Dragonseed (17 page)

“Have your gold ready in a week,” said Sawface, gruffly, before turning and stomping back to the rest of his mob.

Vulpine looked back at Sagen. “That went well.”

“Shall I send one of the guards back to requisition the goom?”

“Of course not,” said Vulpine. “I gave the order for the wagons to roll before we left. I anticipated we would find remnants of Shandrazel’s army. In fact, it’s time we divide our forces. There are four main roads leading into Dragon Forge. Send ten guards to each to establish the blockades. Have your remaining guards spread throughout the area seeking out earth-dragons. Make them similar offers of gold and goom.”

Sagen nodded. “At once, sir. On which road will you be establishing your command post?”

“I won’t be establishing the command post. You will. Pick whichever road you think is most vital. I have other business I must attend to.”

“Other business, sir?”

“I need to pay a visit to the sun-dragon Rorg,” Vulpine said. He grimaced. “A most unpleasant task. Rorg tends to divide all of life’s problems into two categories: those he can solve by killing something, and those he can ignore. Dealing with him is always tedious.”

“How many guards will you need as an escort?”

“None,” said Vulpine. “I said he was tedious, not dangerous. The day I can no longer handle negotiations with a sun-dragon is the day you may build my funeral pyre.” He looked toward the east. The scarecrows were black silhouettes against a brightening sky. “A new day approaches,” he said. “The humans have had their moment of glory. Today begins their time of terror. When we’re done, they’ll be begging for our merciful guidance once more.”

GETTING TO THE
top of the city wall was more challenging than Burke anticipated, especially with his crutch in his left hand and the case that held the spy-owl strapped to his back. The spy-owl weighed close to fifty pounds, which had the effect of pressing his belly up against the ladder, preventing him from seeing his remaining foot as it searched for the rungs. His aching arms supported most of his weight as he slowly worked his way up, one frustrating rung at a time.

Of course, he could have called out and any of the sky-wall bowmen would have run to his aid. But after all that time feeling helpless in his wheeled chair as his right leg died, he was eager to return to independent mobility. Getting around on his crutch felt like sprinting after his confinement to the chair.

He reached the top of the ladder and tossed his crutch onto the walkway that ran along the battlements. He grunted as he tried to slip the straps that held the spy-owl off his shoulder. Unfortunately, this threw off his center of gravity as he leaned backward. The ladder swayed slowly back from the wall.

A large brown boot, filthy with muck, slammed down onto the rung by his fingers, stopping the motion of the ladder. Stonewall stood above him, frowning as he looked down. Stonewall muttered something Burke didn’t quite catch, then leaned down and grabbed Burke’s wrist. Before Burke could protest, the giant lifted him, moving him through the air with no more effort than lifting a house cat.

Stonewall brought Burke even with his eyes. Despite his great size, Stonewall possessed youthful, even boyish features. His cheeks and chin were smooth, with no hint of beard, and the skin around his eyes was free of wrinkles or blemishes. His eyes were a piercing gray, the color of freshly cooled pig iron. His ebony hair framed his face in curly locks.

“You should be more careful,” Stonewall said, his voice deep as a sun-dragons, yet also gentle.

Burke nodded. “You can put me down now.” Stonewall sat Burke down. Burke hopped over to the wall and balanced against it while Stonewall handed him his crutch.

“Should you be up yet?” asked Stonewall. “You’ve only had a few days to recover from your surgery.”

“I can’t rest anymore,” said Burke, wrestling the spy-owl case from his shoulder. “There’s too much to be done. I’m tired of running this fort from a bed.”

Stonewall crossed his massive arms. His chainmail shirt rattled as he moved. “I was unaware you were running anything,” he said. “Ragnar commands this fort by God’s grace. You merely advise him.”

Burke didn’t want to argue with this oversized farm boy. He’d known the moment he’d signed up for this revolution that he’d do all the work and Ragnar would get all the glory. To be honest, he wanted things this way. He’d been one of the leaders of the Southern Rebellion twenty years ago, and in his dreams he still heard the screams of the men he’d led as the sun-dragon army tore them to shreds. This new rebellion may have been following his plans, but Ragnar’s fire and brimstone speeches were what motivated the men. Plus, Burke was blameless if these men chose to die for Ragnar’s glory.

