Vulpine looked back at Sagen. "That went well."

"Shall I send one of the guards back to requisition the goom?"

"Of course not," said Vulpine. "I gave the order for the wagons to roll before we left. I antic.i.p.ated we would find remnants of Shandrazel's army. In fact, it's time we divide our forces. There are four main roads leading into Dragon Forge. Send ten guards to each to establish the blockades. Have your remaining guards spread throughout the area seeking out earth-dragons. Make them similar offers of gold and goom."

Sagen nodded. "At once, sir. On which road will you be establishing your command post?"

"I won't be establishing the command post. You will. Pick whichever road you think is most vital. I have other business I must attend to."

"Other business, sir?"

"I need to pay a visit to the sun-dragon Rorg," Vulpine said. He grimaced. "A most unpleasant task. Rorg tends to divide all of life's problems into two categories: those he can solve by killing something, and those he can ignore. Dealing with him is always tedious."

"How many guards will you need as an escort?"

"None," said Vulpine. "I said he was tedious, not dangerous. The day I can no longer handle negotiations with a sun-dragon is the day you may build my funeral pyre." He looked toward the east. The scarecrows were black silhouettes against a brightening sky. "A new day approaches," he said. "The humans have had their moment of glory. Today begins their time of terror. When we're done, they'll be begging for our merciful guidance once more."

GETTING TO THE top of the city wall was more challenging than Burke antic.i.p.ated, especially with his crutch in his left hand and the case that held the spy-owl strapped to his back. The spy-owl weighed close to fifty pounds, which had the effect of pressing his belly up against the ladder, preventing him from seeing his remaining foot as it searched for the rungs. His aching arms supported most of his weight as he slowly worked his way up, one frustrating rung at a time. top of the city wall was more challenging than Burke antic.i.p.ated, especially with his crutch in his left hand and the case that held the spy-owl strapped to his back. The spy-owl weighed close to fifty pounds, which had the effect of pressing his belly up against the ladder, preventing him from seeing his remaining foot as it searched for the rungs. His aching arms supported most of his weight as he slowly worked his way up, one frustrating rung at a time.

Of course, he could have called out and any of the sky-wall bowmen would have run to his aid. But after all that time feeling helpless in his wheeled chair as his right leg died, he was eager to return to independent mobility. Getting around on his crutch felt like sprinting after his confinement to the chair.

He reached the top of the ladder and tossed his crutch onto the walkway that ran along the battlements. He grunted as he tried to slip the straps that held the spy-owl off his shoulder. Unfortunately, this threw off his center of gravity as he leaned backward. The ladder swayed slowly back from the wall.

A large brown boot, filthy with muck, slammed down onto the rung by his fingers, stopping the motion of the ladder. Stonewall stood above him, frowning as he looked down. Stonewall muttered something Burke didn't quite catch, then leaned down and grabbed Burke's wrist. Before Burke could protest, the giant lifted him, moving him through the air with no more effort than lifting a house cat.

Stonewall brought Burke even with his eyes. Despite his great size, Stonewall possessed youthful, even boyish features. His cheeks and chin were smooth, with no hint of beard, and the skin around his eyes was free of wrinkles or blemishes. His eyes were a piercing gray, the color of freshly cooled pig iron. His ebony hair framed his face in curly locks.

"You should be more careful," Stonewall said, his voice deep as a sun-dragons, yet also gentle.

Burke nodded. "You can put me down now." Stonewall sat Burke down. Burke hopped over to the wall and balanced against it while Stonewall handed him his crutch.

"Should you be up yet?" asked Stonewall. "You've only had a few days to recover from your surgery."

"I can't rest anymore," said Burke, wrestling the spy-owl case from his shoulder. "There's too much to be done. I'm tired of running this fort from a bed."

Stonewall crossed his ma.s.sive arms. His chainmail shirt rattled as he moved. "I was unaware you were running anything," he said. "Ragnar commands this fort by G.o.d's grace. You merely advise him."

Burke didn't want to argue with this oversized farm boy. He'd known the moment he'd signed up for this revolution that he'd do all the work and Ragnar would get all the glory. To be honest, he wanted things this way. He'd been one of the leaders of the Southern Rebellion twenty years ago, and in his dreams he still heard the screams of the men he'd led as the sun-dragon army tore them to shreds. This new rebellion may have been following his plans, but Ragnar's fire and brimstone speeches were what motivated the men. Plus, Burke was blameless if these men chose to die for Ragnar's glory.

Ignoring Stonewall, Burke flipped the bra.s.s clasps of the heavy case. Three legs dropped down, creating a tripod that the case balanced on. The panels of the case folded away revealing a bra.s.s statue of an owl almost two feet high. The owl's gla.s.s eyes reflected his image in the soft morning light. He leaned, as if wiping away a smudge from the eye-lenses, but in reality it was some faint trace of vanity that drew his eye. He'd bathed this morning for the first time in weeks. His hair was clean and shining, with three crimson feather-scales woven into the braid that draped over his shoulder. His spare spectacles made his brown eyes look oddly small, but for the first time in weeks the whites of his eyes were truly white, untainted by illness. Three parallel scars ran down his right cheek, testament to his first encounter with Charkon twenty years prior. Yet despite the scars and wrinkles, despite the gray that streaked his hair, he looked pretty good for a man who'd been at the gates of death only a few days before. He straightened up and spun the spy owl around to face the western road. It was two hours after sun-rise. Normally a stream of refugees, volunteers, and traders would gather around the city walls during the night. This morning, they were absent.

