Dragonforge (3 page)

The valkyries were masterful engineers; while the chamber sat beneath the surface of the lake, the room showed no traces of leaking or flooding. Mirrored shafts were set in the ceiling twenty-five feet overhead, funneling sunlight into the room. Despite the radiance, the room was still beset with a cave-like chill and dankness. The cloying incense that rose in wispy tendrils from silver sconces lining the room couldn’t quite hide the underlying scent of mildew.

The matriarch walked through the chamber without looking back at Graxen. The only sound in the room was the tap of her cane as she hobbled across the tiled floor. She had not spoken, or even glanced at Graxen, since they’d left the tower. Graxen wanted to speak but feared disturbing the sacred air of this place. The tapestries of the Thread Room were priceless. Underlying the visible representation of battle, the threads themselves were woven in an elaborate code. For the matriarch and others initiated in their lore, each thread of these tapestries told a story. Thicker lines represented the lives of individual sky-dragons, every one born in the Nest through the centuries. Thinner threads ran parallel, representing desired genetic traits. The web of lines intersected in elaborate patterns as every mating, every birth, every death of a sky-dragon were recorded in minute detail.

Centuries earlier, it had been decided that the genetic destiny of the sky-dragon race was too important to be left to mere chance. Males and females were not allowed to mingle or mix according to whim or desire. Each mating represented a careful decision made by the matriarch and her predecessors. Many pairings were planned generations in advance. Others would arise after a sky-dragon demonstrated a novel trait—superior intelligence, for example, or a well documented resistance to disease—and it was the matriarch’s duty to capture these desirable mutations through careful interweaving with a receptive bloodline.

On the far side of the room a black section of the wall stood devoid of tapestries. The matriarch moved toward this area, a single smooth slab of slate, twelve feet high and four times that length, covered with lines of colored chalk and countless scribbled notes. The matriarch paused, studying the board, as if she had forgotten Graxen’s presence and resumed her normal duties of steering the fate of the species. She leaned her cane against the board as she lifted a thick finger of chalk in her fore-talon.

As often happened in older dragons, the colors of the matriarch’s scales had faded, tinting white the frill of long scales that ran down her neck and along her spine. The once jewel-like sheen of her scales had dulled, as if muted beneath a lifetime of dust.

Graxen cringed as the matriarch brought the chalk to the slate and drew a long, screeching line from top to bottom. To the left, hundreds of scribbled notes in a rainbow of colors were surrounded by circles, with lines and arrows connecting them. He didn’t recognize any of the names save one. In a large yellow oval, surrounded by pink question marks, in thick, capital letters was the name VENDEVOREX. There were no lines connecting his circle to any other.

To the right of the line she had drawn, the board was fresh and black. She wrote in neat, balanced letters despite her trembling talon: “World order, post Albekizan.”

Without facing Graxen, the matriarch asked, “Is it true the so called wizard is dead?”

“Yes,” said Graxen. “His funeral pyre is to be lit tonight.”

The matriarch drew a bold white X across Vendevorex’s name. “The ‘master of the invisible’ has been a burr under my scales for fifteen years,” she grumbled. “He was bloodless, a beast without history. I never learned where he came from. I’m happy to know he’s gone. Ash in an urn is the only appropriate fate for an… aberration.”

The way she said "aberration" gave the word mass, making it a solid thing that struck Graxen in the chest.

She did not give him time to dwell upon the blow. “Shandrazel now wears the crown. He fancies himself a scholar. Metron will control him with ease.”

“Shandrazel is a free thinker,” said Graxen. “He won’t be anyone’s puppet. He definitely won’t be a pawn of Metron.”

“Metron was able to control Albekizan,” said the matriarch. “The high biologian will be more than a match for his son.”

“Your informants have failed you,” said Graxen. “Metron is no longer high biologian.”

“What?” She jerked her head around to fix her eyes on Graxen for the first time. She quickly turned her gaze away, looking distraught over this news. “Is he dead?”

“Banished,” said Graxen. “Metron allied himself with Blasphet. Androkom is the new high biologian.”

“No!” The matriarch looked as if the news caused her physical pain. She walked along the tapestries, her fingers tracing from thread to thread. “Androkom is a dreadful choice. His bloodline is one of genius, yes, but also carries a risk of madness. Look here!” She pointed her gnarled talon at a dark red scale on the cheek of a sun-dragon. “Shangon, his second seed removed—”

“Second seed removed?”

