Dragonforge_ A Novel Of The Dragon Age Part 25

Soon they arrived at a pump station. Nadala produced a key that led them through a gate of welded steel bars. They pa.s.sed through a long, tall tunnel with hundreds of pipes running overhead. Water dripped and drizzled from a hundred tiny leaks, producing staccato splashes that echoed through the concrete tunnel like drumbeats. The pa.s.sage went on for many yards before ending at a platform with cement steps leading up to a set of double iron doors.

"Ah," said Metron. "I remember this well. The Thread Room lies directly above us."

Nadala handed the lantern to Graxen as she walked up the stairs. The twin doors were bound together with a heavy steel chain. The lock was a strange one-there was no slot for a key, only a dial with numbers upon it.

"We'll have to break it," Nadala whispered.

"No," said Metron. "I recall the combination."

His aged talons took the lock and spun the dial in precise turns. Seconds later, the lock clicked open.

"Sarelia didn't change it," he said, sounding relieved. "A good omen."

As the doors creaked open, Graxen thought he heard something behind them, near the leaky tunnel. A splas.h.i.+ng sound, like footsteps.

"Did you...?"

"What?" asked Nadala.

"I thought I heard something," Graxen whispered, walking back down to the platform. The singing of the falling water, like countless fountains, was all he heard now.

"Perhaps it was a rat," said Metron.

"It's gone now, whatever it was," said Graxen.

Graxen climbed back up the stairs and pushed his way through a curtain of thick cloth to join Nadala and Metron in the Thread Room. They weren't far from the giant chalkboard, with its dense jotting of notes. Metron moved to better see the board. The room was lit with a series of lanterns. Graxen could read the board clearly from where he stood. His father studied the chalkboard and chuckled when he reached Vendevorex's name surrounded by questions marks.

"What's so funny?" whispered Nadala.

"I knew Vendevorex would vex her," said Metron. "The most famous sky-dragon in the kingdom and his origin an utter mystery. He came to Albekizan's court long after Sarelia and I had stopped speaking. I wrote her a letter concerning my theories about Vendevorex. I never sent it. Though I wrote it in the most professional voice I could manage, I feared she might read between the lines of the subject and find that I still loved her. At the time, it seemed as if it would only cause pain to send that missive."

"Whose pain?" a voice asked from across the room. Graxen looked behind him to discover the hunched form of the matriarch standing before a fluttering tapestry. She walked toward them, her cane clacking on the tiled floor.

"My pain?" the matriarch asked. "You should know the females of our species may endure limitless agony, biologian. If you've not spoken to me for nearly two decades, the weakness lies with you, not me."

"You're correct," Metron said. "You were always the stronger one."

"Not always," said the matriarch, now only a few yards away. "I gave in to your request not to destroy our great mistake." She cast Graxen a baleful gaze. Then she narrowed her eyes at Nadala. "Why are you in the presence of a tatterwing and a freak? Where are your armor and spear, valkyrie?"

Nadala bowed her head respectfully. "Matriarch, I've fallen in love with your son. I've admired him since the day he visited this isle. We've come to ask your permission to..." her voice trailed off. She took a deep breath, then raised her head and looked at the matriarch with bold eyes. "We seek permission to breed."

The matriarch scoffed. "You've gone mad, Nadala. Even if you were allowed to choose your seed-giver, you know you couldn't breed with this discolored freak."

"Of what importance is the color of his hide?" asked Nadala. "Why must all sky-dragons look so much alike?"

"Because physical variability leads to hatred," said the matriarch. "I've studied histories forbidden to you. I know what happens when different colors are allowed to spread within a race of intelligent beings. It leads to strife and warfare. I would spare our race these evils."

"You perpetuate these evils," said Nadala. "Why would we fear difference if we aren't taught to fear it?"

"Enough, valkyrie," the matriarch snapped. "It's not your position to decide the genetic make-up of our species. It's your job to kill intruders-a job you have failed miserably."

