Dragonseed (21 page)

“It’s okay,” said Zeeky, stroking his neck. “He just kicked in the door.”

Ten minutes went by without a sound coming from the cottage. At last, Bitterwood stepped out, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the morning sun. His knuckles were bloody. He carried a wicker basket with a bright yellow towel draped over it.

“Got some biscuits and boiled eggs,” he said. “Took a crock of jam and some flour. A block of salt. Couple of onions. Some dried beans we can fix up later. A big slab of salt pork, though I guess you and Poocher won’t want any of that.”

“Toss me one of them biscuits.”

Bitterwood pulled back the towel and tossed her a hard, brown, lumpy disk of bread. Zeeky snatched it from the air. It felt heavy as a rock. She bit into it; it was almost as hard as a rock as well. It sucked all moisture from her mouth as she chewed. After her first swallow, she took a long drink from the well bucket. “I’m going to need some of that jam,” she said.

“Eat as we ride,” Bitterwood said, tossing her the basket and hopping up onto his saddle. Skitter swayed to compensate for the sudden weight. Unlike Poocher, Bitterwood didn’t mount the long-wyrm with any hint of gentleness.

Zeeky climbed onto her own saddle. “Which way?”

“North,” said Bitterwood. “You were right. Jeremiah did come here. Barnstack found him hiding in one of the empty houses and sold him to a slave-trader nine days ago.”

Zeeky clenched her jaw. No wonder the voices in the crystal ball had hidden this from her. “Did you break any of his bones?” she asked.

“Probably,” Bitterwood said. “Four, maybe, not counting fingers.” The number brought her grim satisfaction.

“The slave-trader is a tatterwing called Nub-tail. He works the whole valley. Prices are high for healthy slaves at the moment. The south is half-empty due to Albekizan’s carting off folks to the Free City, and apparently there’s a big yellow-mouth outbreak up north. I’ve a hunch we’ll find Jeremiah in Rorg’s cavern. Beastialists go through a lot of slaves. Jeremiah is too small for field labor, and too skinny to be purchased as food. He’ll probably wind up as a mucker. Let’s get going.”

Zeeky gently nudged Skitter with her heels. The giant beast slithered forward on its many claws. As they crossed the stream, Zeeky looked toward Barnstack’s outhouse. The water beneath it was pink, and dark red drops plinked down from the wooden floor. It wasn’t something she wanted to think about any more, so she wouldn’t. She instead lifted up the yellow towel and found the crock of jam.

In the saddle bag by her left leg, from inside the clear orb, she could hear the distant murmurs coming from a place that was not a place. She couldn’t make out the words, but the mood of the voices struck her as angry. This too, she didn’t want to think about. She uncapped the crock of jam, filling the air with the scent of blackberries.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN:

DRAGONSEED

SWEAT POURED OFF
Burke’s face as he shoveled coal through the iron door beneath the boiler. The glow of flames painted the confined space hellish red. Burke closed the furnace, darkening the interior, but he still felt like he was sitting in an oven. He was working in the belly of a low, squat wagon, with iron walls and an iron roof. He’d salvaged the wagon’s oak platform, the boiler, and the steel treads on which the whole device rolled from Big Chief, the war machine that had helped repel Shandrazel’s army. Big Chief had served its purpose, but had obvious shortcomings as a practical engine of war. It had been too tall to be armored properly and still roll without toppling. The consequence of skimping on armor came back to him as he reached down to scratch the itch on his right knee and found his fingers touching air.

Burke was a rational man; he’d never believed in ghosts. So what was the source of this phantom that haunted him? What was he to make of the fact that he could feel his absent toes? If he could still feel a missing leg, would the same be true if he lost his arm? Or even his head? How much of him could be cut away before he’d stop feeling everything? Or, was it true after all? If you destroyed a man’s body, was there still some spirit that lingered, invisible, intangible, yet capable of feeling the world, just as his missing leg was now feeling the heat?

Could Ragnar be right? Did he, in fact, have a soul that would one day be judged by an unseen God?