“What the less educated might call a grandfather,” she grumbled, sounding angry at the interruption. “Shangon was a brilliant scholar. At the age of thirty he earned the right to breed. Unfortunately, as sometimes happens, the experience shattered him. He went insane and tried to return to the Nest. The valkyries were forced to end him. Until five generations have passed, members of Androkom’s bloodline must be kept from positions of authority. To make him high biologian is an absurd risk!”

“It’s a risk Shandrazel is willing to take,” said Graxen. “He appreciates Androkom’s boldness of thought, his willingness to value reason over tradition.”

The matriarch traced a black threads from the second seed removed to another red scale that represented Androkom. No black lines radiated out from it. Androkom was relatively young, not yet eligible for breeding. The matriarch hooked a needle-sharp talon into the tapestry and tore at the threads that formed the scale, fraying them.

“No further,” she said, her voice cold. “I cannot undo his past, but I have just undone his future.”

Graxen shuddered as he understood the harshness of her judgment. “Androkom may become the greatest high biologian known to history,” he protested. “You would end his bloodline now, in a moment of anger? How can you know what the future holds?”

The matriarch’s eyes narrowed. “I do not know the future,” she said, coolly. “I create it.”

“But—”

“Save your breath, Graxen. You cannot understand the burden I bear, the responsibility of ensuring the strength of our race for eons to come. You haven’t the capacity to judge me.”

“Why not?” asked Graxen. “Presumably, as your child, I was designed to inherit your intelligence.”

He studied the tapestry that bore Androkom’s bloodlines. Was the thread of his own life marked somewhere upon this canvas? “What’s more, I presume my father must have possessed many desirable traits to have been chosen as your mate.”

“You are so transparent, Graxen,” the matriarch said. “You will not learn your father’s name from me.”

“Why?” Graxen asked. “Other sky-dragons know their heritage. Why has the identity of my father been kept secret from me?”

“His bloodline ended with the production of an unfavorable aberration. His identity is no longer of any importance. You are his only offspring. When you pass from this world, the danger he represented will be at an end.”

“I could have passed from this world at my birth,” said Graxen. “Other aberrations have been drowned in the lake. Why was I allowed to live?”

The matriarch lifted her fore-talon in a dismissive gesture. “What a pointless question. You are alive now; you have a purpose in life, however menial, of messenger to the king. So far, you have shown an appalling lack of competence in carrying out your duties. What was Shandrazel’s message?”

“I bring an invitation. Shandrazel is convening a summit in three days. He wishes to invite leaders from throughout the kingdom to discuss the end of the era of kings, and to help design a new era of equality and justice for all races.”

The matriarch released a barking noise that Graxen at first took as a cough, but then realized was a laugh. “Equality? There is no equality in this world and never will be. The earth has produced four intelligent species, it is true, but it is self-evidently absurd to think they are equal.”

“Shandrazel feels differently. When you hear him speak on the matter, I believe you will find his arguments compelling.”

“I hope you find it compelling when humans are marching with dragon heads atop their pikes,” the matriarch grumbled. “They are merely tall and talkative monkeys, with baser urges unchecked by reason. Their animalistic breeding practices mean they outnumber us by a thousand to one. Granting them freedom is dangerously irresponsible.”

“I’ve had little experience with humans. If they’re truly as primitive as you say, what threat can they pose?”

The matriarch shook her head at Graxen’s ignorance. She sighed. “This is only one more crisis to be managed. Fly back to Shandrazel. Tell him I will send an envoy to his summit. There must be someone there to serve as the voice of reason.”

“Thank you,” said Graxen.

“You’ve delivered your message,” the matriarch said, turning her back to him once more. “Now take your leave.

“I’ve had a long journey,” said Graxen. “Isn’t it customary to offer a messenger of the king time to rest, to partake of food and water?”

“You have said Shandrazel doesn’t respect custom,” said the matriarch. “He could have sent a member of his aerial guard. Why send you, if not as deliberate taunt?”

“Shandrazel has no interest in the bloodlines of sky-dragons. I don’t believe he knows I am your son.”

