Dragonseed (19 page)

Thak’s jaws clamped shut and he sucked in air through flared nostrils. His injured wing spasmed uncontrollably. His good wing vainly tried to keep him airborne, but it was of no use. He landed on his back in the middle of the fire pit, extinguishing most of the flames. He howled as he rolled from the pit, sending sparks and smoke in all directions. A new stink fouled the atmosphere, the stench of burning feather-scales.

Rorg dropped from his perch amid a cacophony of shouts. Shadows danced around the chamber as humans ran for safety, carrying torches. The air was thick with black smoke.

When the chaos cleared, Thak was flat on his back, his wings stretched to the side, his head pressed firmly against the stone floor. Standing on his throat, right at the junction of Thak’s jaw and neck, was Vulpine. He’d drawn his sword and buried it in the underside of Thak’s jaw, where he held it with both fore-talons as blood gushed from the intersection of flesh and steel with each heartbeat. Vulpine stared at Rorg calmly.

“This blade is three feet long,” he said, his voice dispassionate, as if he were merely explaining the attributes of the object. “You will notice that two feet of the weapon is still exposed. The tip of the sword is presently resting on the base of Thak’s skull. The bone there is relatively thin. With only modest pressure, I can drive this into Thak’s brain.”

“You won’t leave here alive,” growled Rorg. Vulpine heard the fear beneath the great beast’s anger.

“Regardless of the outcome of our encounter, I’d encourage you to reflect on the validity of your philosophy. I’ve bested the mightiest warrior among you with little more than braided leather and a pointy rock. Do you honestly think you stand a change going up against the aerial guard at the palace, with all their weapons and war-machines?”

“No one can stand against our teeth and claws!” Rorg bellowed, then grew still as his eyes fixed on the juncture of the sword and Thak’s throat. Thak was breathing in shallow, rapid breaths. Beneath Vulpine’s hind-talons, the blood in the sun-dragon’s jugular vein raced in strong, panicked pulses.

“I will repeat my request for a single slave,” said Vulpine. “And some blankets.”

“One slave is hardly worth this rudeness on your part. I don’t understand why you chose to provoke this fight. We purchased new slaves a few days ago to replace those lost to yellow-mouth. You can have your pick of the lot. There are fresh corpses piled above, with the blankets they died beneath still wrapped about them. Take as many as you wish.”

“Thank you, Rorg,” Vulpine said, pulling his sword free and stepping down from Thak’s throat. “This is most generous of you.”

Vulpine started to sheath his sword, then looked up at Rorg once more. “So we’re clear, none of your relatives are going anywhere near Chapelion now.”

“What use have we for a palace?” grumbled Rorg. “A cave surrounded by bones is the natural abode of the dragon.”

Vulpine nodded with a new appreciation of Rorg’s old fashioned wisdom. “So where are these new slaves?”

“Most are already out in the villages,” said Rorg. “We’ll use them in the fields come spring. But over in the corner is one of the new arrivals. He’s small, so we put him to work mucking out the tighter crevices.”

Rorg pointed toward a blond youth cowering in a narrow alcove. If Rorg hadn’t used the pronoun “he,” Vulpine wouldn’t have instantly recognized the human as male. His hair was shoulder length and his limbs were slender. Still, he looked old enough to be useful, perhaps twelve or thirteen. It was an age at which one might plausibly run off to join a rebellion. “He’ll do. What’s his name?”

“They have names?” Rorg asked.

Vulpine walked over to the trembling youth. “What are you called?” The boy looked away, as if praying that Vulpine was talking to someone else.

“I asked you a question,” said Vulpine, uncoiling his whip. He allowed the tip to rest on the cavern floor at a spot where the boy couldn’t help but see it.

“J-j-j-juh… Jeremiah,” the child whispered.

“Are you cold boy? This dank cave air too much for those rags you’re wearing?” Jeremiah looked up and nodded. “Let’s get you back into some fresh air. We’ll get you a blanket you can wrap up in. Maybe two. Would you like that?”

The boy looked confused by this offer. He didn’t shake his head yes or no. The wheels of his mind were locked with fear. Vulpine grew impatient.  “Follow me, or I’ll thrash the skin off you,” he snapped and turned away, walking through the phalanx of sun-dragons who glared at him with a mixture of hate and awe. He didn’t look back. Behind him, he heard the patter of the boy’s feet as he scrambled to keep up, slipping on the slimy stone.