"Mother," said Graxen, "Don't speak to Nadala this way. She only wants-"

"Yes!" the matriarch cried, lifting her cane and waving it at Graxen. "She only wants. She is poisoned by desire. Her hormones have addled her mind. I know too well the danger of only wanting."

"You're correct," said Metron. Graxen felt betrayed by the words, but Metron continued. "Our own chemistry can ruin our reason. Fortunately you've had two decades to free yourself from the biology of desire. Tonight, we can have the conversation our bodies prevented us from having so many years before. No dragon alive has studied the question of our genetic destiny more than you. However, as high biologian, I was guardian of the true secret history of our race. I've come to persuade you that the age of guided genetics can now end. Everything the early biologians wanted to accomplish has been accomplished. We've flourished as a species without falling into the many genetic pits that could have doomed us. We needed many generations of careful guidance to avoid inbreeding and allow for the slow rise of mutations to give our shallow gene pool depth. Now, however, that guidance is crus.h.i.+ng genetic variability. Graxen does possess visible mutations. Yet, despite his coloration, he has also shown speed and agility that is nearly unmatched in our race. He has excelled in scholars.h.i.+p despite the burden of constant abuse from his peers. Losing Graxen from the gene pool would be a tragedy."

The matriarch shook her head. "Our genetic threads were always contraindicated. I wouldn't have allowed Graxen to breed if he'd been born blue as the winter sky. It's my duty to keep the threads untangled. If not for the wisdom contained in this room, our species would have vanished from the earth long ago."

"You can't know that," said Graxen.

"She can know that," said Metron in a scolding tone. "These threads guided us from almost certain extinction. Yet we're no longer the same fragile race we were when the first tapestries were sewn. Our species numbers in the tens of thousands. We can safely let go of the old ways and begin to experiment with new ways. Humans have endured eons without a guiding hand. There may be advantages to allowing individuals to choose their mates."

The matriarch grimaced, as if she'd just bit into something bitter. "Do you truly advocate the breeding practices of savages?"

"Humans have survived disasters we couldn't," said Metron. "Plagues, for instance. Dragons have been spared plagues due to our relative newness as a species. A thousand years is insufficient time for a microbe to have adapted to us as a carrier. What happens when that day comes? With all the females cl.u.s.tered together in the Nest, a single disease could wipe out our species overnight."

"We're spared plagues due to our superior breeding and fastidious hygienic practices," the matriarch said, in a tone that made it seem she was addressing a hatchling instead of the most learned sky-dragon in the kingdom. "Our isolation is a barrier to disease, not an opportunity."

"An intriguing hypothesis," said Metron. Then his eyes twinkled. He looked as if he'd just guided the matriarch onto the exact intellectual ledge he'd wanted her to stand upon. "Since we're rational creatures, we can test it. We can select a pool of candidates to live outside the Nest and the Colleges. The test subjects may settle where they please, and find mates as they please. A hundred members of each s.e.x should provide a reasonable study group. Then, we will track their offspring for ten generations in a second Thread Room to a.n.a.lyze if the genetic health of their offspring improves or declines compared to the main population."

The matriarch tilted her head in such a way that it looked as if the idea had lodged in her brain and suddenly weighed down her left lobe.

"A second Thread Room?" she said, her voice almost dreamy. "I can think of many questions that such an experiment could answer."

"Nadala and I could be the anchor for such a population," said Graxen.

"No," the matriarch said, raising her fore-talon dismissively. "The control group must start with untainted candidates. Neither you nor Nadala would meet the criteria."

"I would hope, as designer of the experiment, that I would have some say in selecting the population," said Metron. "I will choose half the males and half the females without restriction; you shall select the other half."

