Dragonseed (45 page)

“Yellow-mouth?” said Shay. “Is that why the streets are so empty?”

Biscuit nodded. “The men are all staying indoors.”

“To avoid those with the disease?”

Biscuit stared at Frost. He looked afraid. Frost carried a weapon resembling a short shotgun tucked into his belt. The barrel was less than half the length; it looked as if it could be held in one hand. Frost’s palm rested on the butt of the gun. Shay noticed the bloody bandage on his wrist.

Biscuit chose his words carefully. “Avoiding the disease is one theory.”

“You’ve let the foundries stop running because of this?” Shay asked, incredulous. “The disease is dangerous, yes, but with proper sanitation and a little—”

Frost yelled, “The disease is under control!” His spittle flecked Shay’s cheeks. “The furnaces have stopped ‘cause we don’t wanna run out of coal. We can’t get any more.”

“I see,” said Shay, wiping his cheeks as he backed away. Standing his ground wasn’t as important as not getting goom-spat. He knew there was still a sizable mound of coal out back; he’d seen it from the air. Of course, there had also been hundreds of coal wagons backed up along the Western Road.

“How did you get in?” Biscuit asked. “The only people the dragons have let slip past have been the sick and the disabled. You’re the first halfway healthy man I’ve seen get past the blockade.”

Shay decided that mentioning the wings—or Jandra’s bracelet—would be unwise. If Bitterwood had already been here and left, and Burke was dead, his immediate reason for staying was gone. On the other hand, with or without Burke, Dragon Forge was too important to the human cause to fail. Jandra was his top priority, but he had recovered items in the long-wyrm barracks that could give humans the upper hand in this war.

He closed his eyes. The vision of
The Origin of Species
crumbling to ash flickered before him. The last person he wanted to talk to was Ragnar. Yet, like it or not, Ragnar was the power in Dragon Forge. It was Shay’s responsibility to mankind to see that he did not fall.

 “I can help break the blockade. I need to speak to Ragnar.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN:

THUNDER ON A CLOUDLESS DAY

JEREMIAH SHIVERED AGAINST
Bitterwood’s chest. “I-it’s c-c-cold,” he whispered through cracked lips.

The boy’s breath was as hot as a furnace. Bitterwood pulled the filthy blanket that swaddled Jeremiah higher up on his chin. He knew that a thousand blankets wouldn’t be enough to make the boy feel warm.

“We’ll be inside soon,” Bitterwood said softly, brushing the boy’s matted hair away from his eyes. “I promise we’ll find you a proper bed, and some hot soup.”

“I-I’m n-not h-hun…,” Jeremiah’s voice trailed off.

Jeremiah was slipping in and out of sleep without bothering to open his eyes. Bitterwood wasn’t certain if the boy was even aware that Hex had joined them. He showed no awareness of their odd surroundings.

They rode through the forest of tents that surrounded the Free City. Flaps were pushed aside as men and women peeked out to stare at the gleaming long-wyrm and the sun-dragon walking beside it with a noticeable limp. Here and there among the crowd, the dark green turtle-faces of earth-dragons could be seen. They were as curious as the humans, and showed no signs of hostility. The last time Bitterwood had approached the Free City, the only earth-dragons in sight had been armed soldiers, pushing their captives along at spear point.

“I didn’t know there were so many people in the world,” Vance said softly.

 Bitterwood remembered how small the world had seemed to him back in his own youth. Until the dragons burned Christdale, he’d never journeyed more than thirty miles from his birthplace. The true scope of the world had been impossible to fathom.

“There are far more people here than at Dragon Forge,” said Burke as he surveyed the crowd. “Are these refugees who were turned away by the blockade? Or perhaps chaos is spreading further through the kingdom than we knew?”

Hex’s scales bristled at the use of the word “chaos.” “It isn’t chaos that’s spreading,” the sun-dragon said. “It’s freedom. The authoritarian regime that enslaved these people is gone, leaving them free to follow their own destinies.”

“If following their own destinies means abandoning their homes to live in tents, I fear their destinies will be short and sad,” said Burke. “Think of all the abandoned villages we’ve seen. Spring is coming. Who will plant the crops? Where will the food to feed everyone come from by next summer?”

“The beasts of the forest survive without farming,” said Hex. “The world is bountiful.”

