Dragonforge_ A Novel Of The Dragon Age Part 9

The curious thing about the village of Burke's Tavern was that it had possessed the name for centuries, yet, in Dealon's youth, there was no tavern, nor any memory of anyone named Burke. In the first decade after his wife's death, Dealon had spent his days leaning against a fence near the Forge Road. The traffic of the road often resembled a parade. Great-lizards as green as unripe apples ridden by darker-hued earth-dragons would traverse the dusty, packed earth, guarding caravans of wagons towed by monstrous ox-dogs.

Yet, it had not been dragons that had proved to be the village's most important visitor. Roughly twenty years ago, Dealon had been looking toward Dragon Forge, watching the sun set. Under this crimson sky, a lone man had walked toward the village. As he grew closer, Dealon discovered the man wasn't truly alone; an infant was cradled in his arms.

The man was a curious sight. His skin was darker than anyone Dealon had met before, a deep, ruddy hue, like a sunburn beneath a suntan. His long, jet-black hair was pulled into a braid, secured by bands of leather. His buckskin clothes were worn and dirty, but the blanket he carried the infant in was white as a daisy petal. He wore two disks of curved gla.s.s over his eyes, held in place by a golden frame that sat upon his hooked nose. Dealon had heard of spectacles, but he'd never seen a pair before. The spectacles were such an oddity, Dealon almost didn't notice the man's second prominent feature-three parallel scars, running from beneath his right eye down to his chin, barely missing the edge of his lips. The s.p.a.cing of the scars hinted they'd been inflicted by an earth-dragon.

The man was aware of Dealon watching him, and as he drew close, he said, "Greetings. I've walked many miles today. Could you direct me to the nearest tavern?"

"Ah," Dealon had said. "You've been confused by the name."

"The name?"

"Burke's Tavern. Our town. There's been no tavern here in my lifetime."

"I see," said the man, thoughtfully gazing around the motley collection of shacks that composed the village. "The name is sort of wasted, isn't it?"

Dealon nodded. "I suppose. What's your name, stranger?"

The traveler had smiled, his eyes twinkling behind his spectacles, as he said, "Call me Burke."

In the years since Burke had built his tavern, the town had thrived. Burke was famed not only for his hospitality, but also for his cleverness. He was an inventor, and people would travel far to witness such marvels as the guitar under gla.s.s that played without the touch of fingers, and the tall clock from which a copper frog would hop and croak the time. This fall, Burke had installed the chess-monkey on the porch, which had grown to be the bane of Dealon's existence.

Though a chill breeze had driven everyone else inside, Dealon remained on the porch, seated before an upturned rain barrel with a chessboard atop it. Across from Dealon sat the chess-monkey-a three foot tall tin ape with long nimble fingers and gla.s.s eyes that fixed on Dealon with infuriating confidence. Dealon studied the game before him as if he were locked in a contest with a player of the highest caliber. With a cautious hand, he twisted his white bishop from its square and picked it up. The bottom of the bishop wasn't flat; it held a slender rod covered with small pegs-a key. Dealon placed this key into a corresponding slot three diagonals up and to the left. He twisted it into position to complete his move. Now the monkey either had to take the bishop with his queen and lose the queen to Dealon's rook, or move the queen and expose the monkey's rook to capture.

Within the barrel, clockwork whirred and clicked. The monkey tilted his head toward the board and reached out to grasp his knight. With a heart-breaking click, the rook protecting Dealon's bishop rose in its slot. The monkey retrieved the lifted piece with his left hand and moved his knight into the now open slot. A chime inside the box struck three times. The flat metallic disk of the monkey's jaw lowered, forming a wide grin.

"Sonova..." Dealon grumbled. He was in check. He could move his king out of it, but only in such a way that his rook no longer protected his bishop. The monkey's queen would take his bishop, and he'd be in check again.

Dealon stood up, stretching his back, taking a minute to think. He'd been insensitive to the cold while he'd been concentrating; now he felt it in his bones. He should go inside, sit next to the fire, and warm himself with a cider. However, when he walked inside, Th.o.r.n.y would ask him how he'd fared against Burke's monkey. Since the installation of the device, Dealon had played one hundred and seventeen games. Five of these had been stalemates. The others he'd lost. He knew the exact total not because he kept track, but because Th.o.r.n.y kept track, and reminded him every time he entered the tavern.

Of course, he hadn't lost yet. True, things looked bleak, but it was vaguely possible he could win. The problem was, the d.a.m.n monkey didn't get tired. Its b.u.t.t didn't get sore sitting on a wooden chair. Cold winds didn't make its back ache. All it had to do was grin and let its clockwork brain think about chess.

Dealon looked back at the board. He looked toward the door of the tavern, and could hear the conversation drifting from within. The scent of warm cider flavored the air. Of course, he could just go home. It would be dark soon. He looked down the Forge Road, toward the east.