"No. No, while I'm intrigued by your proposal, I fear you're overlooking a rather clear set of facts," said the matriarch. "You're a tatterwing. Your wings still stink of pus and scabs, and already you've forgotten your status? Your presence here is a crime punishable by death. Graxen, too, was told that if he returned he would face execution. It would be poor precedent for me to reverse that decision. And Nadala... my poor, deluded, hormone-poisoned Nadala... your sins are greater than either of these males. You're a traitor to the Nest. As such, your punishment will be far worse than either of these fools."

As the matriarch spoke, she punctuated her words with sharp, rapid taps of her cane against the tiles. The tapestries that lined the room bulged outward. Fifty valkyries poured into the chamber from unseen doors. Nadala sprang to place herself between Graxen and the guards. "Run back to the stairs," she hissed. "I'll hold them off as long as I can."

Graxen moved to her side. "I'll not abandon you."

"How romantic," said the matriarch. Then, to the valkyries, "Take them!"

A handful of the valkyries advanced, spears lowered. Things quickly became confused as the nearest valkyrie stumbled drunkenly. Spears clattered on the tiles as they slipped from trembling talons. One by one, the valkyries began to drop, unconscious. Graxen noted an acrid odor, like the smell of burning peanuts wafting through the room. A faint haze of blue smoke could be seen swirling as the valkyries continued to fall. Nadala suddenly swooned, her eyes rolling upward in their sockets. Graxen caught her before she hit the floor.

"W-what treachery is this, Metron?" the matriarch growled as she swayed unsteadily, reaching out one fore-talon to the blackboard to maintain her balance.

"I am not to blame for... oh. Oh, no," said Metron. "No! By the bones, he's played me for a fool! Why didn't I see his plan? I swear I didn't know he followed me!"

As Metron spoke, the last of the valkyries toppled. Then the matriarch, too, succ.u.mbed to the mysterious smoke. Only Metron and Graxen remained standing.

"What's happening?" Graxen cried out. "Who has followed us?"

The tapestry where they had entered was suddenly torn asunder. Bald human girls clad in leather armor danced into the room, brandis.h.i.+ng black, wet blades. Metron moved as fast as his old body could manage to stand over the matriarch's fallen form. Graxen dragged Nadala to Metron's side, laying her carefully upon the floor, then taking a defensive stance next to his father as group of girls surrounded them. Graxen took note of the tattoos on their shaved heads. These must be the Sisters of the Serpent, the cult that had attacked the palace.

The doorway to the stairs darkened. The black-scaled form of a sun-dragon squeezed through the too-tight opening, then stood erect in the much larger Thread Room, stretching his wings. Graxen was used to the company of Shandrazel, but this dragon seemed even larger, more menacing, as his black hide sucked in the light.

"Blasphet," said Metron, his voice cracking, on the verge of tears.

One of the girls darted forward. Graxen tried to stop her, but time felt distorted. The smoke that had felled the others slowed him. He couldn't reach the girl before she landed a savage kick in Metron's gut. The elderly tatterwing doubled over, falling to the floor.

"Your unworthy tongue may not speak the holy name!" the girl snarled.

"Greetings, old friend," Blasphet said, looking down at Metron's curled form. "For your own safety, I'd recommend use of my proper t.i.tle."

"Murder G.o.d!" cried Metron, as his tears erupted.

Ragnar stood atop a mountain of rusted rubble. His army stretched out around him in the thousands, a motley collection of slaves and farmers and mercenaries, most dressed in rags, many carrying only the crudest of weapons. Ragnar's voice was loud as thunder as he shouted, "The Lord is our light and our salvation! The serpents who've devoured our flesh shall stumble and fall! Though they raise their weapons against us, we shall not fear! The Lord shall give us strength to break their swords and shatter their s.h.i.+elds. He shall delight in the desolation of our enemies!" a mountain of rusted rubble. His army stretched out around him in the thousands, a motley collection of slaves and farmers and mercenaries, most dressed in rags, many carrying only the crudest of weapons. Ragnar's voice was loud as thunder as he shouted, "The Lord is our light and our salvation! The serpents who've devoured our flesh shall stumble and fall! Though they raise their weapons against us, we shall not fear! The Lord shall give us strength to break their swords and shatter their s.h.i.+elds. He shall delight in the desolation of our enemies!"