CHAPTER TWELVE:

THE IMPORTANCE OF CLEAN WATER

THE LAST TIME
Bitterwood had passed through Winding Rock it had been a ghost town. Its citizens had been among the first taken to the Free City, and the empty town had quickly been stripped of anything of value by the few humans who remained in the area. As Skitter carried them into Winding Rock, he saw that it was inhabited once more. Timid faces peeked out from behind torn curtains. Doors that had been kicked from their hinges were patched and repaired, once more keeping out the winter chill. Smoke drifted from the chimneys of at least half the homes. It was nearly dinnertime and the air was flavored by pans of cornbread baking in wood-fired stoves, atop which simmered pots of potatoes and beans, if Bitterwood’s nose could be trusted.

At the center of the town was a stone well with a shingled roof. A brick walkway surrounded the well, bordered by flower beds heaped with mulch, no doubt sheltering daffodil and iris bulbs. Bitterwood had help build a well similar to this one, years ago, in Christdale. He and the other men had dug the well during the second year of drought; there’s nothing quite like three months without rain to drive home the importance of clean water. When he’d dug that well he’d assumed he’d be drinking from it for the rest of his life. He could have grown soft and content in Christdale, tending his crops and raising his family. He could have spent his winter evenings by a fireplace, with a mug of hot cider to warm him. Instead, dragons had destroyed Christdale. He’d spent the last twenty years avenging this act.

What had it gained him? A legend. Dragons trembled at his name. Men spoke of him as a hero. He would gladly trade this fame—or infamy—for an anonymous life as farmer and father.

Skitter carried them up the well. He poked his snout down it and sniffed.

“I guess he’s thirsty,” said Shay. The young man sat on the saddle directly behind him and turned his face away. He never made eye contact with Bitterwood now, either due to fear, or, more likely, the grudge he carried over the burnt books. Behind Shay sat Jandra, looking worn and ragged. Once, Jandra had used her magic to keep her appearance immaculate; with the loss of her powers, she’d decayed somewhat. Her hair draped in oily tangles around her shoulders. Her blue coat, fresh only two days ago was covered in burrs; mud speckled her boots and pants. She sagged in her saddle. There were dark circles under her eyes.

Sitting on her shoulder, Lizard had changed color to match Jandra’s brown hair, save for his feet and tail, which were blue to match her coat. Bitterwood scowled at the little dragon. The beast turned its gaze, and slipped down behind Jandra’s back.

Behind Jandra sat Poocher. The pig was definitely going through a growth spurt. He looked bigger than he had even yesterday. Poocher’s barely sprouted tusks gave him a permanent a sneer. Unlike Lizard, Poocher didn’t turn his gaze away. The pig’s eyes were hidden by his silver visor, but Bitterwood could sense his judgmental stare. He’d never really gotten along with Poocher.

On the final saddle sat the reason Bitterwood hadn’t turned Poocher into bacon. Zeeky sat with her legs crossed atop the saddle, staring at the crystal ball that sat in her lap. She wasn’t dressed warmly enough, thought Bitterwood. She had only a thin blanket for a cloak, over a shirt and trousers that were little more than rags. Yet, she had a look approaching serenity as she stared into the glass orb. Whatever she was seeing or hearing within, it seemed to make her happy.

Zeeky didn’t look up as she said, “Get Skitter some water, please.” The long-wyrm was staring at the well with a look that was as close to desire as a reptile was ever likely to convey.

“We just crossed a stream. Why didn’t he drink then?”

“Because a lot of the outhouses around here empty into that creek. The well is drawing pure water. He’ll probably be able to drink a bucketful, maybe two.”

Bitterwood peeled himself off his saddle. The surface held onto his tan buckskin britches like glue, though once he started pulling himself free there was no residue. He picked up the heavy oak bucket on the edge of the well. The rope that held it was thicker than his thumb, woven from hemp. Poocher hopped down from Skitter and trotted up to Bitterwood. He snorted in a demanding tone.

“You’ll get your turn, Poocher,” said Zeeky.

“Do we get to drink before the pig?” Shay asked Jandra quietly. He was adapting to the idea that the rules of Zeeky’s world were somewhat different. Poocher squealed and shook his head in response.

“Stop being rude,” said Zeeky. “Skitter will go first. He’s had to do all the hard work carrying us. Then Jandra, because she’s a lady, and Lizard, since he’s still little. Then Shay, because if you’re going to be mean, Poocher, you’ll have to go last.” Poocher made a noise that was part grunt, part grumble, and trotted away, back toward the stream. Apparently, he wasn’t going to wait around for the well water.