A mob of humans was approaching, led by a naked man. Dealon stepped from the porch for a better look, thinking his eyes might be playing tricks. They weren't. Hundreds of men, perhaps thousands, were marching down the Forge Road, most carrying makeshift weapons: pitchforks and scythes and clubs.

The late afternoon sun gave Dealon a good look at the man out in front of the group. Their leader stood tall and muscular, his whole body covered in dark wiry hair. His face was all but hidden beneath an untamed mane of brown hair that hung past his shoulders in a tangled veil. His thick, curly beard reached the center of his chest. He wore no clothes, not even shoes.

In contrast to the makeshift weapons his men carried, the leader held finely crafted scimitars in each hand. Dealon spun around and darted up the porch steps. He burst into the tavern and shouted, "Burke!"

"What's wrong?" Th.o.r.n.y asked from his seat at the table by the fireplace. His grizzled old face broke into a cruel grin revealing his three remaining teeth as he asked, "Monkey beat you again?"

"There's an army," Dealon said as the door closed behind him, guided by the invisible hand of a counterweight that Burke had installed. "They're heading here!"

At this p.r.o.nouncement, the scattered conversations in the room fell silent. There were only ten people in the tavern's great room, eight of them farmers like Th.o.r.n.y, plus Anza, Burke's daughter, who worked as the tavern's barmaid. Behind the bar stood Burke himself, wiping a glazed ceramic mug, his spectacles reflecting the orange flames dancing in the fireplace.

"Earth-dragons?" Burke asked, sounding disinterested.

"Humans!" said Dealon.

Burke's lips pursed ever so slightly downward. "How many?"

"Hundreds!"

"I see," said Burke. He took off his spectacles and cleaned them with the same cloth he'd used on the mug. "It's a good thing we just stocked up on cider. Anza, would you go down to the cellar and count the stock for me?"

Anza nodded, looking serious, as if Burke's words meant something that only she understood. Anza had grown into a fine woman, several inches taller than her father, with the same perfectly straight black hair and tan skin. In all her life, no one had ever heard her speak. Though she understood everything that was said to her, she communicated only with her gestures and expressions. Among the gestures she was famed for was her rather swift response toward any man who laid a hand on her. She could break a man's fingers faster than he could finish saying, "Aren't you a pretty thing?"

As Anza vanished into the kitchen, Burke asked, "How far off? How long before they get here?"

In response, the door to the tavern was kicked from its hinges. It crashed to the floor, knocking over a table, which sent chairs toppling in a domino effect. The thick floorboards of the great room trembled as the mob trampled in, led by the naked swordsman. Dealon ran to the bar, scrambling over it as fast as he could manage, getting on the side with Burke. Others sought refuge beneath tables, or in the corners of the room. Burke alone seemed unfazed by the invasion as he picked up another mug and began to wipe it.

More of the army crowded inside-Dealon guessed at least a hundred men. A dozen of the largest hung close to the muscular leader as he approached the bar. Like their leader, they were armed with actual swords. Unlike him, they wore clothes. Some even had bits of ill-fitting armor: breastplates and bucklers and skirts of chainmail that had obviously been crafted for use by earth-dragons.

The naked man raised his hand and the men who followed him stopped where they stood, utterly silent. He stared across the room at Burke. Burke patiently waited for the man to speak first.

The naked man shook the room with a deep and thunderous voice: "The southern rebellion. The town of Conyers. Among the heroes of that battle was a man known as Kanati the Machinist. He was of the ancient race of the Cherokee, and legendary for his inventiveness. You are this man."

Burke shrugged, then shook his head. "Seems you know a little history. You must know Albekizan crushed that rebellion. The sun-dragons held a public feast to devour the captives. Whoever this Kanati was, he's dead now. Everyone who lived in Conyers is dead."

"Not everyone," said the naked man. "I was born there. I was nine when the king's army came against the city. Despite my youth, I would gladly have stayed and fought. My father, however, gathered my family and fled in the darkness. We weren't the only refugees. Don't tell me that everyone died."

"Maybe there were some survivors," said Burke. "Your family was one of the fortunate."

"No," the man said, shaking his wild locks. "My mother and father survived Conyers only to be slain five years later by Albekizan and his accursed wizard. Little about my history can be called fortunate save for discovering you, Kanati."

"Kanati, I a.s.sure you, has long since been digested. Sorry to make your trip here a pointless one. Why don't I give your men a round of cider for your troubles, then you head off to wherever it is you're going?"

"My men may not partake of alcohol."

"I see. Well then, Ragnar, I'm not sure there's much more I can do for you."

"Ah!" the naked man said, his eyes brightening. "You know my name! Can it be you remember me from long ago?"