The army of men cheered, and Pet was certain that any element of surprise they might have possessed was lost. They were only half a mile from the eastern gate of Dragon Forge, hidden among the man-made hills of sc.r.a.p. The debris blocked them from sight of the fort; he wondered if it would also swallow up the noise.

Pet, by his unearned reputation as a great archer, had been placed with a small contingent of men with long bows. The bows weren't the best weapon for attacking a sleeping city. If they fired blindly over the walls, their arrows would most likely lodge into rooftops or empty city streets, harming no one. When Ragnar's army poured through the gates, firing into the city would be as likely to injure a human as an earth-dragon. So, the archers had been told to hold back from the initial a.s.sault, to await further orders from one of Ragnar's closest companions, a white-bearded man everyone called Frost. Pet found himself disappointed not to be part of the main attack. He'd reached the moment in his life where he needed to know if he truly possessed the courage to fight. In the Free City, he'd been rescued by Ragnar and Kamon, then a.s.sumed the role of shouter of inspirational words. In actual combat, however, he'd lagged near the back, and had finished the battle without ever giving a dragon so much as a scratch.

Now that Ragnar had whipped his army into a frenzy, he gave the command for them to spread out to all four of the city gates. They divided into roughly even mobs and began flowing away through the ruins. They were a sad looking army; a few had s.h.i.+elds, fewer still had helmets and breastplates. Many were armed with nothing more than clubs. The dragons inside the city had access to much better weapons and armor. Fortunately, earth-dragons kept roughly the same schedule as men, and most were asleep now.

As the archers waited, Pet climbed the rust heap. From his position, Pet could see the eastern gate in the distance. A half dozen earth-dragons stood guard. More accurately, a half dozen earth-dragons squatted near the wooden gate talking and pa.s.sing around a ceramic jug from which they took long swigs. The night was bright, with a sky clear enough that the moon cast crisp shadows.

Suddenly, a score of those crisp shadows separated from the wall and rushed toward the guards. Men dressed in black cloaks pulled long knives that glinted as they slashed, swiftly and precisely. The earth-dragons silently vanished beneath the flapping black cloaks. For a moment, Pet was amazed by the efficiency of the attack; the way that six living beings had been brought to an instant, silent death. Unfortunately, seconds later, a howl reached his ears. One of the dragons had screamed in pain, a sharp, ear-splitting yelp that stopped in a wet gurgle. The sound had simply taken a few seconds to reach Pet.

Pet placed an arrow against his bowstring. The element of surprise was definitely gone now. These six might be the last easy kills of the night.

Ragnar apparently had become impatient with stealth anyway. His war cry reached Pet, an incoherent warble of rage that echoed from the city walls. Ragnar's nude form was easy to spot as he raced forward, outpacing the hordes that followed him, brandis.h.i.+ng twin scimitars as he led the charge. The black-cloaked a.s.sa.s.sins darted aside as Ragnar bounded past them. The warrior-prophet let loose another primal scream. A single earth-dragon appeared, emerging from a door that opened in the only building Pet could see from his vantage point. Ragnar buried his scimitar into the beast's neck. The dragon fell, his head hanging by a thread of skin. Ragnar paused to kick the head free then leapt further into the city, beyond Pet's view, as hordes of men poured over the surrounding hills and flooded through the gates.

At the bottom of the rust heap, there was a flurry of voices. Frost was approaching. His close-cropped white beard and hair stood out in the night. Pet climbed down to receive his commands. In the distance, screams of agony drifted from Dragon Forge. It was impossible to tell if the sounds were human or dragon.

