Dragonseed (46 page)

Shay clenched his fists. He wanted to scream at the stupidity of Stonewall’s words, but fought to keep his cool. “Don’t talk to me about sharing knowledge. I came here with books filled with information and ideas that could have helped launch a new human age. Ragnar took those books and flung them into the fire. Ragnar gave Burke every reason to be cautious about sharing what he knew.”

Stonewall said, “Ragnar threw only one book into the fire. He had me gather up the rest. I still have them. He forgot about them five minutes after we left the loft. The prophet has many things on his mind.”

“You have the books?”

“I’m a voracious reader. I was curious as to their contents,” said Stonewall. “The Drifting Isles are remote and lonely. Books are highly valued there.”

Shay was confused. It must have shown in his face, because Stonewall said, “You seem to think that because I’m a man of faith, I’m also a man of ignorance. It’s a prejudice that Burke shared, I’m afraid.”

“According to Chapelion, faith is the opposite of knowledge,” said Shay. “It’s difficult, I admit, to think that you can be well-read and still believe that Ragnar speaks directly with God.”

Frost let loose a low growl as his fingers fondled the butt of his gun. “You’re getting mighty close to blasphemy, boy.”

Stonewall’s eyes twinkled. He didn’t look offended by Shay’s argument. “You aren’t so different from me, Shay. You place your faith in books. You’ve read things written long ago and believe them, even though these events unfolded centuries before your birth, and there’s no direct evidence that they actually occurred. How am I any different? I’ve read a book that taught me that God chooses men from time to time as his prophets, to guide his people through periods of darkness. Ragnar is one of these men.”

Shay started to speak, but held his tongue. He was getting sidetracked from his main mission. Stonewall evidently mistook his pause as an invitation for further explanation. “Some force spared Ragnar when dragons slew his family. Some force gave him the gift of persuasion that has allowed a man so young to gather so many followers. Some force placed Ragnar at the Free City, where he helped defeat Albekizan and Kanst and Blasphet. This same guiding force led Ragnar to gather the refugees into an army and seize control of this fortress. You weren’t here to see him fight. With no armor, Ragnar plunges into the thick of battle and emerges with nothing but scratches. If you cannot accept this as evidence that he’s God’s chosen, then no evidence in the world will ever lead you to the truth.”

“He could also just be lucky,” said Shay. “I should have been killed a half dozen times in recent days. I’m alive more due to chance than to my own efforts. But I don’t regard a little luck as evidence that I’m one of God’s chosen. I’ve also had my share of misfortune.” He felt a cold, hard spot in his belly as he thought of Jandra.

“One of the books you brought spoke of an invisible hand that guides the economies of mankind,” said Stonewall. “I believe in an invisible hand that guides all men in all actions. Even you, Shay.”

Shay grimaced. He hadn’t come here to debate philosophy. “We’re wasting time,” he said. “I have to find Bitterwood, before the goddess finds him.”

“The goddess is only a false idol, Shay,” said Stonewall.

“This false idol almost killed me and she’s currently possessing Jandra, whose life means a great deal to me. I can’t stay here until Ragnar finishes talking to his invisible hand. I have a secret that can help you break the blockade.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“When we were in the kingdom of the goddess we found wings that let a man fly. I gave them to … to a friend to carry. I have six pairs, not counting my own. With them, you can outfly dragons. It’s how I got here. You could fly over the blockade in the dead of night, since I have a device for seeing in darkness as well.”

“Only witches see in the dark,” grumbled Frost. “I think Jandra’s enspelled you, boy.”

“Jandra’s not a witch,” said Shay.

“I know a witch when I see one.” Frost spat to punctuate his sentence.

“Shouldn’t you go somewhere to sleep off your goom?” asked Shay, finding Frost’s presence tiring.

While Frost looked hostile, Stonewall looked concerned. “Are you claiming to have flown? With wings? Shapeshifting
is
a sign of witchcraft.”

“I’m not shapeshifting,” said Shay. “They’re a machine.”

With a thought, he willed his wings to unfold. They unfurled, glinting silver in the sun, tinkling like a thousand tiny bells.

He smiled, expecting this to provide convincing proof for his argument.

Instantly, he realized the error of this assumption.

Frost yanked the short shotgun from his belt and held it inches from Shay’s face. The blacksmith’s bloodshot eyes narrowed as he squeezed the trigger. Shay flinched.

