Dragonforge_ A Novel Of The Dragon Age Part 26

Now the decision to ring the bell was easy. Arifiel turned, only to discover she was no longer alone in the tower. At the top of the stairs stood a human, a teenage female, holding a torch in one hand and a long, black blade in the other. The torch trailed a plume of blue smoke. Arifiel caught a whiff of the acrid fumes. Instantly, her vision blurred. Her legs weakened. Only by steadying herself with her spear did she remain standing. Instinctively, she clenched her jaws shut and held her breath. The girl smiled, an evil, satisfied grin that conveyed her belief she'd already won this battle. She thrust the torch forward, wreathing Arifiel in the thick fumes.

Arifiel toppled backwards, releasing her spear from her fore-talons. Yet, as she fell backwards through the open window, she grabbed the falling spear with her hind-talons, and used the momentum of her backward plummet to her advantage. As her torso fell over the window ledge, her legs flipped up. She kicked with her remaining strength, releasing the spear.

As she fell toward the jagged spires below, she felt a twinge of despair, not at her impending death, but because she fell in silence-she'd aimed her spear at the central bell in hopes of sounding the alarm, and missed. Her body was limp now, yet, as the wind rushed over her, fresh air was forced into her throat. Mere feet from the steel spikes beneath her, she spread her wings and turned her downward path into a sharp curve away from the tower. In seconds, she was out over the lake, well away from the paralyzing smoke, her strength returning. She wheeled about, eying the bell tower, devising a strategy to fly back inside, knock away her a.s.sailant, and reach for the bell rope. As she circled, she spoted other sky-dragons in the air, leaping from windows, rising from rooftops. A score of her sisters had escaped the fumes, and more were rising to safety with each second.

A large sky-dragon with a commanding voice shouted, "Valkyries! Gyre!"

Arifiel obeyed, as did the others. The gyre maneuver required the sky-dragons to gather closely around a central figure, maintaining flight paths where wing tips were separated only by inches. It was a formation adopted for rapid, in flight commands from a high officer. Arifiel finally drew close enough to recognize the dragon who had shouted the order. It was Zorasta, the matriarch's amba.s.sador. Did that mean Nadala was near?

By now, there were at least fifty dragons in the air. This meant that thousands were still inside the Nest, victims of the poisonous smoke. Who could be behind such an attack? Valkyries were trained to defend their home against male sky-dragons. Why would humans be attacking?

"These humans must be the same ones that attacked Shandrazel's palace," Zorasta shouted. "Sisters of the Serpent-they're servants of Blasphet."

Hearing that unholy name, Arifiel for the first time understood the extent of the danger. Servants of Blasphet wouldn't be content with capturing the Nest. They were here to kill every living creature.

By now, the guard patrols that kept watch over the perimeter of the lake had joined in the gyre. Arifiel was glad of their company. They were armed, ready for battle, unlike most of the other sky-dragons, who had been roused from sleep.

"We may have only minutes to act," Zorasta said. "We have to get back inside."

"They are armed with poisonous torches," someone said. "If we go back, we'll succ.u.mb to the fumes."

"Not if we act quickly," Arifiel said. "The humans can't know the layout of the Nest as we do. We can dive through windows holding our breath. We can only be inside for a minute, maybe less. But a minute is enough time to kill a human. We're valkyries!"

"That's the spirit!" shouted Zorasta. "And, as of now, it's our plan. Split up by your flock colors. Green flock, clear the northern rooms, yellow take the south, white the east, black to the west. If you have armor and a spear, take the lead. No more than three from each flock can enter a room at a time. Always leave someone at a window to pull you out if you succ.u.mb to the fumes. If you're unarmed, get down to the beach and get water into anything that will hold it. The torches are the real danger. Douse them, and we'll make short work of this enemy."

The white, black, and yellow flocks spun away in tight knots to perform their duties. Arifiel was a lifelong member of the green flock, the same flock as Zorasta.

Arifiel cast her gaze back toward the central tower. By now, they were a quarter mile away, but she could still see the light of the human's torch in the window-only now it had been joined by two others. How many valkyries still were sleeping, unaware of the danger?

Zorasta apparently had the same thought.

"Our first priority must be to take the central bell tower and awaken sleeping valkyries" she shouted. "Who was on guard there?"

"I was," said Arifiel.

"You abandoned your post?"

"I succ.u.mbed to the fumes and fell from the window," said Arifiel. "The rush of wind revived me."

"Then do your duty and get back in there!" Zorasta barked. She eyed two armed valkyries who circled near. "You and you! Aid her! Go!"