Ignoring Stonewall, Burke flipped the brass clasps of the heavy case. Three legs dropped down, creating a tripod that the case balanced on. The panels of the case folded away revealing a brass statue of an owl almost two feet high. The owl’s glass eyes reflected his image in the soft morning light. He leaned, as if wiping away a smudge from the eye-lenses, but in reality it was some faint trace of vanity that drew his eye. He’d bathed this morning for the first time in weeks. His hair was clean and shining, with three crimson feather-scales woven into the braid that draped over his shoulder. His spare spectacles made his brown eyes look oddly small, but for the first time in weeks the whites of his eyes were truly white, untainted by illness. Three parallel scars ran down his right cheek, testament to his first encounter with Charkon twenty years prior. Yet despite the scars and wrinkles, despite the gray that streaked his hair, he looked pretty good for a man who’d been at the gates of death only a few days before. He straightened up and spun the spy owl around to face the western road. It was two hours after sun-rise. Normally a stream of refugees, volunteers, and traders would gather around the city walls during the night. This morning, they were absent.

He leaned down and looked into the window in the back of the spy-owl’s head. An elaborate set of mirrors and lenses caught the light from two miles down the road and brought it crisply to his eyes.

It didn’t take him long to understand what he was looking at. A platoon of earth-dragons were lashing human corpses to poles set along the road-side. From the look of things, these weren’t fresh bodies. A trio of sky-dragons stood nearby, supervising. From their armor, Burke recognized them as members of the Aerial Guard .

“It took them long enough,” he said.

“It took who long enough for what?” asked Stonewall.

“A blockade. Earth-dragons and sky-dragons. We’ve had an easy couple of weeks since Shandrazel’s army collapsed. With two kings dying back to back, the second with no heir, there’s been no one to seize control of the earth-dragons and guide them into the rather obvious strategy of a blockade. They’ve been randomly running around the countryside killing people in an unfocused rage. They’ve made life miserable for people directly in their path, but as a strategy for retaking Dragon Forge, it has obvious shortcomings.”

“You shouldn’t speak so lightly of the people who’ve died due to the dragons’ rampage,” said Stonewall. “I’ve spoken to many of the refugees. They’ve seen horrible things.”

“I know,” said Burke, rising up from the spy-owl. “I told Ragnar what he was unleashing before we took this fort.”

“Can I look?” asked Stonewall, pointing to the owl.

“Be my guest,” said Burke, hopping backwards to make room, keeping his balance with a hand on the battlements.

Stonewall dropped down on one knee and brought his eyes tentatively to the window on the back of the owl’s head.

“You may need to adjust the focus,” said Burke. “There’s a dial—”

Before he finished speaking, Stonewall raised his beefy fingers to the dial on the back of the bird’s head and began to fiddle with it.

“Amazing,” he said softly. “It’s like I’m standing right next to them. I can count the fringes on the back of that sky-dragon’s head.” He turned and looked at Burke with something approaching awe. “You designed this?”

“Yes,” said Burke.

“How did you grind the lenses so precisely?”

Burke lifted an eyebrow. “I’m glad you know it’s done with lenses,” he said. “Ragnar thought it was magic.”

“I’m originally from the Drifting Islands,” said Stonewall. “Many of the sailors use spyglasses.”

“Back at the tavern, I had special instruments that would let me shape glass to almost any specification.”

Stonewall stood up. “You’re a man of many talents, Machinist.” He sounded almost respectful. “I should go tell Ragnar. He’ll know what to do to break this siege.”

“Respectfully, he won’t,” said Burke. “For the moment, we don’t need it broken.” Stonewall frowned. “We’ve had three weeks to load in coal and supplies. We’ve got more pig iron stacked in the foundries than I can use in a year. We have a good, deep well, and, if my orders have been carried out in regards to upgrading the sewers, our sanitation practices have beaten back the threat of disease. We’re in no immediate danger. If someone has taken control of the renegade earth-dragons, then things should calm down in the countryside. The fact the sky-dragons are involved is a good sign. They’re smart fighters. They’ll take as long as they need to build up their forces and establish order.”

“We should strike before they can consolidate power,” said Stonewall.

“No. I’ve not had enough time to explore the possibilities of gunpowder. You’ve seen the shotguns. I’ve got mortars and cannons coming out of the forge this week. We have a technological advantage they don’t know about. They’re building their blockade out of the range of the sky-wall bows. They have no idea of the hell we’re going to unleash if I have time to build half of the inventions that are in my mind.”

Stonewall looked out toward the western road, at the tiny figures in the distance. From here, it was almost impossible to tell these were dragons. Stonewall said, without looking directly at Burke, “They say you don’t believe in God.”