"Were you this hairy when you were eight?" asked Burke. "I know your name because I've been hearing rumors about a prophet named Ragnar who's vowed not to cut his hair or wear clothes until the last dragon has been slain. You seem to fit that description."

Ragnar drew back his shoulders. "I am that prophet. I have been the tongue by which the Lord speaks of the final days of the dragons. Now, I am the sword that will cut them from this earth!"

"Everyone needs something to do with their time," Burke said with a gentle smile. "I confess, I'm not sure I grasp the strategic value of fighting a dragon buck naked."

"The prophet Samuel wandered the desert clad only by prayers," said Ragnar.

"Interesting," said Burke, nodding slowly, as if appreciating the logic behind Ragnar's words. "Did this Samuel fellow also swear off soap? Because, I gotta tell you, Ragnar, you're making my eyes water."

Ragnar slammed the hilt of his scimitar onto the bar, causing the mugs that sat upon it to jump. Spittle flew from his lips as he shouted, "Do not mock me! I am the Lord's chosen! With a word, my army will destroy this town. Stone will be knocked from stone. Your barns will be burnt and your livestock slaughtered. Your women will weep as we behead the men of this village one by one for treason!"

Dealon cringed a little lower behind the bar in the face of Ragnar's rage. Burke was no longer smiling.

"You make a compelling argument," Burke said, in a cool tone. "Still, I can be a little thick. Why, exactly, are we accused of treason?"

"Albekizan, king of the dragons, is dead, as I prophesied. The dragons are in disarray. All men must now stand together to strike the accused serpents. Those who refuse are traitors. I march from village to village, bringing all men the divine message: Join or die!"

Burke smirked. "At least we get a choice."

"No, Kanati," said Ragnar. "Your only choice is to join. The Lord has told me the legendary machinist will fight by my side."

Burke reached up and scratched the pale scars above lip as he thought. He said, "Why would you even want Kanati? The machinist didn't do much good the last time he stood up to dragons. He spent months preparing Conyers for battle. The dragons overran the town in hours. All this Kanati fellow managed to do was spread false hope and get a lot of people killed."

"You lacked divine guidance," said Ragnar. "The holy scriptures state that the great dragon will hold dominion over the earth for a millennium before perishing in a final battle. The thousand years have pa.s.sed. I now wage the last war. You will build me the weapons I need to fight it. Should you refuse, my men will find your lovely daughter-Anza, I believe she's called. Terrible things will be done to her before your eyes."

Burke lowered his hands to the bar. His voice was cold as the breeze outside as he said, "Leave here, Ragnar. You no longer amuse me."

"I'm not here to amuse you," said Ragnar.

"I'll give you until the count of ten," said Burke. His hand fell below the bar. Dealon noticed a long iron rod that Burke pulled back. From beneath the floor came the clatter of cogs and clockwork, like the sounds the chess-monkey made, but on a grand scale. "After that, I'm going to start killing your men."

"Do it," said Ragnar. "Kill them."

Burke frowned, his eyes darting about the room as if he were counting the number of forces arrayed against him. Most of the time, Dealon thought of Burke as the same youthful man who'd wandered into town those long years ago. Now, Burke looked as if he'd aged twenty years since Dealon had last seen him. Light gray hairs streaked his braid and deep wrinkles lined his eyes. The expression upon Burke's face as he surveyed the mob wasn't so much a look of anger as one of weariness.

"This one," said Ragnar, grabbing the guard to his left. "His name's Ugnan. Start with him."

"Sir," Ugnan said, looking startled. He was a big, lumpy man, with thick arms and a thicker belly. His pumpkin-shaped head sat upon his shoulders without the intervention of a neck. Plates of rusted armor hung over his dirty brown shirt and trousers.

"Your faith will protect you," said Ragnar.

Ugnan didn't look confident in this, but he stood still, obedient to the holy man.

"If your power is as great as you wish me to believe, prove it now," Ragnar said to Burke.

"Don't make me do this," said Burke.

"Think of Anza," said Ragnar.

Burke grimaced, his eyes locked onto those of the prophet. Suddenly, he barked out, "A-seven!"

A powerful spring in the cellar uncoiled with a tw.a.n.g. The bar stool next to Ugnan splintered as a long, sharp iron rod sprang six feet into the air. Ugnan looked over at the rod, only inches away, his eyes wide. "It missed," he whispered. "It's true... my faith saved me."

Burke sighed. "Sorry Ugnan. It's not divine will, just bad memory. It's been, what, twelve years since I built the grid?"

Ugnan looked confused.

Burke looked down at his feet, cupped his hands to make a fleshy megaphone, and shouted, "A-six!"