Arifiel felt fully recovered. She set her path toward the open windows of the tower, building speed. She could see she faced three human teenage girls-no true threat for a valkyrie. The s.p.a.ce between her and her target narrowed. She attempted not to be distracted by the movements in the windows below, as she watched guards land on windowsills and peer into the interiors. Suddenly, Arifiel realized that if she succeeded in her mission, she was going to be condemning every dragon inside to death.

She slowed her flight, allowing the two dragons who followed to pull beside her.

"We can't ring the alarm!" she shouted.

"What?" the one to her right shouted back.

"If we ring the bell, the grates will close and seal the doors and windows. The Nest is designed to prevent an invasion from the outside. If the grates fall, we'll turn the fortress into a prison."

"By the bones!" the valkyrie to the left cried out. "I hadn't thought of this!"

As one, the three of them pulled up, allowing their paths to carry them over the top of the bell tower.

"We still need to get inside," the valkyrie beside her shouted. "I don't know why the humans would ring the bell, but we should make sure they don't. And, who knows? Perhaps some other valkyrie might sound the alarm by instinct, just as we nearly did."

"Agreed!" shouted Arifiel. "Follow me!"

Again they wheeled in a tight formation, darting back toward the open windows. Only now, to her horror, two of the three torches had fallen to the floor. There was a single sky-dragon standing below the bell rope, facing a lone human girl. The other two humans lay on the ground, gutted. With dazzling speed, the sky-dragon leapt up and kicked out with her sharp hind-talons, cutting a vicious slash across the throat of the remaining girl. She collapsed in agony, her torch and sword clattering on the floor.

They were now only a few dozen yards away from the open window. A shout rose in Arifiel's throat.

"Don't!"

But it was too late. The sky-dragon had already reached for the bell rope. Arifiel's shout was drowned by the peal of the magnificent iron bell. Arifiel whirled to the left of the tower, avoiding the window, as the night filled with the rumble of a thousand gears and chains kicking into motion. In half a moment, the fortress would be sealed, leaving all the dragons inside to the mercies of the Sisters of the Serpent.

She glanced back over her shoulder, to see if she could identify this lone valkyrie who had just unwittingly doomed her sisters. Her heart sank as a familiar face looked out the window toward her.

Sparrow.

The brute rewiring of Jandra's brain had reached the peak of pain several minutes after the initial jolt, leaving her with the worst headache of her life, a skull-ripper that left her too weak to stand. Colorful explosions of light danced across her vision. Jandra had been unable to think during this time. She'd simply collapsed to her back and closed her eyes as she waited out the worst of it. of Jandra's brain had reached the peak of pain several minutes after the initial jolt, leaving her with the worst headache of her life, a skull-ripper that left her too weak to stand. Colorful explosions of light danced across her vision. Jandra had been unable to think during this time. She'd simply collapsed to her back and closed her eyes as she waited out the worst of it.

Jazz had been mostly quiet for the last few hours. Occasionally, Jandra thought she'd gone, but then she'd catch a whiff of cigarette smoke or hear a scratching sound a few feet away. Jandra willed one eye open. Jazz had produced a pad of paper and a pencil from somewhere, and crafted a granite park bench out of moon dust. She sat on the bench, making sketches as she studied Jandra. The stars above burned with unearthly clarity.

"You hang out with some very rude friends," Jazz said, aware that Jandra was awake.

Jandra licked her lips. "Wh-what have you done to them?"

"I'm just holding them for now. They seemed to have some pent-up aggression. A rather violent need to break things."

"They can't be happy that you've kidnapped me," Jandra said.

"There are more important goals in life than making people happy," said Jazz. "You feeling any better?"

"No."

"Really? Your nanites should be getting the swelling under control by now and boosting your endorphins to offset the pain. If you're feeling bad it might be because you want to feel bad."

"Why would I want to feel bad?"

"Low self-esteem. You were probably feeling pretty powerful before you met me."

"My self-esteem is fine, thank you," Jandra said. Self-esteem? It wasn't a concept that had been in her vocabulary before now. Her knowledge of it came from Jazz's brain blast. In addition to understanding the idea of self-esteem, she now knew what ice cream was, had a clear mental picture of an airplane, knew that penguins only lived in the southern hemisphere, and remembered that the first man on the moon had been Neil Armstrong on July 20, 1969. The new information in her brain seemed useless and trivial, devoid of the proper connections. It was like the loose pages from a million random books had been shoved into her head in no particular order. She suddenly knew how to make a coconut mojito despite not being certain what, exactly, a coconut was.

Jazz sketched her some more, then held the drawing up for Jandra to see.

"Like it?"' she asked.