"Listen closely," Frost shouted. He had a deep voice; people said he'd once been a blacksmith, and despite his age he looked the part. He was pot-bellied and squat, but broad-shouldered, with thick arms and hands covered with white, s.h.i.+ny scars. "Since we got here, we've been working with the human gleaners. Some of their men are helping in the attack tonight, guiding us to the most valuable targets. Their wives and children have been taken to safety. Any living thing that remains in a two mile circle of Dragon Forge can be considered your enemy. The remaining gleaners are cowards. Now that the battle has started, most are probably preparing to flee the area. Our job is to see that they don't get away."

"We're going to capture the gleaners?" Pet asked.

"We're going to kill them," said Frost. "When we take Dragon Forge, the longer we hold it before Shandrazel learns of the attack, the better. Every day that pa.s.ses before the sun-dragons arrive is a day that Burke will have to make us the finest weapons any army has ever wielded. The more gleaners we silence tonight, the longer we have before the counterattack takes place."

"I didn't sign up to kill humans," Pet said.

"Any true human is on our side tonight," Frost answered. "The cowards who denied us aren't men. They're animal sc.u.m; they serve us better dead than alive. Anyone you meet that isn't attacking the Forge with Ragnar is to be put to death. Any objections?"

"But, there are children-"

"There are no children tonight!" snapped Frost, with a vitriol that rivaled Ragnar at his best. "There are your brothers-at-arms, and there are vermin. Will you fight? Or will you be the first of the rats we put to death this evening?"

Pet felt hundreds of eyes turn toward him. He swallowed hard. The thing he was being asked to do possessed a cruel logic; indeed, it almost seemed a necessity. He let out a long, slow breath.

"I'll fight," Pet said. "Let's do this."

Frost snapped out orders, dividing the men into many small squads and barking out the areas they were to cleanse. Pet noticed that he wasn't being selected for any of the groups. In the end, there was only Frost, him, and ten other men. Frost eyed him coolly and said, "They say you're quite the archer. Tonight's your chance to prove it. Follow me."

Frost turned and ran away from the Free City. Pet and the others followed close behind. Soon, the clamor of the battle behind them faded. The rust mounds were eerily effective at swallowing up sounds. Suddenly, there was movement in the shadows before them. A band of tatterwings, outlaw sky-dragons, nearly thirty of them, were all moving away from the city, struggling beneath the weight of heavy sacks slung over their shoulders. Four of them strained to pull a cart laden with barrels.

"No survivors!" Frost shouted.

Instantly, Pet's fellow squad members let their arrows fly. The tatterwings spun around as some of their members let out agonized cries and toppled over. Pet drew his bow and took aim at a sky-dragon who was staring, dumbfounded, in their direction. His eyes had a drunken quality to them. Pet had never fired a bow at a living thing before, only at immobile targets. Fortunately, the drunken, dazed tatterwing was for all practical purposes immobile. Pet released the arrow and watched as it flew in a deadly line to bury itself in the tatterwing's belly. The dragon let out a grunt as he grabbed the arrow with both fore-talons. He took a few staggering steps, then toppled. His eyes were still open, staring straight at Pet.

Pet turned his face away and focused on placing another arrow onto the bowstring. His hands were shaking. By the time he'd readied for a second shot, his fellow archers had already unleashed arrow after arrow. There were no tatterwings left on their feet to target. Frost charged ahead, drawing a sword. The others followed, raining killing blows down upon the tatterwings that still breathed. Then they darted off into the night, in search of their next victims. Pet tarried at the scene a moment longer, looking at the contents of the cart. One of the barrels was already tapped. Pet unstopped the cork and was met with the eye-watering stench of goom, a liqueur distilled from cabbages and chilies, a favorite beverage of earth-dragons.

From some distance ahead, there were further screams-humans this time. Pet took a deep breath. He didn't need to try to catch up to Frost and his men. He could simply claim he'd gotten lost in the action. Apparently, Frost had been swept up sufficiently in the heat of battle that he was no longer keeping a close eye on Pet. He could just hide and wait out the night.