“He’s been so bratty lately,” said Zeeky, shaking her head.

Bitterwood heard the bucket splash. He began to turn the wooden wheel to raise it back to the surface. He noticed he’d been left off Zeeky’s list of who would get a turn drinking. He also noticed that no one beside Poocher had challenged her list.

As he lugged the heavy bucket up over the rim and sat it down on the cobblestones for the long-wyrm to drink, he heard a noise behind him. The door of a nearby cottage had opened a crack. Hushed voices whispered back and forth within. The cottage was larger than most in the village; a few weeks ago, it had been stripped of its slate shingles. Now, the shingles had been replaced. Whoever resided there must be someone important among the locals.

A pot-bellied older man stepped out of the door. He was followed by four guards, wearing stolen earth-dragon chainmail and helmets and armed with spears. The armor might have fit a large man reasonably well, but it was laughable on these four—as near as he could tell, they were all teenagers, younger than Jandra. In fact, unless the dimming light was playing tricks on him, they were all girls, which made sense. Most able-bodied men who’d been at the Free City had run off to join Ragnar’s rebellion. Only women, children, and elderly men would have returned to Winding Rock.

“Strangers,” said the pot-bellied man, looking nervously at the long-wyrm. “You didn’t ask permission to use our well. I must inform you that there’s… there’s a user fee.”

“For water?” Bitterwood scoffed.

“Hello, Barnstack,” said Zeeky.

“You know him?” Jandra asked.

“Sure. Barnstack’s the mayor of Winding Rock.”

Barnstack eyed Zeeky astride the long-wyrm. He looked mildly befuddled, as if he didn’t know why she knew him.

“I’m Zeeky. From Big Lick.” Big Lick had been a collection of miner’s shacks not five miles from here. It wasn’t quite large enough or organized enough to truly be called a village.

Barnstack nodded slowly upon hearing the name. “You’re Jeremiah’s sister.”

“You know Jeremiah?” Bitterwood asked.

“No,” said Barnstack, shaking his head solemnly.

“No?” Bitterwood asked.

“Oh,” said Barnstack. “Um. I mean, yes, obviously, I knew him. I knew his name, didn’t I? Alas, he’s dead now. All of Big Lick was burned to the ground. There were no survivors.”

“Actually, everyone survived,” said Zeeky. “Sort of. It’s complicated. But, for Jeremiah, it’s simple. He ran away and escaped.”

“Have you seen him?” asked Bitterwood.

“Now listen here,” said Barnstack, trying to sound angry, but not quite achieving it. “You’re changing the subject. Our town has been through hard times. We were taken to the Free City, and when we returned, everything of value was gone. That’s why there’s a fee to drink from our well. But I’m a fair man. You didn’t know about the fee. So that first bucket is free. If you want to keep drinking, you’ll need to pay up.”

“What’s the matter, Barnstack?” asked Zeeky. “Have you already spent Albekizan’s gold?”

Barnstack turned pale. His lips twisted into an expression that bore little resemblance to a casual smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I was hiding in your kitchen when you took a bribe from an earth-dragon and agreed to tell the rest of your village to go to the Free City without fighting.”

Barnstack’s right eye twitched. He chuckled softly at Bitterwood. “Children have such imaginations.”

Skitter had finished drinking the water in the pail. The long-wyrm looked toward Barnstack with a lazy eye. Bitterwood assumed that Zeeky wasn’t angry at Barnstack; if she had been, Skitter would be showing signs of hostility. Bitterwood dropped the bucket back down the well.

“Go back inside, old man,” he said. “We’ll drink our fill and move on.”

“Actually, we won’t be moving on,” said Zeeky. “Jeremiah didn’t have that many places to run. He might turn up here. Right, Barnstack?”

“There’s no place for you to stay here,” said Barnstack.

Jandra interrupted. “We’re only a few miles from Dead Skunk Hole. That’s the entrance to the realm of the goddess. Perhaps we can return here after we go there?”

“You and Shay are going to have to go without us,” said Zeeky. “We’re not going to Dead Skunk Hole.”

Jandra looked surprised by these words. “You won’t take us the rest of the way?”

Zeeky shook her head. “Bitterwood and I don’t have much time to save Jeremiah.”

“Save him from what? How do you know he’s in danger?”

Zeeky gave an inscrutable half smile.