for centuries, yet, in Dealon’s youth, there was no tavern, nor any memory of anyone named Burke. In the first decade after his wife’s death, Dealon had spent his days leaning against a fence near the Forge Road. The traffic of the road often resembled a parade. Great-lizards as green as unripe apples ridden by darker-hued earth-dragons would traverse the dusty, packed earth, guarding caravans of wagons towed by monstrous ox-dogs.

Yet, it had not been dragons that had proved to be the village’s most important visitor. Roughly twenty years ago, Dealon had been looking toward Dragon Forge, watching the sun set. Under this crimson sky, a lone man had walked toward the village. As he grew closer, Dealon discovered the man wasn’t truly alone; an infant was cradled in his arms.

The man was a curious sight. His skin was darker than anyone Dealon had met before, a deep, ruddy hue, like a sunburn beneath a suntan. His long, jet-black hair was pulled into a braid, secured by bands of leather. His buckskin clothes were worn and dirty, but the blanket he carried the infant in was white as a daisy petal. He wore two disks of curved glass over his eyes, held in place by a golden frame that sat upon his hooked nose. Dealon had heard of spectacles, but he’d never seen a pair before. The spectacles were such an oddity, Dealon almost didn’t notice the man’s second prominent feature—three parallel scars, running from beneath his right eye down to his chin, barely missing the edge of his lips. The spacing of the scars hinted they’d been inflicted by an earth-dragon.

The man was aware of Dealon watching him, and as he drew close, he said, “Greetings. I’ve walked many miles today. Could you direct me to the nearest tavern?”

“Ah,” Dealon had said. “You’ve been confused by the name.”

“The name?”

“Burke’s Tavern. Our town. There’s been no tavern here in my lifetime.”

“I see,” said the man, thoughtfully gazing around the motley collection of shacks that composed the village. “The name is sort of wasted, isn’t it?”

Dealon nodded. “I suppose. What’s your name, stranger?”

The traveler had smiled, his eyes twinkling behind his spectacles, as he said, “Call me Burke.”

In the years since Burke had built his tavern, the town had thrived. Burke was famed not only for his hospitality, but also for his cleverness. He was an inventor, and people would travel far to witness such marvels as the guitar under glass that played without the touch of fingers, and the tall clock from which a copper frog would hop and croak the time. This fall, Burke had installed the chess-monkey on the porch, which had grown to be the bane of Dealon’s existence.

Though a chill breeze had driven everyone else inside, Dealon remained on the porch, seated before an upturned rain barrel with a chessboard atop it. Across from Dealon sat the chess-monkey—a three foot tall tin ape with long nimble fingers and glass eyes that fixed on Dealon with infuriating confidence. Dealon studied the game before him as if he were locked in a contest with a player of the highest caliber. With a cautious hand, he twisted his white bishop from its square and picked it up. The bottom of the bishop wasn’t flat; it held a slender rod covered with small pegs—a key. Dealon placed this key into a corresponding slot three diagonals up and to the left. He twisted it into position to complete his move. Now the monkey either had to take the bishop with his queen and lose the queen to Dealon’s rook, or move the queen and expose the monkey’s rook to capture.

Within the barrel, clockwork whirred and clicked. The monkey tilted his head toward the board and reached out to grasp his knight. With a heart-breaking click, the rook protecting Dealon’s bishop rose in its slot. The monkey retrieved the lifted piece with his left hand and moved his knight into the now open slot. A chime inside the box struck three times. The flat metallic disk of the monkey’s jaw lowered, forming a wide grin.

“Sonova…” Dealon grumbled. He was in check. He could move his king out of it, but only in such a way that his rook no longer protected his bishop. The monkey's queen would take his bishop, and he’d be in check again.

Dealon stood up, stretching his back, taking a minute to think. He’d been insensitive to the cold while he’d been concentrating; now he felt it in his bones. He should go inside, sit next to the fire, and warm himself with a cider. However, when he walked inside, Thorny would ask him how he’d fared against Burke’s monkey. Since the installation of the device, Dealon had played one hundred and seventeen games. Five of these had been stalemates. The others he’d lost. He knew the exact total not because he kept track, but because Thorny kept track, and reminded him every time he entered the tavern.

Of course, he hadn’t lost yet. True, things looked bleak, but it was vaguely possible he could win. The problem was, the damn monkey didn’t get tired. Its butt didn’t get sore sitting on a wooden chair. Cold winds didn’t make its back ache. All it had to do was grin and let its clockwork brain think about chess.

Dealon looked back at the board. He looked toward the door of the tavern, and could hear the conversation drifting from within. The scent of warm cider flavored the air. Of course, he could just go home. It would be dark soon. He looked down the Forge Road, toward the east.

A mob of humans was approaching, led by a naked man. Dealon stepped from the porch for a better look, thinking his eyes might be playing tricks. They weren’t. Hundreds of men, perhaps thousands, were marching down the Forge Road, most carrying makeshift weapons: pitchforks and scythes and clubs.

The late afternoon sun gave Dealon a good look at the man out in front of the group. Their leader stood tall and muscular, his whole body covered in dark wiry hair. His face was all but hidden beneath an untamed mane of brown hair that hung past his shoulders in a tangled veil. His thick, curly beard reached the center of his chest. He wore no clothes, not even shoes.