Dealon turn away as a pained shriek tore from Ugnan's lips. His twitching body lifted into the air and his sword hit the floor with a clatter. Blood splattered the ceiling. Ugnan's eyes remained open as he lifelessly slid down the spike.

"Alas," said Ragnar. "Ugnan's faith was weak. But my faith is strengthened. Perhaps Kanati the machinist is long dead. The Lord has delivered us a man who matches his talents. Join me, Burke. Together, we cannot fail."

"What I did to Ugnan I can do to every man in this room," said Burke. "Even you."

"You didn't kill me, though you could have. You know that should I die, the men outside this tavern will run wild."

"True," said Burke with a sigh. "The only thing worse than an army led by a fanatic is an army led by no one at all."

Burke stared into the eyes of the naked prophet. His hand rested on a second lever beneath the bar. Dealon wondered what intricate machinery that lever would set in motion. Yet the look on Burke's face was one familiar to him. It was the same expression Dealon often saw in the gla.s.s eyes of the chess-monkey, the look his own face wore when he was in check and any move he made was going to cost him dearly.

Burke's fingers slipped from the handle.

"No one else," he said. "I'll join you if no one else from the town is taken."

Now it was Ragnar's turn to stare as he silently contemplated his opponent's offer. He studied the twisted form of Ugnan, standing like a fleshy scarecrow, supported by the steel rod. Ugnan's blood pooled around the prophet's bare feet. With a look of satisfaction in his eyes, Ragnar turned to Burke. "Agreed."

Burke relaxed. He crossed his arms and said, "You've picked up a fair little army with this 'join or die' tactic. Do you have any other plans up your sleeve? If you had sleeves, that is?"

The prophet smiled, his yellow teeth gleaming amid the dark tangle of his beard. "It's not by chance we travel the Forge Road."

Burke nodded, as if Ragnar had just explained everything.

Chapter Nine:.

Fever Dreams

Bitterwood dreamed of fire. He fled down corridors of flame-wreathed stone in Chakthalla's castle, holding his breath to avoid the deadly smoke. He emerged into a courtyard to find his home village, Christdale, ablaze. All the wooden buildings glowed apple red, yet were still intact; the black cinder bodies of women and children stood in doorways, beckoning to him. He stumbled through the inferno of the village, his lungs aching, blisters rising on face, to arrive at the church he'd built board by board with his own hands. The structure collapsed in a spray of bright sparks. As the burning walls fell away, stands of living trees were revealed. It was the temple that had stood in this village long ago, the temple of the G.o.ddess. fire. He fled down corridors of flame-wreathed stone in Chakthalla's castle, holding his breath to avoid the deadly smoke. He emerged into a courtyard to find his home village, Christdale, ablaze. All the wooden buildings glowed apple red, yet were still intact; the black cinder bodies of women and children stood in doorways, beckoning to him. He stumbled through the inferno of the village, his lungs aching, blisters rising on face, to arrive at the church he'd built board by board with his own hands. The structure collapsed in a spray of bright sparks. As the burning walls fell away, stands of living trees were revealed. It was the temple that had stood in this village long ago, the temple of the G.o.ddess.

He peered through the smoke into the heart of the temple, toward the statue of the G.o.ddess. In Bitterwood's youth, the G.o.ddess had been a wooden carving, immobile, but in this dream she was walking toward him, a voluptuous female form with skin of rich mahogany. Where her hair should have been there were gouts of flame, slithering together like glowing snakes, flicking their tongues in evil hisses.

The fire spread across her polished skin as she drew closer. The G.o.ddess stumbled, her glowing arms stretched toward Bitterwood, as if begging him to catch her. He tried to run, but couldn't move as the G.o.ddess fell against him and his own skin caught fire. In his panic, he jerked his eyes open.

He was lying under a stone outcropping. A small, pathetic campfire sputtered at his side. White smoke drifted from the coals and wrapped around his head like a cloud. With every breath the acrid stench filled his lungs. He was under a heavy wool blanket that smelled like manure. He was awash with sweat. The breath that pa.s.sed between his shivering lips was hot and dry as a summer wind. He tried to wipe the sweat from his eyes. The hand he lifted was barely recognizable as his own; it was a yellowish gray streaked with purple. Bitterwood tried to wiggle the swollen fingers and they didn't move. He dropped the limb limply to his chest.

Glancing around the shelter, he couldn't see Zeeky or Poocher, but the boy he'd saved was near, leaning up against Killer's ma.s.sive body. Both were sleeping. Killer's legs were covered with brown bandages. Bitterwood tried to speak, but wound up coughing. The intended effect was the same. Killer and the boy opened their eyes.

Bitterwood licked his dry lips and whispered, "W-where's Z-Zeeky?"

The boy shrugged. "Gone," he said.

"G-gone where?"

"Dead Skunk Hole," the boy said.