Burke shrugged. “I’ve never been a man of faith.”

Stonewall straightened his back, adding inches to his towering frame. “Yet you ask us to have faith in you. You keep these inventions in your head, keeping your master plans secret while workmen labor on the individual parts. You won’t even share the secret of the gunpowder you ask us all to trust our lives to. Have you no faith in your fellow men, Burke?”

Burke was surprised by the bluntness of the question. He was more surprised by the bluntness of his answer. "No." He sighed. “I… as bad as I’ve seen dragons treat humans, I’ve seen men do worse to each other.”

“Do you feel no sense of responsibility at all?” asked Stonewall. “Whether or not you believe that Ragnar’s war is a holy cause, if you have the knowledge that can lead to human victory, shouldn’t you share it with as many people as possible? If you were to die—”

“I’ve made plans,” said Burke. “I write down everything. It’s coded, but Anza can read it, and so can… so can another person here. If I die, the technology isn’t going to die with me. But as long as I’m alive, I’m going to retain control as long as I can. I don’t want to see my weapons used against humans.”

“Anza’s not here, Machinist. You ask us to place our faith in an unknown confidant?”

Burke looked out over the rolling hillsides, at the scattered mounds of refuse that had once housed the gleaners, fellow humans loyal to the dragons of the forge, who had been the first to die at rebel hands. He’d killed more men than dragons that night. Anza had not shown a shred of remorse as she’d moved among the shadows, killing everyone she met. He closed his eyes, blocking out the memories. “For now, I’m the only one I trust,” he said.

“I hope your pride isn’t the death of us all, Machinist." Stonewall turned and walked away without glancing back.

CHAPTER ELEVEN:

BONE AGAINST STONE

VULPINE SOARED OVER
the seemingly endless valley with its patchwork quilt of farms and villages. It was mid-day, though thick clouds muted the light and gave the land a gray pall. Snow covered the nearby mountain peaks, and the clouds hinted at more to come. Despite the ominous weather—or perhaps because of it—the dirt roads below were bustling with humans moving between villages, riding atop donkey carts packed with various goods. This valley was famous for being the breadbox of Albekizan’s kingdom. The human uprising at Dragonforge felt like a distant nightmare. Looking down, Vulpine couldn’t imagine how any human could truly despise the authority of dragons. Humans farmed, dug mines, engaged in commerce. Dragons guided them in these efforts, moving humans back and forth as the needs of the kingdom dictated. Dragons maintained order. It was a beneficial arrangement for both humans and dragons. A few malcontents couldn’t be allowed to ruin the Pax Draco.

The valley stretched for over two hundred miles. Due to its size, it was divided into two abodes, each ruled by sun-dragons who couldn’t have been further apart in their philosophies and manners. The southern end had been ruled by Chakthalla, Albekizan’s sister-in-law, a refined sun-dragon with courtly tastes. She’d lived in a palace respected for its elegant architecture, a dwelling that contained nearly as much stained glass as stone. She’d dressed her earth-dragon guards in elaborate, lacey uniforms, drilled them endlessly, and never used them for war. In truth, Vulpine had always liked Chakthalla. She’d appreciated poetry and drama, and was a fine patron of sky-dragon scholars and artists. She’d also treated her human slaves well, which meant she hadn’t created much work for Vulpine. Humans could be rendered passive through either fear or fairness, and she’d definitely taken the gentler path. She’d been one of the few sun-dragons to oppose Albekizan’s plan of genocide. Of course, she was now dead because of this, assassinated by the Black Silence. Her castle lay gutted and looted, a stark example of the fate of those who defied Albekizan.

In contrast to the high-mannered Chakthalla, a brutish bull sun-dragon named Rorg ruled the northern reaches of the valley. At birth he’d been named Zanatharorg, but Rorg had dumped most of his syllables, along with many other things, fifty years ago when he’d adopted the philosophy of beastialism. Beastialists were dragons who shunned the trappings of civilization. They lived in caves rather than castles. They wore no jewelry, kept no painting or sculptures, and shunned the weapons and armor that other dragons had adopted centuries ago. The oldest known poem written by a dragon,
The Ballad of Belpantheron
, told the stories of how dragons had once lived like beasts while the world had been ruled by angels, smaller, weaker beings who nonetheless kept power through their use of weapons. Sun-dragons were blessed with formidable natural weaponry, but a sword and a spear were longer, sharper, and harder than any tooth or claw. The dragons had won their long struggle against the angels when they, too, had learned to forge steel and create their own weapons of war.