“Hex, as I understand it, you’ve lived most of your life in a library on the Isle of Horses. You have an overly romantic view of nature, I fear. I’ve spent a fair amount of my youth in the forest. It’s not as full of food as you might think.”

“My views aren’t romantic,” said Hex. “I’m simply able to see the evil that has been inflicted on both men and dragons in the name of order.”

“I’ll take order over chaos any day.”

“This is a curious argument for a revolutionary to make.”

“Seizing Dragon Forge was the first step to imposing a new order,” said Burke. “Anarchy was never the goal.”

“
Impose
is a telling verb,” said Hex. “If the rebellion at Dragon Forge is intended to be the first step toward a human war of genocide against dragons, rest assured I will destroy your rebellion. I haven’t helped take the slavecatcher’s whip away from the dragons in order to give it to humans.”

“Someone’s hand is always going to be holding the whip,” Burke said. “It’s the way the world works. It’s the lesson of history.”

“I intend to bring an end to history. I want to live in a world where the strength of ideas has more power than the strength of arms.”

Bitterwood had heard enough. “You’re a hypocrite, Hex. You didn’t persuade Rorg with the force of your ideas. You didn’t change Shandrazel’s mind with an argument. Everything you’ve accomplished of note you’ve done through violence—you slaughtered Rorg and you allowed your own brother to die. You call yourself a warrior philosopher, but you’re nothing but a long-winded bully.”

Hex looked around at the throng of refugees who stared at them. “Bullies use their strength against those who are weaker. I’ve stood up to would-be kings and would-be gods. These humans have nothing to fear from me.”

“Unless they join the rebellion under their own free will, and you try to crush it,” said Burke.

Hex shook his head. “If they don’t become oppressors, they have nothing to fear. Any hand that would reach for a whip, however,”— he turned his gaze toward Burke – “will find itself bitten off.”

By now, they reached the gates of the Free City. A quartet of young women in white cloaks, their faces shadowed by large hoods, approached cautiously.

One held out her hand and said, “Greetings, brothers,” then spotting Zeeky near the back of the long-wyrm she added, “and sister. Welcome to the Free City. Many among you appear injured. You shall all be healed.”

“We need to see the healer now,” said Bitterwood.

The woman pushed back her hood, looking sympathetic to Bitterwood’s need. She patiently explained, “The increase of supplicants in recent days is placing great demands upon the healer’s time. He only attends to those with the gravest needs. The rest of you will be cared for by his disciples, who will administer the dragonseed.”

“'Disciples' is a word with religious overtones,” said Hex. “Does this healer claim to be a god?”

The woman smiled gently. “He makes no claims to godhood. He says he is, instead, a servant to us all.”

“He’s the servant?” Hex asked, sounding skeptical.

Bitterwood sensed that Hex might be on the verge of a diatribe on the political implications of a servant/master relationship and decided to nip off the argument before it began.

“This boy has yellow-mouth,” said Bitterwood. “He may not survive the day. Can your healer save him?”

The woman approached the long-wyrm. She reached up and stroked Jeremiah’s sweat-beaded brow, frowning with concern. She said, “We shall take him to see the healer immediately. Give him to us.”

“I’ll carry him,” said Bitterwood. “I want to stay with him.”

“We’ll all stay with him,” Zeeky said.

The woman looked back toward her three companions. Some unspoken communication took place, ending with a nod by all four.

“Very well,” said the woman. “We’ll lead you to the healer. Dismount and we’ll tend to your steed, seeing that it has water and food… though, I confess, I’m unfamiliar with this beast. What does it eat?”

“Pretty much anything,” said Zeeky, hopping down from her saddle. “Oats would be great. Don’t leave him alone around any small animals, though. He’ll gulp down a chicken before you can blink.”

Bitterwood was surprised that Zeeky was surrendering Skitter to the women. From her body language, Zeeky didn’t appear worried about their intentions. Bitterwood wasn’t as certain, though he couldn’t say why. There was nothing overtly sinister about these women. That only added to his sense that they were walking into a snake pit. But, if he had to walk into hell itself to save Jeremiah, he would. He slid down from his saddle as the others dismounted.

Hex extended his fore-talon to help Burke balance himself. Burke looked skeptical, then placed his hand on the claw and lowered himself to the ground.

“Thanks,” he said.