Nothing happened.

Biscuit leapt forward, tearing the gun from Frost’s fingers. He said, in a voice trembling with pent up anger, “A sober man wouldn’t have forgotten the safety.”

Frost looked at Biscuit, his mouth hanging slack, staring down the barrel of his own gun. Biscuit’s thumb flicked the safety.

Shay turned his face away as Biscuit pulled the trigger. In the flash and bang that followed, he almost didn’t see Stonewall leaping from the brick steps, drawing his sword.

With a thought, Shay launched thirty feet into the air in the half second it took Stonewall to land where he’d just stood.

Frost dropped to his knees. Half his head was missing. His body slumped forward, landing against Biscuit’s trousers. Biscuit snarled, “An eye for an eye you bastard!”

Stonewall was staring up at Shay. Shay hesitated. Was it too late for reason? Five seconds ago, they’d been talking civilly. How had events turned so sour so quickly?

There was a
clang
at his back as something bounced from the broad circle from which his wings unfolded. He spun, and an arrow suddenly jutted from the bag over his shoulder that held Jandra’s coat. A third arrow whizzed past his head, close enough he could feel the wind that trailed it.

It appeared the debate was over.

Shay turned his face skyward, then zoomed toward the blue above, swifter than arrows.

BISCUIT’S ONE GOOD
eye was full of hate as it glared at Stonewall. The man’s hands were trembling as he rammed the bag of shot he’d snatched from Frost’s belt into the barrel.

“Put the gun down,” said Stonewall.

“You might not have been with them,” Biscuit said. “But I know your hand was on the knife just as sure as Frost’s.”

“I’ve never tortured any man,” said Stonewall. “Had I known what Frost was capable of, I wouldn’t have told him my suspicions that you were Burke’s confidante. Put the gun down.”

“Not until I put down you and Ragnar and the rest of the monsters!”

Never once as Stonewall looked down the barrel of the gun did he fear death. Faith, however, wasn’t the reason for his confidence. Shay had escaped so swiftly he’d been difficult for the eye to follow. Biscuit was a stationary target.

The first arrow struck him in the shoulder of the arm that held the gun. As the gun fell to the dirt, two more arrows struck Biscuit in the back, and another jutted from his neck. By the time he hit the ground, he looked like a pin-cushion.

Stonewall shook his head, saddened by the loss of two fine blacksmiths. He was sad, as well, that Shay was gone. He’d enjoyed their discussion. Since leaving the Drifting Isles, he’d found precious little in the way of informed debate. Still, Shay’s wings were difficult to ignore. What spell had Jandra cast on him? Or could it be true? Were the wings simply machines?

The blood that flowed from Frost and Biscuit merged into a single pool. Stonewall stepped into this pool and picked up the handgun. It was a fairly clever invention. Was it Burke’s design? Or had Frost taken the initiative to modify the weapon on his own?

His musings were cut short as the door to the brick house opened. Ragnar stood on the stairs, dazed. The prophet’s forehead had a red dot from where he’d been pressing it against the floor. He didn’t appear to notice the two dead bodies on his doorstep.

“The Lord answered my prayers with a voice of thunder on a cloudless day,” said the prophet.

Stonewall started to mention the fight, but decided it might be blasphemous to imply the prophet had mistaken gunfire for the Lord’s voice.

“I have a message for the men,” said Ragnar. “Gather them. Everyone.”

“Even those under quarantine?”

“Everyone. Now.”

The hairy prophet spun on his heels and marched back into the house.

AN HOUR LATER,
Stonewall had overseen the removal of the bodies. Straw had been spread to hide the blood that stained the hard-packed soil. The Mighty Men had gone from building to building, dragging men from their bunks and, in some cases, from beneath them. Two thousand men crowded onto the street before Ragnar’s house. At the front stood the men who’d been placed in quarantine. They were a sorry looking lot, disheveled and dirty, with oily hair and scraggy beards. They’d not been allowed near the baths since their confinement.

It was mid-afternoon. With the bright sun, the day was warm. It was the sort of winter day that promised that spring was near.

Soon, everyone in the fort was present, save for the men on the sky-wall team. They’d been boosted back to their full numbers. They made an impressive sight upon the walls.

