Dragonseed (55 page)

“Her sighting was confirmed by a score of earth-dragons, though given the weakness of their vision I’m not certain we can give much credence there.”

“The word of Arifiel is enough,” Vulpine said. “It’s an odd development, I’ll grant you, but we’ll manage it. I’m familiar enough with human mythology to know they associate angels with death. Perhaps they’re harbingers that the end is near.”

“Is the end near, sir?” asked Sagen. “Many of the guard have noticed the lack of activity within the fort in recent days. The walls are practically undefended. We could be at the town center within minutes. Why must we tarry?”

Vulpine started to mention the wheeled-bows and the guns as good reasons, but held his tongue. He looked at the correspondence before him. Had he miscalculated the greater danger? He thought he was keeping chaos from spreading by containing Dragon Forge. But what if, by focusing on the few square miles of earth within the circle of the blockade, he was ignoring the greater danger at his back? What if they won Dragon Forge, but lost the kingdom?

“Summon Arifiel and Sawface,” said Vulpine. “Let us hold a council of war.”

“Why Sawface? You know his opinion. He will want to charge the walls of the city and rip the limbs from every living thing he encounters.”

“True,” said Vulpine. “And I’m intrigued to see if I can find any reason to argue against his doing so. Have them here in five minutes. I’m going to take a quick flight to survey the area.”

Vulpine sat his tin cup onto the table, gazing at the gray and brown dregs at the bottom. His medicine looked no better than it tasted.

A CROWD OF
at least a thousand men surrounded the well, their eyes fixed upon Burke. Most had rags covering their mouths and noses. The stench of rot and sewage grew as the morning sun climbed above the eastern wall. Steam rose from the skin of a corpse on a nearby roof.

No one said a word. Ragnar, prophet of the lord, was approaching.

Ragnar looked particularly wild this morning. His mane of black hair and chest-length beard clung to his leathery skin in oily, tangled locks. He carried the cross he’d had welded together from swords before him in both hands. The whites of the prophet’s eyes glowed in the dark shadows beneath his bushy brow.

The crowd parted as Ragnar stalked forward. Behind him was Stonewall, also armed. He carried a mace and a heavy steel shield that Burke recognized instantly. It was one of the armored plates from the Angry Beetle. The giant wore a vest of chainmail and a steel helmet that covered most of his skull, but left his eyes and mouth exposed. Burke expected to see hate in Stonewall’s eyes after their rather abrupt parting of ways. Instead, Stonewall looked more worried than vengeful.

Behind Ragnar were two more Mighty Men, Joab and Adino. They, too, wore chainmail vests and helmets, but carried flintlock shotguns. Burke felt a mixture of pride and consternation when he realized that the guns were both double-barreled and incorporated the back loading design he’d created for the Angry Beetle’s weaponry. This meant someone had found and decoded his notes, or else extrapolated cleverly from the plans he’d already shared. His pride came not because the weapons were ones he’d designed, but from the realization that he wasn’t the only smart man in the fort. These rebels who surrounded him were good men, brave, and clever. It would be an honor to die by their side in battle.

Of course, dying by their side had never worried him. Dying at their hands was what kept him awake at night.

The crowd drew back even further as Ragnar marched within a yard of the well. He glared up at Burke, studying him closely. The prophet’s beefy hands squeezed tightly around the cross.

A thick vein beside the prophet’s left eyebrow pulsed strongly enough that Burke could count the big man’s heartbeats. Ragnar’s mouth opened. Burke braced himself, certain that he was about to be condemned as a witch or a devil.

Instead, the prophet asked in a voice that was little more than a whisper, “Are you dead?”

Thorny glanced up at Burke, his eyebrows raised. The question had taken him by surprise as well.

Before Burke could answer, Ragnar continued, eying Jeremiah. “This was the boy sick with yellow-mouth.”

Jeremiah nodded. “I’m not sick anymore,” he said.

The hairy man studied Vance’s face, then Thorny’s.

“These were the men who fled town,” he said, quietly. “You perished in the explosion.”

Now Jeremiah, Vance, and even Poocher were looking to Burke to see what he would say next. Only Anza didn’t look at him; she kept her eyes fixed firmly on the Mighty Men with the guns. For the moment, Burke felt bulletproof.

