Dragonforge_ A Novel Of The Dragon Age Part 7

"No!" Zeeky said. "We're almost there! It's just around the bend!"

"Let me go ahead to check things out."

"Run, Killer!" Zeeky yelled.

Killer lunged forward. Bitterwood grabbed fistfuls of bristly dog hair to keep from toppling as Killer swerved around a steep curve on the trail.

Zeeky let out a gasp.

Ahead, the village of Big Lick was nothing but a mound of smoking ruins. Killer stopped in response to Zeeky's gasp, suddenly as paralyzed with shock as she was.

Bitterwood vaulted from the ox-dog and said, "Wait here," before moving further up the path. The village had been burned several hours ago, judging from the remains. What had once been homes were now just heaps of charcoal, sending up a fog of smoke. The coal dust that had clung to the village gave the charred remains a sickly egg-fart stench.

Bitterwood searched the ground for tracks as he walked closer to the village. If an army of dragons had done this, they'd not traveled up this path. Of course, it could be sun-dragons or sky-dragons behind it. They could have flown in. However, for some reason he'd never understood, the winged dragons normally didn't journey into these mountains.

He crept forward carefully, crouched low, his eyes seeking out natural areas of cover he could dive for in case of aerial attack. Unarmed, he searched the ground for a good heavy rock. Fortunately, Big Lick had no shortage of stones. As he picked up a smooth, fist-sized rock, he noticed a sc.r.a.pe in the ground beside it. A claw mark... a dragon? It was too small for a sun-dragon, and whatever had left the mark had been heavier than a sky-dragon. Quickly, his eyes picked out a dozen other marks, then a hundred more, in all directions, with human footprints mixed among them. Curiously, he spotted no blood. Sniffing the air, he found no trace of the sweet hammy smell of burnt human flesh. The dragons-if that's what had attacked-must have taken the villagers as captives.

It was growing dark and cold as he stepped into a square of ash and blackened logs that had once been a cabin. A small tower of stone jutted up from the center, the remains of a fireplace. The smoke danced like ghosts as the wind pushed tiny ash-devils across the stone hearth. He spotted a fallen fireplace poker, a length of black iron with a forked end and a coil of wire for a handle. It was hot enough to blister a normal man when he lifted it, but his hands were tough as leather gloves. The poker had a pleasant heft. He'd killed dragons with lesser weapons than this.

The hair on the back of his neck rose. Something was running in the woods on the other side of the chimney, coming fast. It sounded like human footsteps. Bitterwood pressed himself against the chimney. Seconds later a boy rushed past, breathing hard, tears leaving trails down his soot-darkened cheeks. The boy was older than Zeeky, rail thin, with bright blond hair of a nearly identical hue. The boy caught sight of Bitterwood from the corner of his eye. As he turned his head he tripped, skidding amid the ash, sending up a shower of dull red sparks as he fell. Bitterwood gripped the poker tightly with his left hand, and readied the fist-sized stone in his right hand to throw.

As the boy struggled to stand, Bitterwood saw blood on his burlap shirt. The boy looked back over his shoulder, past Bitterwood and the chimney toward the woods beyond, his eyes wide with terror.

From the crunching of leaves, it sounded as if a small army was approaching.

Every muscle in Bitterwood's body coiled, ready to spring. The pain in his chest vanished as a reptilian odor was carried toward him-a dragon! But what kind?

A copper-hued, horse-sized head of a dragon darted past the edge of the chimney, low to the ground. The creature's long neck was quickly followed by a pair of shoulders supporting thick, strong legs that ended in three-clawed talons. This was the creature that had made the tracks. Another yard of the beast pa.s.sed and another set of shoulders and a second set of legs appeared. The boy had gotten to his feet again, and was darting away like a rabbit. The dragon steered toward him, as a third set of legs scrambled past the chimney. Bitterwood had never seen anything like this creature.

Time slowed, as it always did in the heat of battle. Though the creature charged as quickly as a galloping horse, it moved at a crawl in Bant's eyes. He could see every individual scale of the creature as it pa.s.sed. He watched its muscles as they moved in precise ch.o.r.eography beneath a gleaming metallic hide. A fourth set of limbs came around the edge of the chimney, then a fifth, but the fifth set wasn't part of the creature's body. They were human feet, resting in stirrups.