Jandra tilted her head. Surprisingly, the motion didn't cause her wrenching pain. The explosions of color had died off. The crisp white paper Jazz held showed a pencil sketch of Jandra as she lay in the moon dust, one arm over her head, one upon her breast, her hair spreading out in a dark yet radiant halo. She'd been sketched with her eyes closed. Her face looked peaceful; her lips seemed a little too full in the sketch, however.

"You'll forgive me if I'm not enthusiastic about being your model."

"I know. I probably seem like a monster to you. But I'm not a monster. I'm just a human being like you. I get lonely. I have worshippers, but not much in the way of friends. I think, with a few modifications, you and I can get along fine."

"You mean modifications to me, I presume," said Jandra, sitting up. She realized as she did so that Jazz was right. The worst of the pain was gone. There was only a the memory of the pain still haunting her, causing her to move slowly and carefully as she stood up and wiped the dust from her clothing.

"You have more to gain from being changed than I do," said Jazz. "And, you've a lot to gain from being my friend. I've been sorting through your memories as you rested."

"You've been... you can read my mind?"

"Something like that. As my nanites mapped your brain connections they sent me back your existing data. You're a confused little girl. You've been raised by a talking lizard who didn't train you on how to handle human emotions. You're like Tarzan of the thirty-second century."

Jandra nodded. She hadn't known who Tarzan was when she first arrived on the moon. It felt wrong that she did now. But Jazz was right. Tarzan had been trapped between two worlds, neither civilized man nor jungle beast. Jandra sympathized.

"That Pet fellow was really coming on to you," said Jazz. "Turning him down for being a jerk is something I can respect. But you were also turning him down because you're afraid of your own s.e.xuality. You really haven't had any girlfriends to talk about this stuff with. I can help with that."

"I didn't know you'd brought me up here to be psychoa.n.a.lyzed." Psychoa.n.a.lyzed? Was that really a word? A synapse fired and she suddenly knew that sometimes a cigar was just a cigar. She also knew that Bitterwood had been right when he'd pointed out that she dressed herself in dragon scales. She'd always subconsciously thought of herself as ugly for being scaleless, wingless, and tailless. She'd grown into a human woman's body without any preparation for thinking of it as a worthwhile thing to possess.

"Okay," said Jandra. "Maybe we don't have to be enemies. Maybe there are things I could learn from you. How to use my nanotech better, for one thing. You're obviously operating on a very different level than I am."

"That's the spirit," said Jazz.

"So, I'll stay and be your friend," said Jandra. "But only if you let Bitterwood, Hex, and Zeeky go."

"Hmm. A deal with the devil, huh? Well-" Jazz tilted her head, like a dog hearing some far off sound.

"Oh great," she muttered.

"What?" asked Jandra.

"The central bell at the Nest just sounded," sighed Jazz. "This time it's not just some h.o.r.n.y sky-dragon that's the problem." She shook her head and mumbled, mostly to herself, "Wish you hadn't done this, Blasphet. I sort of liked you."

Jazz stood up. The park bench crumbled back to dust. The pad of paper she carried disintegrated, leaving the graphite lines of the drawing hovering in the air. She reached out, wound the lines up into a little ball of thread, and shoved them into the pocket of her blue jeans. She flicked away the cigarette she'd been smoking. It cut a long glowing arc before her, which opened like an eyelid into twin rainbows framing a narrow slit of perfect nothingness.

"Follow me," said Jazz. "Let's give your friends something useful to do to work off their aggression."

Ahead, the cries of dying gleaners fell silent. Frost and his men had moved on. Pet trotted toward the direction he'd last heard them, hoping he might still catch up. The bright moon cut the junkscape surrounding him into spooky, surreal shadows. Pet felt lost and alone. He stared up at the white orb, trying to get his bearings. He wished Jandra were present. She was always so quick to tell him the right thing to do, even if he was always so slow in doing it. As he stood silently, he heard men's voices, and a woman crying. He hurried toward the sound. of dying gleaners fell silent. Frost and his men had moved on. Pet trotted toward the direction he'd last heard them, hoping he might still catch up. The bright moon cut the junkscape surrounding him into spooky, surreal shadows. Pet felt lost and alone. He stared up at the white orb, trying to get his bearings. He wished Jandra were present. She was always so quick to tell him the right thing to do, even if he was always so slow in doing it. As he stood silently, he heard men's voices, and a woman crying. He hurried toward the sound.

"Hold her," a man gruffly commanded.

"Filthy gleaner scratched me," another said, his voice trailing off into nervous laughter.

The crying woman screamed, then her voice was cut short by a loud slap.