He shook his head. “We aren’t dead,” he said, firmly, making certain the crowd heard his words. “I know I could play upon your superstitions and claim we’re specters, or angels. I could claim it was God who healed our wounds and gave us wings of silver. But these are all lies. I’m a man who values truth.

“Our presence here has nothing to do with gods or magic. The wings that hold me in the air are machines, better machines than I know how to build. Jeremiah’s yellow-mouth was fixed by machines, tiny ones, smaller than I can design. Vance can see because of them; Anza can talk. Thorny had lost most of his teeth over the years. Smile for the crowd, Thorny.” Thorny gave a broad grin to the men who stood before him, displaying his restored choppers.

Ragnar’s face twisted into a snarl. “Witchcraft explains all these things.”

“Witchcraft explains a lot of things,” said Burke, again speaking loudly enough for the crowd to hear. “It can explain how black powder ignites and pushes lead balls from an iron tube. You can explain how fire changes some rocks into metals by chalking it up as magic. And if you need to understand why crops sometimes fail, or why some men die in battle and others don’t, or why plague besieges a city, it doesn’t take a lot of thought. You can explain it all as the will of God.”

He swept his gaze across the crowd, at the countless eyes fixed upon him. “All of these explanations have one thing in common,” he said. “They’re wrong.”

“Blasphemer!” Ragnar barked. His knuckles turned white as he gripped his cross more tightly. He looked coiled to spring.

Anza shifted her stance, maintaining her look of casual readiness. Ragnar glared at her. “I do not fear your daughter,” the prophet growled.

Joab and Adino lifted their guns to their shoulders, taking aim. Burke crossed his arms and patiently waited for Ragnar to make his move.

The prophet’s eyes smoldered like droplets of molten steel. “Fly away,” Ragnar said. “You are five against thousands.”

Burke wondered who he wasn’t counting. The pig? Jeremiah? It was time to find out if the prophet’s math was fundamentally flawed.

“Perhaps it’s the four of you against thousands,” said Burke.

The prophet’s mouth twitched.

Burked looked at the crowd. “I’m not here to take command of this fort by violence. I didn’t come here for revenge against Ragnar, or to inspire you with wonderful words of how your struggle is part of God’s plan. I’m here to offer to lead you in a struggle that’s far more selfish in nature. I want to one day plant a garden on land I’ve plowed without some dragon king claiming the harvest. I want my grandchildren to live in a world where they won’t be sold as slaves or hunted as prey. I want freedom. I’m willing to die by your side to earn it.”

Ragnar looked at the crowd. His voice boomed like thunder: “Do not listen to this devil! Freedom is not the cause! We do not make war for land or riches! We fight for a greater glory! We are created in God’s image, and the wrath of God is great and righteous! We struggle against serpents! We are the light in a world of darkness! Together, we will drive the dragons into the sea! Remember the Free City! Remember the Free City!”

As always, the utterance of these words was followed immediately by their repetition. Yet, it wasn’t the crowd that cried out the words: it was the echo of Ragnar’s own voice bouncing from the stone wall of the foundry behind Burke.

The crowd was silent. Some men watched Ragnar carefully, even fearfully. Some looked at Burke with the same fearful eyes. Others looked at the ground, as if they wished they were someplace else.

“You heard the man. He offers you wrath. He offers you a holy struggle. He offers you the promise of a wise and knowing God who will bring you victory in battle.” Burke slowly shook his head. “If you follow me, no higher power will guide us. If we have a hope of winning, it will be because we go to war with better weapons and better tactics than our enemies. I was miserly with my knowledge before. Now, I vow to teach all I know to anyone who listens. I cannot offer you a god. I can only give you machines. The choice is yours.”

“This isn’t a democracy!” Ragnar snapped.

Stonewall placed his hand on the prophet’s hairy shoulder. The holy man jerked his head toward his bodyguard. “Respectfully, sir,” said Stonewall, his voice calm, almost gentle, “why isn’t it?”

VULPINE HIMSELF HAD
surveyed the fort and witnessed the winged men who stood near the well. He even spotted the pig. Though he kept his distance, he was certain the boy with wings was Jeremiah. He didn’t know what to make of this. The timing was right; the boy could be dead by now. But he wasn’t quite ready to accept the validity of human mythology regarding the afterlife. He was certain there was a logical explanation for the newcomers’ wings. He was confident he could solve the mystery if he could examine their corpses.