The human in the saddle was revealed as the creature advanced. He was a short man, with skin pale as milk, dressed in a shimmering white tunic. A large silver visor hid his eyes. He somehow guided his reptilian mount without the benefit of reins, leaving his hands free to aim a large crossbow at the boy. But, he too caught sight of Bitterwood and c.o.c.ked his head, his lips parting as if he were about to speak.

Bitterwood wasn't interested in what he might say. The springs in his legs uncoiled. He swung the iron poker in an upward arc, catching the rider underneath his chin. The rider was lifted from his saddle by the blow.

As the white-clad man fell through the air, the serpent's back curved, instantly aware of rider's missing weight. Bitterwood spun as the beast's head whipped around, its jaws opening to reveal a pale pink mouth-roof. Twin rows of teeth hurtled toward him, the jaws spread wide enough to swallow his head.

Bitterwood raised the stone he carried, a good, hard chunk of stream-polished granite. As the dragon's mouth reached him and the jaws began to snap, he placed the stone precisely at the back of the creature's jaw. When the beast chomped down, its spiky rear teeth snapped. Bitterwood ducked to allow the dragon's momentum carry it over him. The dragon let out a grunt as it hit the chimney with a wet smack. Its body twitched and coiled as Bitterwood jumped free.

Long years of fighting dragons had left Bitterwood with a reliable internal map of where a dragon's claws, teeth, and tail would be in close combat. Alas, he still hadn't figured out how many limbs this weird long-wyrm had. As he jumped away something sharp snared his ankle. His leap to freedom aborted in a painful crash. A second set of claws tore into his calves, then a third, and a fourth. Bitterwood twisted around to see the long-wyrm shake its bloodied head, then turn its dark eyes to face him.

Bitterwood kicked, loosening two of the claws. The beast jerked, dragging Bitterwood closer as claw after claw sank into his legs. By now the entire creature could be seen. It was fully fifty feet long from snout to tail, with fourteen pairs of claws. The long-wyrm's mouth dripped blood, and the lower jaw was set at a funny angle, perhaps broken.

Behind the dragon, the rider rose to his knees, looking dazed. His visor had been knocked off, revealing large, pink eyes amid the ghostly flesh of his face. He raised a hand as if to shield his eyes from the light, despite the deepening shadows. The man looked around, and reached for his visor. Before he could grab it, a black and white form flashed into view and s.n.a.t.c.hed it up in its jaws, then dashed away. Poocher?

The long-wyrm suddenly stopped pulling Bitterwood closer. Its eyes were set on something behind the fallen hunter. The creature braced itself. The ash all around Bitterwood swirled in a rush of wind. A large shadow flew over his head. Killer, the ox-dog, let out a thunderous bark in mid air, then sank his ma.s.sive jaws into the lizard's copper throat. The long-wyrm released Bitterwood, coiling up to rake and tear at the giant dog. Killer whipped the wyrm's head back and forth, its broken jaw flopping. The beast let out a series of hissing yelps as Killer pinned it to the ground and clamped his jaws even tighter.

Even though the serpent was losing, it continued tearing out b.l.o.o.d.y chunks of fur as it curled around the dog in a whirlwind of claws. Bitterwood scrambled back to his feet, taking the poker in both hands, and lunged for the long-wyrm, ignoring the slashing pain from his damaged legs. He planted the forked edge of the iron poker in the center of the beast's left eye and threw his full weight onto the handle. The thin layer of bone behind the eye snapped as he drove the rod into the creature's brain. The dragon fell limp, its claws stilled at last.

"Jeremiah!" Zeeky shouted.

Bitterwood looked down the path, the see the boy running toward Zeeky.

"Ezekia!" the boy shouted. Zeeky jumped into his arms as they reached each other. The boy's legs collapsed at the weight, and they both wound up on the ground.

Bitterwood yanked the poker from the dead reptile's eye. The white-skinned rider was now on his feet, his back toward Bitterwood. The rider, hearing Bitterwood's approach, turned. He'd recovered his crossbow. He raised the weapon and pulled the trigger.

Bitterwood's eyes were still swift enough to trace the razor honed tip as sliced through the air toward him. His arms felt like lead weights as he tried to lift the poker to knock the bolt from its path.

To the amazement of both the rider and himself, the poker reached the same point in s.p.a.ce as the bolt less than a yard from Bitterwood's chest. The bolt deflected upward, leaving a trail of sparks, as it whizzed past Bitterwood's left ear.