In contrast to the makeshift weapons his men carried, the leader held finely crafted scimitars in each hand. Dealon spun around and darted up the porch steps. He burst into the tavern and shouted, “Burke!”

“What’s wrong?” Thorny asked from his seat at the table by the fireplace. His grizzled old face broke into a cruel grin revealing his three remaining teeth as he asked, “Monkey beat you again?”

“There’s an army,” Dealon said as the door closed behind him, guided by the invisible hand of a counterweight that Burke had installed. “They’re heading here!”

At this pronouncement, the scattered conversations in the room fell silent. There were only ten people in the tavern’s great room, eight of them farmers like Thorny, plus Anza, Burke’s daughter, who worked as the tavern’s barmaid. Behind the bar stood Burke himself, wiping a glazed ceramic mug, his spectacles reflecting the orange flames dancing in the fireplace.

“Earth-dragons?” Burke asked, sounding disinterested.

“Humans!” said Dealon.

Burke’s lips pursed ever so slightly downward. “How many?”

“Hundreds!”

“I see,” said Burke. He took off his spectacles and cleaned them with the same cloth he’d used on the mug. “It’s a good thing we just stocked up on cider. Anza, would you go down to the cellar and count the stock for me?”

Anza nodded, looking serious, as if Burke’s words meant something that only she understood. Anza had grown into a fine woman, several inches taller than her father, with the same perfectly straight black hair and tan skin. In all her life, no one had ever heard her speak. Though she understood everything that was said to her, she communicated only with her gestures and expressions. Among the gestures she was famed for was her rather swift response toward any man who laid a hand on her. She could break a man’s fingers faster than he could finish saying, “Aren’t you a pretty thing?”

As Anza vanished into the kitchen, Burke asked, “How far off? How long before they get here?”

In response, the door to the tavern was kicked from its hinges. It crashed to the floor, knocking over a table, which sent chairs toppling in a domino effect. The thick floorboards of the great room trembled as the mob trampled in, led by the naked swordsman. Dealon ran to the bar, scrambling over it as fast as he could manage, getting on the side with Burke. Others sought refuge beneath tables, or in the corners of the room. Burke alone seemed unfazed by the invasion as he picked up another mug and began to wipe it.

More of the army crowded inside—Dealon guessed at least a hundred men. A dozen of the largest hung close to the muscular leader as he approached the bar. Like their leader, they were armed with actual swords. Unlike him, they wore clothes. Some even had bits of ill-fitting armor: breastplates and bucklers and skirts of chainmail that had obviously been crafted for use by earth-dragons.

The naked man raised his hand and the men who followed him stopped where they stood, utterly silent. He stared across the room at Burke. Burke patiently waited for the man to speak first.

The naked man shook the room with a deep and thunderous voice: “The southern rebellion. The town of Conyers. Among the heroes of that battle was a man known as Kanati the Machinist. He was of the ancient race of the Cherokee, and legendary for his inventiveness. You are this man.”

Burke shrugged, then shook his head. “Seems you know a little history. You must know Albekizan crushed that rebellion. The sun-dragons held a public feast to devour the captives. Whoever this Kanati was, he’s dead now. Everyone who lived in Conyers is dead.”

“Not everyone,” said the naked man. “I was born there. I was nine when the king’s army came against the city. Despite my youth, I would gladly have stayed and fought. My father, however, gathered my family and fled in the darkness. We weren’t the only refugees. Don’t tell me that everyone died.”

“Maybe there were some survivors,” said Burke. “Your family was one of the fortunate.”

“No,” the man said, shaking his wild locks. “My mother and father survived Conyers only to be slain five years later by Albekizan and his accursed wizard. Little about my history can be called fortunate save for discovering you, Kanati.”

“Kanati, I assure you, has long since been digested. Sorry to make your trip here a pointless one. Why don’t I give your men a round of cider for your troubles, then you head off to wherever it is you’re going?”

“My men may not partake of alcohol.”

“I see. Well then, Ragnar, I’m not sure there’s much more I can do for you.”

“Ah!” the naked man said, his eyes brightening. “You know my name! Can it be you remember me from long ago?”

“Were you this hairy when you were eight?” asked Burke. “I know your name because I’ve been hearing rumors about a prophet named Ragnar who’s vowed not to cut his hair or wear clothes until the last dragon has been slain. You seem to fit that description.”

Ragnar drew back his shoulders. “I am that prophet. I have been the tongue by which the Lord speaks of the final days of the dragons. Now, I am the sword that will cut them from this earth!”

“Everyone needs something to do with their time,” Burke said with a gentle smile. “I confess, I’m not sure I grasp the strategic value of fighting a dragon buck naked.”

“The prophet Samuel wandered the desert clad only by prayers,” said Ragnar.

“Interesting,” said Burke, nodding slowly, as if appreciating the logic behind Ragnar’s words. “Did this Samuel fellow also swear off soap? Because, I gotta tell you, Ragnar, you’re making my eyes water.”

Ragnar slammed the hilt of his scimitar onto the bar, causing the mugs that sat upon it to jump. Spittle flew from his lips as he shouted, “Do not mock me! I am the Lord’s chosen! With a word, my army will destroy this town. Stone will be knocked from stone. Your barns will be burnt and your livestock slaughtered. Your women will weep as we behead the men of this village one by one for treason!”