It looked as if the entire population of the rebels had massed around the central square. They were, he thought, a wretched looking lot, standing around with hunched shoulders and sagging heads. No doubt few men wanted to look up when the roofs were thick with corpses.

Thus, when the council of war was called, there was little time wasted in debate.

These men were bent. It was time to break them.

He stood by Sagen at the northern catapults as the sun inched higher in the sky. There was a pile of human bodies in various stages of decay nearby. The smell should have been horrible; save for buzzards and insects, there were no beasts that found the stench of rotten flesh appealing. Yet, Vulpine had been in the presence of so many corpses over the years, he was surprised to find that he barely noticed the odor. It was like the restorative tea he drank each morning; he’d grown so accustomed to the scent he sometimes forgot that others might find it unpleasant.

Beside the corpse pile was a larger heap of rusted scrap metal, salvaged from the gleaner mounds. Vulpine went to this mound and picked up a short shaft of iron about an inch in diameter. He couldn’t begin to guess its former purpose. No matter. It was shrapnel now.

“Have you ever thought much about the year?” asked Vulpine. Sagen looked bewildered by the question. “Why do we number the years as we do? The earth is incomprehensibly older than eleven centuries. Do you ever contemplate the empires that rose and fell and vanished with barely a trace?”

“Occasionally, sir.”

Vulpine dropped the scrap of iron and picked up a much bigger, heavier piece. It was an open box with rounded corners, mostly white, about two feet wide and a foot deep; the steel at its core was coated by a thin glaze of ceramic to protect it from rust. The glaze had failed. There was a hole in the bottom he could have stuck his snout through, and bubbles along the rim showed that the iron beneath the glaze had succumbed to rust in numerous spots. Still, it was a hefty object, mostly intact despite having been buried in the ground for centuries.

“The archeologists at the College of Spires would weep if they saw what we were about to do to these treasures,” he said.

Sagen shrugged. “They strike me more as trash than treasure.”

“They read trash as if it were a book.” He rotated the white box in his hands. It weighed at least twenty pounds. The glaze on the interior had been crafted with greater care than the glaze on the outside. “No doubt, they would unravel the function this object served, long ago.”

“I heard two of the guards debating this very artifact, sir,” said Sagen. “They concluded it was a sink.”

“Hmm,” said Sagen, tossing the object back onto the pile. “That seems plausible. All that matters, I suppose, is that it will leave a nice dent in the skull of anyone it hits.”

“I think a human would need an especially thick skull to only suffer a dent,” said Sagen.

Vulpine looked across the rolling hills, over the jagged ravines carved into the red clay by erosion, to the fort beyond. “I want every scrap to land in the square. They’re packed in so thick we’ll kill half of them with our initial salvo. Sawface and his Wasters are ready to lead the charge. Let’s finish this. We had breakfast in our tents. We’ll cook our lunch in the furnaces of the foundry.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE:

FREEFALL

Before Burke could say another word, Ragnar gripped the cross of swords with both hands and swung it with an angry grunt. Stonewall lifted his heavy steel shield to catch the blow with a loud
CLANG
.

Stonewall looked anguished as he gazed into the prophet’s eyes. “Sir, I don’t want to hurt you,” the giant man said.

The wild-haired prophet released an incoherent cry of rage, spinning around, clearing a broad circle as men jumped back to avoid the arc traced by the sharp-edged cross.

The giant raised his mace and blocked the weapon again.

Anza glanced at Burke. Burke nodded. She leapt from the wall, raising her sword overhead as she dove at Ragnar’s back.

A fraction of a second before she reached him, a large rusty cylinder that Burke recognized as the piston of an ancient engine flashed down from the sky and caught Anza on her left shoulder. The blow spun her in the air. Her sword flew from her grasp as she crashed into the center of Ragnar’s back.

The broad-shouldered prophet barely flinched from the impact.

An instant later, the entire crowd began to scream. Countless bits of random metal, ranging in size from fingers to fists, rained down on them. Burke’s heart froze as a hundred men dropped, victims of the falling debris.