Burke shook his head and reached for the greasy towel he used to clean his tools. He found the cleanest swatch on it and mopped up the sweat stinging his eyes. He scooted across the oak platform on his butt, opening the gun slits to let in air, then slid onto the squat wooden stool that served as Big Chief’s new driver’s seat. Of course, Big Chief was no longer an apt name. The war machine was no longer humanoid in shape. The wagon was now twenty feet long from end to end, and five feet tall at its highest point. It looked more like a turtle than a man now. In fact, given that it was more oval shaped than round if seen from above, and was solid cast iron black, it looked more like a beetle than a turtle. An angry beetle, bristling with spikes to discourage any dragons from trying to land atop it, assuming they made it past the twin cannons, or the alcohol-based flame-thrower, or the small guns that could be aimed out the gun slits.

The Angry Beetle. Burke smiled. After he worked on a machine long enough, it would eventually tell him its name.

Feeling confident, Burked released the clutch to engage the low forward gear. He let it out carefully—he only had thirty feet to roll without crashing into the door of the warehouse he’d commandeered for the Angry Beetle’s construction. Alas, thirty inches would have been enough space. Burke winced as metal ground against metal. The machine lurched barely a foot before something in the underbelly popped. The steel walls of the structure rang as if they’d been struck with a hammer.

“Wonderful." Clenching his teeth, he stepped back onto the clutch and pulled the lever to shift power to the reverse gears. He laughed, amazed, as the machine lurched again and rolled backward. He quickly knocked the machine back out of gear.

“If the dragons attack from behind, I’m golden." The machine’s weight brought it to a halt after a few inches. Setting the brake, he flipped the release switch to vent the steam. He slid over to the hatch and pushed it open. The cooler air of the warehouse washed over him. He sat at the edge of the hatch, stretching both his good leg and his phantom one, and looked around the warehouse. Once, the earth-dragons of the foundry had filled this place with swords and shields and other armaments. He’d ordered them all melted down, turned into sky wall bows, shot guns, and cannons. Now teams of men were already at work building components for a fleet of Angry Beetles, even though no one but himself had any idea what the final project was.

Was Stonewall right? Was his distrust of Ragnar leading him to levels of secrecy that would damage the chances of not only holding onto Dragon Forge, but of projecting force outward, letting humanity win the ultimate war against the dragons?

He was confident the Angry Beetle was worth his time and energy. These mobile platforms of war wouldn’t roll far given the restraints on fuel storage, and they wouldn’t move fast given their weight, but they’d still cut down earth-dragon armies like a scythe through wheat. As a mobile platform for cannons, they’d also remove the aerial advantage of the dragons. The cannons could hurl steel balls over a mile nearly straight up; he was confident he’d soon solve the problem of how to make those balls explode at their apex, filling the sky with shrapnel that would devastate the winged beasts.

Yet, with Anza gone, was this too much of a project for him to tackle alone? He wasn’t daring to make eye-contact with Biscuit now, let alone consult with him. After admitting to Stonewall that he’d taught someone else to read his coded notes, he didn’t want to give Ragnar any reason to suspect Biscuit was his confidant.

He grabbed the steel crutch that leaned up against the armored vehicle and winced as he placed it beneath his raw and blistered armpit. His armpit was proving ill-designed to provide support for half his body weight. Once the wound of his amputated leg finally healed, he looked forward to fitting himself with prosthesis. He already had in mind a design that would incorporate a leaf spring to serve as his new foot, and a self-adjusting gear and ratchet device that would make a passable knee.

Burke limped around to the rear of the Angry Beetle, to the big sliding doors that closed off the warehouse. He slid one open a crack and raised a hand to shield his eyes. He’d come to work while it was still dark outside. He guessed it must be noon by the way the shadows hugged the buildings. As his eyes adjusted he saw a crowd gathering further down the avenue, in the big central square.

Three of Ragnar’s Mighty Men loped past the warehouse with Frost at their side. Frost cast a menacing glare toward Burke, but said nothing. As they passed, Stonewall stepped from a nearby doorway, raising a hand to greet Frost and the others.

Burke lingered in the shadows of the barn, straining to hear the conversation.

“What’s going on?” Stonewall asked.

“It’s Shanna,” Frost answered. “She’s back. And she’s… different.”