Skitter followed one of the women toward the stables as the first woman led the motley collection of men, sun-dragon, girl, and pig through the busy streets of the city. The scent of fresh-cut pine hung heavy in the air. Hammer blows echoed from all directions.

Burke limped more rapidly on his crutch until he was just behind the woman. “How are they feeding all these workers?”

“Our healer is also our provider,” said the woman. “I’ve witnessed him take a bag of grain, and pour it into an empty bag. Once that bag is full, another is brought, then another, then another. From a single bag, he may fill forty of the same size. There is no hunger here.”

“That’s what was said about the Free City when Blasphet ran it,” said Burke. “This city was sold as a sanctuary where all human needs would be met. But once everyone was inside the gates, the true plan was for it to become a mill of death.”

“You speak of the time when Blasphet was known as the Murder God.”

“Yes,” said Burke.

“Blasphet, the Murder God, is dead,” said the woman. “According to the healer, a new Murder God has taken his place.”

“A new Murder God?”

“Yes. The beast who murdered the Murder God. His unholy name is…,” the woman paused, frowning, as if the name were sour on her tongue. When she finally spoke, her voice dripped with contempt. “He is known as the Death of All Dragons. He is called the Ghost Who Kills. His unholy name is Bitterwood.”

SHAY WALKED WITH
Biscuit on one side of him and Frost on the other. Biscuit looked disgusted as Frost stumbled on the steps of one of the nicer buildings Shay had seen in Dragon Forge, a stately two story house built of brick, with slate shingles and glass windows.

“This was Charkon’s residence,” said Biscuit.

“Ah,” said Shay. Charkon had been the boss of Dragon Forge. It made sense that an earth-dragon of his reputation would have a better home than the dragons who worked beneath him. It made sense, as well, that Ragnar should claim possession of the house. Shay guessed that, inside, he would find many of the spoils of war being used for Ragnar’s comfort.

Instead, when the door opened, pulled from within by the giant bodyguard Stonewall, Shay saw that the interior of the house was almost empty. The large central room had been stripped bare, with the only furnishing present being an iron cross forged from the blades of four swords leaning against a brick wall. Ragnar knelt before this cross, his head lowered so that his bushy mane touched the floor.

Stonewall stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

“This boy wants to see Ragnar,” said Frost. A slight belch punctuated his sentence.

“Ragnar’s praying,” Stonewall said. “He’s not to be disturbed. I saw your approach from the window.” Stonewall looked at Shay with a thoughtful gaze. “You’re the escaped slave who brought the books. I don’t believe I ever learned your name.”

“Shay. It’s important I talk to Ragnar.”

Stonewall shook his head. “I’m sorry. The prophet’s present conversation is with someone more important. He’s praying for divine assistance to deal with the rumors of yellow-mouth.”

“Rumors?” said Shay. “I thought there were people actually sick from the disease.”

“There was a single boy who vomited,” said Stonewall. “Bitterwood took him. We quarantined two dozen men who had contact with him. So far, there have been no symptoms.”

“Then why have the foundry fires died?” asked Shay. “You’re surrounded by dragons on all sides. I would run the foundry until every man in Dragon Forge had a gun, or even a dozen guns. From my vantage point, I spotted catapults ringing the city. It looks as if the dragons may be preparing an attack.”

“The foundry workers are damn cowards,” muttered Frost.

Biscuit ground his teeth loudly enough for Shay to hear. He grumbled, “No man wants to be seen in public if the next time he coughs he’s going to be thrown into the quarantine barracks—or the furnace.”

“Are you trying to start something?” Frost asked, his hand falling back to the modified gun on his belt. “‘Speak carefully. You still have one eye.” He hiccupped.

“Have you been drinking?” Stonewall asked before Biscuit could answer.

Frost turned pale. “Of course not. Ragnar forbids all alcohol.”

Shay said, “What happened to Burke? He could have managed an outbreak of disease. He wouldn’t have let the foundries shut down.”

Stonewall crossed his arms. “Burke also wouldn’t share his knowledge freely with his fellow men. His pride prevented him from telling Ragnar all his secrets. In his disbelief, he lacked a moral compass to guide him to the greater good. In the end, he killed a dozen men as he fled the city. He destroyed the southern gate, exposing us to the risk of attack; we’ve set up a barrier, but it’s impossible to describe the harm Burke has done to our cause.”