The rider looked stunned. Bitterwood had witnessed the same look countless time in the eyes of dragons. It was a look that gave him a certain amount of pleasure, but experience had taught him it was not a pleasure that should be prolonged. He willed his torn legs to leap the few yards that separated him from the man, swinging the iron rod in a vicious arc. He slammed it against the side of the man's neck with such force the poker bent. The man fell to his back, twitching, his eyes rolling up in their sockets.

Bitterwood sucked down air in great gasps, his legs trembling. The world slowed back to normal speed. He studied the fallen rider. Though blood was seeping from his ears, the man still breathed. Perhaps he would live. Perhaps he would have answers as to what had happened here.

On the other hand, the man had been riding a dragon, or something very much like a dragon. Bitterwood thought of women and children being dragged from their homes by reptilian claws, imagined the destruction of Big Lick with great clarity. He could hear the screams of the villagers, just as for twenty years he'd heard the screams of his own family.

There was only one way to silence those voices.

Glancing over his shoulder he saw Killer limping back to Zeeky and the boy, who were sitting on the ground, talking. No one was looking toward him.

Bitterwood fell to his knees. His arms were losing strength; his legs were bleeding in copious streams. He wanted to fall over, to collapse forever into sleep.

But there could be no rest while the voices howled.

Bitterwood raised the poker above his head and swung it, planting the full weight into the man's face. A bubble of blood rose from the man's lips.

Bitterwood felt too weak to move as he stared at the damaged face. A lightness took hold of him, like the fevers that had given his world such a dreamlike quality. The unconscious man's features suddenly struck him as familiar-eyes, ears, nose, mouth-a universal visage, belonging to almost any man. Bitterwood could even see himself in the shared structures, and as the world slowly began to tilt he could no longer tell if it was the rider who lay upon the ground, or himself.

Bitterwood raised the poker and swung at the face that might be his own, then swung again, and again, until what he was. .h.i.tting looked like a face no longer.

The screams now silent, Bitterwood toppled into the ash.

He closed his eyes, then opened them to discover Poocher by his head. The pig was wearing the rider's visor, standing on two legs.

"Evil man," Poocher said, in a smooth and high-cultured tone. He pointed a cleft hoof at Bitterwood in a gesture of condemnation. "All your works amount to dust. All that remains of you will scatter with the winds."

Bitterwood found himself concurring with the judgment of the pig. He welcomed this fate. It seemed a very light thing, to be carried off by air, unremembered, unmourned.

"Take care of Zeeky," he whispered before the world spun in a whirl of white embers, then turned black.

Chapter Seven:.

Magical Gifts

A misty rain veiled the mountains, hiding Zeeky's ruined village. Zeeky gazed out from the shelter of one of the caves overlooking Big Lick. It had taken hours for her and Jeremiah to drag Bitterwood to the shelter. Killer was too wounded to carry anyone, though he could limp along. Poocher sat beside her, watching her intently as she used Bitterwood's kit to start a fire. The logs they'd dragged up to the cave were damp. The flames from the kindling licked the bark, causing the logs to sizzle and put out fumes that were more steam than smoke. veiled the mountains, hiding Zeeky's ruined village. Zeeky gazed out from the shelter of one of the caves overlooking Big Lick. It had taken hours for her and Jeremiah to drag Bitterwood to the shelter. Killer was too wounded to carry anyone, though he could limp along. Poocher sat beside her, watching her intently as she used Bitterwood's kit to start a fire. The logs they'd dragged up to the cave were damp. The flames from the kindling licked the bark, causing the logs to sizzle and put out fumes that were more steam than smoke.

She checked Bitterwood's bandages one last time. Jeremiah had found sc.r.a.ps of unburned blankets in the rubble and they'd used these to bind his wounds, but she was frightened by how much blood he'd lost. He was burning hot, and his breathing was shallow and raspy. She wished she knew something more to do.

Finally, with the fire putting out at least a little heat and everyone in safe from the drizzle, she asked, "What happened, Jeremiah?"

"For a couple of years, the menfolk have been whispering about the new kind of demon they were seeing in the mines," said Jeremiah. "Big copper-colored serpents with a hundred legs. But the demons were afraid of light; the men kept mining, they just needed more lanterns than before."

"I know that. I heard Papa talking to Uncle Silas about the demons," said Zeeky. "But why'd they attack?"

"I don't know," said Jeremiah. "They just showed up in the middle of the night and dragged everyone out of bed. I tried to fight but the demons were too strong. The demon just got hold of me. There were men with them who tied me up. They carried everyone up to Dead Skunk Hole. I was slung over the back of one of the demons, but there was some slack in the ropes holding me. I wiggled loose and ran like a jackrabbit. Didn't look back to see if I was followed. I hunkered down in some bushes for better than a day. Then I took off running for Big Lick to see if anyone was left. I guess one of the demons also came back to look. I thought sure I was a goner when I heard it coming up behind me."