Pet ran around a junk hill and found three men holding down the woman. Her clothes were torn to shreds. Her face was dirty with rust, and blood was flowing from her nose and lips; she looked a few years older than Jandra. One of the three men was kneeling over her head, his knees pressing down on her shoulders, pinning her with his weight. A second man was fighting to pin down her pale, thin legs, which were kicking wildly. The third man watched with a leering grin, his fingers probing a set of long parallel scratches on his left cheek.

The scratched man giggled again. "Don't hit her so hard she blacks out. She won't learn her lesson if she's unconscious."

Pet drew up to his full height and marched forward. "What are you doing?" he shouted. "This isn't the mission. Let her go!"

Scratch-cheek giggled again. "Oh, it's the dragon-slayer. Funny how you disappeared at the first sign of danger."

"I've killed more men tonight than I have in years," Pet said in his best leadership voice. "Let her go and get back to your mission."

"We're just having a little fun," said the one at her feet. He'd finally managed to pin her legs down. The woman was crying hard now, barely able to inhale.

The one at her head said, "We're doing the mission. We'll kill her once we're done."

"Come on, dragon-slayer," said Scratch-cheek. "We'll give you first turn."

Pet placed an arrow against his bowstring and raised it, taking aim at Scratch-cheek.

"I can kill all three of you before you blink," he said, hoping they'd buy the bluff.

"Don't start believing your own lies, boy," said Scratch-cheek, still dabbing gently at his wounds. He seemed not the least bit afraid of Pet. "It's three of us against one of you."

Pet let the arrow fly. He imagined the shaft burying itself in Scratch-cheek's face. To his amazement, it did so, lopping off the man's middle finger before sinking into his skull just beneath the eye. Scratch-cheek dropped to his knees and fell over the crying woman, completely still. The two men who'd held her rose and drew their swords. Pet tried to pull another arrow from his quiver, but the men were charging him faster than he expected. Pet gave up on the arrow and drew his sword, raising it in time to parry a chop from the head-man. He jumped backwards as the foot-man gave a rapid jab that terminated directly in the s.p.a.ce his belly had occupied a half second before. Pet had no skills at actual combat, only stage combat, but instinct took over. He dodged and parried, drawing on his acrobatic training as the pair pressed their attack. Unfortunately, he could see no opening for a counterstrike.

A loud metallic zang rang out behind him, followed by a whistle as a razor sharp disk big as a dinner plate flashed past his eyes. The head-man was suddenly headless. Pet's remaining opponent turned white as a ghost as he gazed at something behind Pet. Pet almost turned around to see why, but he was opportunistic enough to know he might never get a better chance to strike. He buried his sword into the right side of the man's ribcage, driving the blade in as deep as he could. The man staggered backward, a curse on his lips. Pet tried to free his sword but it was stuck, trapped by the man's ribs, and the hilt was twisted from his fingers as the man fell backward.

Ten feet away, Pet saw the gleaner woman kick herself free from the dead man who had fallen on her. She rose, clutching her torn clothes to her body. A black-haired woman no older than the gleaner leapt from the shadows with a sword and buried it in the woman's back. The gleaner fell lifeless to the dirt. Her a.s.sailant stared at Pet. She was dressed in black buckskin, nearly invisible in the shadows. A Sister of the Serpent? No. She didn't have any tattoos, and she still had hair, even eyebrows.

"Good job," said a voice behind Pet. Pet whirled around. The tall dark-skinned man stood behind him. He'd caught glimpses of this man earlier and knew his name was Burke. Burke was wearing a huge gauntlet that covered his left arm from shoulder to wrist. The gauntlet forced his arm to be held perfectly straight, and on his shoulder and back there was a tall cartridge full of the razor disks that had decapitated the first swordsman.

"Good job?" Pet asked. "Are you talking to me or her?"

"Both of you," said Burke. "Anza for fulfilling the mission. You for having the moral fiber to stand up to these thugs. What's your name, boy?"

"Pe-Bitterwood," Pet said. He cringed internally, wondering why he'd fallen back to the lie. There was something about this man's eyes, however, that made Pet feel especially ashamed of his true ident.i.ty.

"Bitterwood? Oh! You're that fellow from the Free City. Are you Bant's son or something?"

"Bant?"

"Ah," said Burke. "You're just a n.o.body using his name."

"I prefer to think I'm somebody putting his name to better use than he is," said Pet. "I've met the real Bitterwood. He's not as heroic as you might think."

"I've fought beside the real Bitterwood," said Burke. "You're right. He's a psychopath. All he had going for him was his obsessive hatred of dragons. He wouldn't have been out here doing this clean-up work. Nothing would have stopped him from being inside Dragon Forge killing every dragon he laid eyes on."