“I am to believe it is only coincidence he chose you?”

“No. When Shandrazel was banished by Albekizan, he sought shelter at the College of Spires. Chapelion sent him away. But I felt pity for Shandrazel and followed him. I served as his messenger in exile. Now, I serve him openly. Still, you are correct. My presence here isn’t chance. I asked for this mission. It was my one chance to ask… to ask…”

“Don’t stammer,” she snapped

Graxen felt as if the simplest words were almost impossible to utter. He stared at the frayed threads that had been Androkom, and suddenly grew aware of hundreds of similar threads representing the conclusions of bloodlines. He knew he was one of them.

“I want to mate,” said Graxen. “It grieves me to think that your thread ends with me. The color of my hide is only a superficial flaw. In every other way, I believe I am an excellent candidate to carry on your bloodline. I’m strong, I’m studious, I’m—”

“Get out,” she said.

“But, if you’ll—”

“Valkyries!” she shouted.

The tapestries on the wall bulged outward. A score of valkyries emerged from hidden passageways, spears readied. Graxen’s gut twisted as he realized they must have been listening to his every word. Sky-dragons were supposed to be creatures of intellect, devoid of the lusts that fouled lesser beings. His shameful confession of the desire to breed had no doubt been heard by all these warriors.

“I’ll go,” he said.

“You arrived with great speed,” one of the valkyries growled. “Let your departure match it.”

Grinding gears vibrated through the stone walls as Graxen climbed the steps from the Thread Room back toward the tower he’d entered. Arriving at the high chamber, he found the iron bars now raised. Valkyries stood in twin rows, forming a living hallway through which he passed. He lowered his eyes as he walked, unable to bear the icy stares of the females.

As he leapt to the balcony rail and spread his wings, he heard a muttered word from one of the guards behind him: “Freak.”

He tilted forward, falling toward the spikes below. Rust and moss and damp sand scented the air that rushed across his face. His feather-scales toyed with the air, pulling him out and away from the spikes in a gentle arc, until, an instant before he dashed against the rocky shore, he flapped his wings and shot forward, then up, into a bright winter sun that failed to warm him.

A moment later he passed over the edge of the dam. The sky in all directions was thick with valkyries. He felt a stir of grim pride that he was sufficiently threatening to justify such a force.

He followed the river once more, adhering to its twists and turns, lost in thought. What did it matter that he wouldn’t be allowed to breed? There were hundreds of dragons who shared his fate. More, there were male dragons who refused the chance even when offered. Many prominent biologians believed that any mingling of the sexes would muddy the mind; they dared not risk the damage even a single night of passion might cause to their intellect. The fact that Androkom wouldn’t be invited to breed would perhaps not bother him at all. Metron, the former high biologian, had famously refused an invitation to the Nest with the words: “I would rather history judge me by my works rather than the quality of my biological debris.”

As he flew, Graxen’s musing about breeding slowly gave way to thoughts of food. The king’s messengers traveled light, relying on the hospitality of those they were sent to speak to. Fortunately, his next destination wasn’t far. The town of Dragon Forge was no more than thirty miles distant.

The terrain changed as Graxen neared the town. The nearly pristine forested mountainsides that surrounded the Nest gave way to rolling hills, many of them stripped of trees. Giant mounds of rusting metal dotted the landscape, and ragged shanty towns sat beside muddy stream banks. Humans in rags trudged along, hauling carts full of rusting scraps. These were gleaners, men who made their living by scouring the landscape in search of relics from a previous age, incomprehensible artifacts crafted from steel that had long ago decayed into rust. Yet, even rust had value—the gleaners sold their wares to the foundries of Dragon Forge, where immense furnaces melted down the scraps of metal, freeing the ores, which were then refined and cast into the armor and weapons used by the armies of the dragons. The humans below were fueling the engines of their own oppression.

Three plumes of smoke rose in the distance. Graxen's nose wrinkled as the stench of the foundries reached him. He traced a wide arc around the town, looking for a good landing spot. The earth-dragons below looked like small beetles from this height, as they hurried across the packed-earth streets of their town. Nowhere within the fortress was there any hint of vegetation. The surrounding hills were nothing but rust-colored clutter and weeds, with a few bare and scraggly trees here and there. Earth dragons weren’t known for their appreciation of beauty.