"You think Mama and Papa are still alive?"

"I reckon," said Jeremiah. "I didn't see n.o.body get killed. Wonder what them demons want us for?"

"I'll just have to go up to Dead Skunk Hole and find out," Zeeky said.

"Zeeky, you saw that demon. It ripped up your friend and hurt this big dog something fierce. You'll get eaten alive."

"No I won't," said Zeeky. "The serpents aren't demons. They're animals. I could make out some of what it was saying while it was fighting. I bet I could talk to one. Animals won't eat me if I tell 'em not to."

"Yeah," said Jeremiah. "You did talk that ol' bear out of eatin' Granny."

"Told him he'd only get indigestion," said Zeeky.

"But these long-wyrms ain't natural," said Jeremiah.

"It ain't natural that I can talk to animals," said Zeeky. "I'm not scared of things just 'cause they ain't natural. I'll just go into the mine and look around some. I'll take Poocher. You stay here with Mr. Bitterwood and Killer. Keep the fire going. Fetch them some water from the creek when they wake up."

"All right," said Jeremiah. "I know I ain't going to talk you out of it. Just promise you'll be careful."

Zeeky nodded but didn't actually say the words, so it didn't count.

It was daylight when Zeeky lit out for Dead Skunk Hole. She soon arrived at the st.u.r.dy wooden ramp that led up to the entrance. Fog hid everything more than thirty feet away. She held the rail for balance on the slippery wood, as Poocher crept along beside her, looking wary. when Zeeky lit out for Dead Skunk Hole. She soon arrived at the st.u.r.dy wooden ramp that led up to the entrance. Fog hid everything more than thirty feet away. She held the rail for balance on the slippery wood, as Poocher crept along beside her, looking wary.

"Guess this is it," she said to Poocher as they reached the entrance of the mine. The gaping hole in the mountainside looked like a giant mouth looming in the mist. It had a faint wet skunk atmosphere drifting out of it. She gave Poocher a scratch under his bristly chin as she knelt to gaze into his dark eyes. "Not too late to turn back if you want. I'll understand."

Poocher snorted and twitched his snout, indicating he wouldn't abandon her.

She stepped into the mine and looked around. The entrance was huge, big enough for an entire army of dragons to take shelter. All around were carts and picks and lanterns, equipment the miners used in their daily ch.o.r.es. The mines had been worked for centuries. Her Papa used to say that the mountain was almost hollow now. Yet, each time a vein of coal would play out, a new vein would be discovered, a little deeper down, a little further in. The men complained it took a full day to walk to the current vein they worked. The miners labored in five day shifts. Zeeky couldn't imagine spending so long away from the sun. No wonder all the men always looked so tired and haunted.

Zeeky lit the oil lamp closest at hand. It wasn't as heavy as it looked. Long, jagged shadows stretched out against walls blackened by centuries of lantern smoke. She stepped further into the mine, away from the pale, fog-filtered daylight. Poocher stayed close by her heel. She walked several hundred yards down the main shaft when she reached her first obstacle. The shaft split into five different tunnels. A wooden elevator, designed to be powered by a team of mules, sat in a shaft that hinted at even more tunnels beneath. She wished the mules weren't gone. She could have asked for help.

"Any ideas, Poocher?"

Poocher roamed over the floor, sniffing. He spent several minutes at the entrance of each tunnel before letting out a grunt.

"Good job," she said.

Poocher snorted a thank you and trotted ahead. She followed, her eyes straining at the shadows. The white patches of Poocher's hide grew increasingly gray. Was Poocher getting dirtier, or was the lantern getting dimmer? She tried to adjust the wick. The light brightened briefly, but as she fiddled with the lantern she could hear a sloshing of what could only be a few teaspoons of oil. She suddenly realized why the lantern had felt so light. It was her first time using a lantern. She'd watched her father use them, and was pretty sure she knew how to refill it. Her father said there were oil barrels all through the mine. Had she pa.s.sed one yet? Had there been one back near the elevator?

She turned around.

The lantern flickered, the gla.s.s darkening with sooty smoke. She started to run.

Everything went black.