Stonewall looked confused. Burke wasn’t sure what Frost meant either. Shanna was one of Ragnar’s spies. She’d had the dangerous task of infiltrating the Sisters of the Serpent and stealing Blasphet’s secrets. Burke liked her for her daring and her intelligence, even if she was fiercely loyal to Ragnar. They owed their possession of Dragon Forge to the poisons Shanna had stolen perhaps even more than to the sky-wall bows. Shanna had left Dragon Forge shortly after the dragon armies fled to try to reconnect with the remnants of Blasphet’s cult. Blasphet was dead, slain by Bitterwood, but the worshippers of the Murder God still possessed knowledge of vast stocks of poisons that would be useful in the coming war. Burke leaned onto his crutch and swung out into the street, following the crowd.

Soon he could see the central square. A woman draped in a heavy white cloak stood on the thick stone rim of the town well. Burke assumed this was Shanna, though the sun reflecting off her pure white cloak made it difficult to look at her. Her face was hidden by a deep hood.

Hundreds of men gathered in the square. Who was watching the foundry if everyone was out here? He looked around and saw that the bowmen standing watch on the walls were facing inward, curious about the commotion, paying no attention to potential sneak attacks by dragons. What was Shanna doing making such a splashy entrance? She was a spy, after all. She should appreciate the value of subtlety.

“Stand aside." The crowd parted as he hopped along on his crutch. Even half-crippled, he was still a respected figure in Dragon Forge. He’d proven his value with the sky-wall bows; dozens of these men had trained with the shotguns, or witnessed the blasts of the first cannons off the line. Still, perhaps it was his imagination, but he felt a sense of unease when the crowd looked at him.
“They say you don’t believe in God,”
Stonewall had said. It wasn’t a healthy rumor to have whispered in the midst of a holy war.

As he reached the well, the crowd on the far side parted. Ragnar, prophet of the lord, strode forth. Burke had been avoiding Ragnar since their confrontation over Jandra. The hairy prophet narrowed his eyes as he spotted Burke. By now, he’d seen the cannons in action. Burke felt confident that he was still too valuable for Ragnar to spare. After glowering at him for a moment, Ragnar’s expression changed to a smile.

The well was a yard high. Shanna, standing upon it, was a good deal taller than Ragnar, or even Stonewall, who loomed behind him.

“Shanna,” Ragnar said, his voice unexpectedly soft. “I’m pleased you’ve returned safely. I’m eager to learn how you slipped through the blockade. Let’s return to my house so that we can discuss what you’ve learned in private.”

Shanna pulled her hood back. Burke squinted as he pushed his spectacles back up his nose. Was this Shanna? The face was right, the same lips and eyes, the same overall structure of the face. But Shanna had possessed a stark black tattoo, a serpent that coiled along her neck and shoulders, and she’d kept her head shaved. Now jet black hair hung down past her shoulders. A wig, perhaps? All traces of the serpent tattoo were absent from her snow-white neck.

“I want everyone to hear my message,” Shanna said. “There’s no more need for war! Not long ago, I pretended to serve the Murder God. I tattooed and scarred my body to prove my loyalty. You all can see my tattoos are gone. My scars are gone as well, both physical and spiritual.”

She rolled up her sleeve and showed off her forearm. Ragnar furrowed his brow. Burke hadn’t known Shanna well enough to know if she should have a scar there, but judging from the confusion in Ragnar’s eyes, apparently, she used to.

“What witchcraft is this?” Ragnar grumbled.

Shanna ignored him, speaking to the crowd over Ragnar’s head. “I’ve met a healer. He intends to cure this world of all diseases, all hunger, all hate. Throw down your arms and follow me. I will lead you to the Free City.”

At the mention of the Free City, the mob began to whoop loudly.
“Remember the Free City,”
was a common rallying cry for the rebels, many of whom had been present when Albekizan had ordered the slaughter there. That battle had been mankind’s first victory against dragons in centuries. Just hearing the words “Free City” was enough to stir men to shouting. But had they listened to what Shanna was actually saying?

“Shanna, have a care,” Ragnar growled. “Healing is a gift of God alone.”

“The healer says he is not a god,” said Shanna. “But I’ve watched him work miracles! A man with no eyes was given the gift of sight once more. The lame cast off their crutches and walk. The healer is here to cure the pains of all men. Follow me to the Free City, and there will be no more hunger, no more fear, no more pain, and no more war.”

The crowd again began to whoop at the words “Free City,” though most of the cries came from the back, where they probably had difficulty following what she was saying. People closer to the well mumbled in confusion. Ragnar glared back over his shoulder, scowling. The crowd quickly fell silent.