"Coward," he grumbled, addressing the word at himself. He'd accepted his mission. Gripping his bow more tightly, he ran toward the screams ahead.

Before he'd even gone twenty feet, he saw a form moving toward him. It looked human, coming toward him in sort of a limping half-run. The figure emerged from the shadows into the moonlight. It was a middle-aged man, dressed in a gleaner's rags. He had an arrow jutting from his right thigh. His eyes were wide with terror. Pet raised his bow and took careful aim. The man saw the movement and gave a yelp of despair. He turned, looking for some new direction to escape. Pet released the arrow. He was aiming for the man's torso. The arrow instead lodged in the gleaner's neck. The gleaner was knocked from his feet, landing on his back on the hard-packed earth. His hands feebly grabbed at the arrow Pet had fired. His breath came out of him in a series of rapid, wet clicks-hic, hic, hic, hic, hic.

Pet drew the sword he'd been given by Shanna. He inched his way toward the dying man. The gleaner's eyes were looking toward the moon above, blind to Pet's presence. Tears streamed down his cheeks. Pet punched his sword down with all his might into the man's left breast. The wet clicking sound in the man's throat fell silent.

Pet pulled the sword free and sheathed it, letting the cold night air dry the sweat that trickled down his face.

Chapter Twenty-Two:.

Cogs in a Vast Machine

Arifiel was posted in the central bell tower for the midnight watch. Her duty would be to ring the enormous bell if there were any hint of attack in the middle of the night-an unlikely event given the bright moonlight. Any males who attempted to fly to the island would be spotted instantly. in the central bell tower for the midnight watch. Her duty would be to ring the enormous bell if there were any hint of attack in the middle of the night-an unlikely event given the bright moonlight. Any males who attempted to fly to the island would be spotted instantly.

Guarding the central bell was an important task, but Arifiel regarded the duty as a demotion. Since the unhappy day her unit had failed to prevent Graxen from entering the Nest, she hadn't been a.s.signed to any perimeter patrols. She'd had her chance at action, and she'd failed. Nadala and Sparrow hadn't returned to patrol either. Nadala had drawn a ceremonial guard a.s.signment-a position that required her to be a living prop to enhance Zorasta's authority, but where she would likely never see true combat. Sparrow had fared worst of all-she was now doing administrative work in the armory, handing out weapons and armor to valkyries with duties more befitting warriors. Having been on two failed patrols, Sparrow would never again be trusted to defend the Nest.

Arifiel leaned on her long spear as she looked over the placid lake waters, so still they looked like ice. The windless night was utterly silent. Or was it? Arifiel stretched her neck out of the tower window. Had she heard someone cry out? She strained to hear the sound again. Had it been her imagination? Perhaps the call of some distant nightbird?

Just as she'd decided she'd heard nothing, a second cry came, right on the edge of hearing. But, it wasn't coming from outside the tower. She pulled her head back inside the window and went to the steps leading down and opened the door. As the door creaked open, she heard the noise yet again-possibly. Or had it just been the squeaking hinge?

Then, unmistakably, a voice, several of them, shouting, but far too distant to make out the words. What was happening? Were some of the valkyries fighting among themselves? She rose and took the bell rope in her hands. She paused. If she rang the alarm and woke the whole island simply because a squabble had broken out, she'd be branded as unworthy of even this simple duty. The bell was for genuine emergencies. She released the rope.

A movement outside caught her eye. From the lowest level, a valkyrie had taken to the air, and was now flying in an unsteady, wobbling path. All alcohol was forbidden to female sky-dragons, but the figure below was definitely impaired by something. Arifiel winced as the dragon's wings faltered and she fell to the bristling steel landscape. Arifiel couldn't see the spot where she hit, but it was almost certain the impact had been fatal. The Nest wasn't a pleasant place to fall.