Brown gunk covered the marble floor of the grand hall of Chakthalla's castle. Here and there in the muck, bright shards of the broken stained-gla.s.s windows that had once lined the hall glinted in the firelight. This room was vivid in Jandra's nightmares-it was the room where her throat had been slit. Some of the nastiness on the floor might be her own decayed blood, mixed with rain and rotting leaves that had blown into the abandoned room. Here, she'd watched the sun-dragon Zanzeroth gut Vendevorex and leave him for dead. This was the room where she'd learned the truth behind the biggest secret of her life-that it had been Vendevorex who'd killed her parents, for no other reason than to prove himself to Albekizan. the marble floor of the grand hall of Chakthalla's castle. Here and there in the muck, bright shards of the broken stained-gla.s.s windows that had once lined the hall glinted in the firelight. This room was vivid in Jandra's nightmares-it was the room where her throat had been slit. Some of the nastiness on the floor might be her own decayed blood, mixed with rain and rotting leaves that had blown into the abandoned room. Here, she'd watched the sun-dragon Zanzeroth gut Vendevorex and leave him for dead. This was the room where she'd learned the truth behind the biggest secret of her life-that it had been Vendevorex who'd killed her parents, for no other reason than to prove himself to Albekizan.

Despite her terrible memories of the place, she'd known the castle held rooms large enough to shelter Hex. They'd been only a few miles away when the weather became too dangerous to continue their journey by air. Once the fogs rolled in, flight was a foolish risk.

Hex was curled up near the fireplace at the rear of the room, slumbering. His belly gurgled as it digested the young buck he'd swooped down upon and killed earlier. He'd eaten most of the buck raw, hooves and all, but had saved Jandra some meat from a haunch. She'd roasted it over the fire and had her fill. Jandra would have joined Hex in sleep, but, oddly, despite her full belly and the fact she'd barely slept in days, she wasn't even mildly tired. Vendevorex had seldom slept. He'd needed no more than a few hours each week to remain alert. Was this another side effect of the helmet?

Jandra pa.s.sed the time by reweaving and altering her clothes, doodling with the physical qualities of the fibers. She'd altered the color of the fabric, changing it from black to a red shade resembling Hex's hide. She'd adjusted the fit of her loose mourning clothes until they clung to her like a second skin, though not too immodestly. From just beneath her chin down to her toes, there was no hint of exposed flesh save for her fingers and palms-even the backs of her hands were hidden by a red, feathery, scale-patterned lace she'd created. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were modestly concealed by a leather vest she'd crafted by replicating the molecules of leather in her shoes. She was sufficiently occupied with her newfound talent as a mental seamstress that the ghosts of the room didn't haunt her.

Unfortunately, the same wasn't true of Hex. His sleep grew fitful. His jaws clenched with rapid snaps, as if he was biting at some unseen foe in his dreams. His claws flexed and twitched. Suddenly, he jerked his head up, his eyes open wide, as he shouted, "No!"

Jandra reached out and placed a hand upon his hind-talon.

"It's okay, Hex. Just a bad dream."

Hex stared at her, confusion in his eyes. He shuddered, and released a long breath. "I was dreaming of the contest of succession," he said.

"Oh," said Jandra. The contest of succession had pitted two of Albekizan's sons against one another in a ritual hunt of human slaves. The victor had had a chance to challenge Albekizan in combat for the throne. The loser had been castrated, and sent into a life of servitude to the biologians. Jandra could see how such an event could lead to unpleasant dreams, even thirty years later.

Hex rose to his hind-talons, stretching his wings, shaking off the effects of sleep.

"Everyone expected me to win," said Hex. "But the slave I hunted drowned while swimming the river. It took three days for his body to be discovered. The human my brother hunted broke his leg falling from a tree within sight of the palace. His howls of anguish made him easy to find. Dacorn tried to console me with talk of destiny. He said that fate required someone else to wear the crown."

"Perhaps there's truth to it," said Jandra. "No one expected Shandrazel to become king. And now, he may be the king that brings an end to kings."

"Destiny played no part in this," Hex said. Now that his limbs were awake once more, he crouched down near the fire, his legs beneath him, his wings folded against his body. In this posture, with his long serpentine neck, he resembled a giant, scaly, blood-red swan. "Life is essentially random. Shandrazel is king by chance alone. Bitterwood killed Bodiel, then my father. No guiding power put him on the throne."

"These things aren't random," said Jandra. "Bitterwood wanted revenge against your father because your father took his family. Things happen for reasons. Our lives are entangled with the lives of those around us."