The door to the brick house opened.

Ragnar stepped out, the cross of swords in his left hand. He slammed it onto the brick steps. The iron blades sang out like bells.

“There is no disease in Dragon Forge!” Ragnar shouted.

Stonewall furrowed his brow. There were whispers in the crowd.

“There is no disease in Dragon Forge!” Ragnar again cried out. “The Lord spoke to me in thunder! He said we have no reason for fear! Our righteous cause will not be brought low by illness. He shields us from plague and fever. Any who were sick are now healed by the power of our faith!”

Stonewall looked over the ragged men who’d come from the quarantine barracks. While none of them were the picture of health, none of them were incapacitated either. None even looked feverish, save for one of the younger men, a boy really. Stonewall felt as if he should know this boy’s name. At last, it hit him. This was Burr, the boy Jeremiah had vomited on. When he’d gone into the quarantine barracks, Burr had been a big lad, his face ruddy and plump. Now, his cheeks were pale and hollow. Could worry alone have produced this change?

“Every man is to return to his work when he leaves here,” said Ragnar. “Let the dragons tremble when they see the smoke rising from Dragon Forge once more. The archers on the walls report they’ve seen the movements of catapults. Their pitiful engines of war are nothing compared to our cannons! Tonight, we will demonstrate our power! I want all the cannons currently ready placed upon the walls. We begin our barrage of the blockade tonight!”

Stonewall cleared his throat. He leaned over to Ragnar and whispered, “Sir, there are only five spots along the wall that can support the biggest cannons. We’ve been working to reinforce the wall for more, but…”

Ragnar answered him by shouting to the crowd. “By nightfall, we will have fifty large cannons upon the wall. Every man here is rested and ready! Our task is clear! Our cause is just! Remember the Free City!”

The crowd cheered at these sacred words.

“Remember the Free City!”

Again they roared.

“Remember the Free City!”

Now even the sad looking men from the quarantine barracks pumped their fists in the air and shouted.

Save for Burr. The boy, already pale, grew paler still. His eyes rolled up into his head and he fell forward onto the brick steps at Ragnar’s feet.

The men closest to the Ragnar who’d witnessed the boy fall stopped shouting. Like a wave, the cries of war faded and confused, hissing whispers spread from the front of the crowd to the back.

“The boy is overcome with excitement!” Ragnar shouted. “There is no disease in Dragon Forge.”

Every man pushed away from Burr’s unconscious form, deeper back into the crowd, standing as if there was an unseen wall that wouldn’t allow them to be closer than twenty feet of the boy.

Stonewall stepped down and rolled the boy over. He felt as hot as a just-fired gun barrel. Steeling himself, Stonewall pushed back the boy’s lips. His gums were puss yellow.

From the man standing nearest, he heard the whisper,
“Yellow-mouth!”

Ten seconds later, there was full bore panic through the streets. Men were shouting. There was a shrill cry of pain near the back of the crowd as a man was trampled.

“Be still!” Ragnar shouted. “Have faith! Remember the Free City!
Remember the Free City!”

The screams of fear only grew louder as the crowd streamed away.

“There’s … there’s no disease in …,” Ragnar’s voice trailed off as he looked toward the heavens. His fingers went limp and the iron cross slipped from his grasp.

Stonewall looked up as the bright sky dimmed.

The sky was full of rotting human corpses, flying over the walls of Dragon Forge in long, graceful arcs.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT:

THE PATH OF SCARS

ALTHOUGH IT WAS
still light outside, the interior of the barn in which Bitterwood and his companions stood was full of flickering candles that gave the air the scent of tallow and beeswax. They waited in silence as the woman who’d led them to the barn knelt in front of a canvas-covered platform.

Bitterwood was growing impatient with the woman’s lengthy prayer. Jeremiah was heavy in his arms, but he didn’t dare put him down.  He felt that, as long as he was holding the boy, he was holding onto the last spark of life that still glowed inside the child.

Hex had settled into a seated position. Bitterwood spotted the weakness in the giant dragon’s limbs. Normally, when he witnessed weakness in a dragon, it triggered the same instinct a dog feels when seeing a wounded rabbit. Now, Bitterwood felt something approaching sympathy for the sun-dragon. After cradling Jeremiah for so long, he no longer took any pleasure at seeing even a dragon suffer.