He leaned down and looked into the window in the back of the spy-owl's head. An elaborate set of mirrors and lenses caught the light from two miles down the road and brought it crisply to his eyes.

It didn't take him long to understand what he was looking at. A platoon of earth-dragons were lashing human corpses to poles set along the road-side. From the look of things, these weren't fresh bodies. A trio of sky-dragons stood nearby, supervising. From their armor, Burke recognized them as members of the Aerial Guard .

"It took them long enough," he said.

"It took who long enough for what?" asked Stonewall.

"A blockade. Earth-dragons and sky-dragons. We've had an easy couple of weeks since Shandrazel's army collapsed. With two kings dying back to back, the second with no heir, there's been no one to seize control of the earth-dragons and guide them into the rather obvious strategy of a blockade. They've been randomly running around the countryside killing people in an unfocused rage. They've made life miserable for people directly in their path, but as a strategy for retaking Dragon Forge, it has obvious shortcomings."

"You shouldn't speak so lightly of the people who've died due to the dragons' rampage," said Stonewall. "I've spoken to many of the refugees. They've seen horrible things."

"I know," said Burke, rising up from the spy-owl. "I told Ragnar what he was unleashing before we took this fort."

"Can I look?" asked Stonewall, pointing to the owl.

"Be my guest," said Burke, hopping backwards to make room, keeping his balance with a hand on the battlements.

Stonewall dropped down on one knee and brought his eyes tentatively to the window on the back of the owl's head.

"You may need to adjust the focus," said Burke. "There's a dial-"

Before he finished speaking, Stonewall raised his beefy fingers to the dial on the back of the bird's head and began to fiddle with it.

"Amazing," he said softly. "It's like I'm standing right next to them. I can count the fringes on the back of that sky-dragon's head." He turned and looked at Burke with something approaching awe. "You designed this?"

"Yes," said Burke.

"How did you grind the lenses so precisely?"

Burke lifted an eyebrow. "I'm glad you know it's done with lenses," he said. "Ragnar thought it was magic."

"I'm originally from the Drifting Islands," said Stonewall. "Many of the sailors use spygla.s.ses."

"Back at the tavern, I had special instruments that would let me shape gla.s.s to almost any specification."

Stonewall stood up. "You're a man of many talents, Machinist." He sounded almost respectful. "I should go tell Ragnar. He'll know what to do to break this siege."

"Respectfully, he won't," said Burke. "For the moment, we don't need it broken." Stonewall frowned. "We've had three weeks to load in coal and supplies. We've got more pig iron stacked in the foundries than I can use in a year. We have a good, deep well, and, if my orders have been carried out in regards to upgrading the sewers, our sanitation practices have beaten back the threat of disease. We're in no immediate danger. If someone has taken control of the renegade earth-dragons, then things should calm down in the countryside. The fact the sky-dragons are involved is a good sign. They're smart fighters. They'll take as long as they need to build up their forces and establish order."

"We should strike before they can consolidate power," said Stonewall.

"No. I've not had enough time to explore the possibilities of gunpowder. You've seen the shotguns. I've got mortars and cannons coming out of the forge this week. We have a technological advantage they don't know about. They're building their blockade out of the range of the sky-wall bows. They have no idea of the h.e.l.l we're going to unleash if I have time to build half of the inventions that are in my mind."

Stonewall looked out toward the western road, at the tiny figures in the distance. From here, it was almost impossible to tell these were dragons. Stonewall said, without looking directly at Burke, "They say you don't believe in G.o.d."

Burke shrugged. "I've never been a man of faith."

Stonewall straightened his back, adding inches to his towering frame. "Yet you ask us to have faith in you. You keep these inventions in your head, keeping your master plans secret while workmen labor on the individual parts. You won't even share the secret of the gunpowder you ask us all to trust our lives to. Have you no faith in your fellow men, Burke?"

Burke was surprised by the bluntness of the question. He was more surprised by the bluntness of his answer. "No." He sighed. "I... as bad as I've seen dragons treat humans, I've seen men do worse to each other."

"Do you feel no sense of responsibility at all?" asked Stonewall. "Whether or not you believe that Ragnar's war is a holy cause, if you have the knowledge that can lead to human victory, shouldn't you share it with as many people as possible? If you were to die-"

"I've made plans," said Burke. "I write down everything. It's coded, but Anza can read it, and so can... so can another person here. If I die, the technology isn't going to die with me. But as long as I'm alive, I'm going to retain control as long as I can. I don't want to see my weapons used against humans."

"Anza's not here, Machinist. You ask us to place our faith in an unknown confidant?"

Burke looked out over the rolling hillsides, at the scattered mounds of refuse that had once housed the gleaners, fellow humans loyal to the dragons of the forge, who had been the first to die at rebel hands. He'd killed more men than dragons that night. Anza had not shown a shred of remorse as she'd moved among the shadows, killing everyone she met. He closed his eyes, blocking out the memories. "For now, I'm the only one I trust," he said.

"I hope your pride isn't the death of us all, Machinist." Stonewall turned and walked away without glancing back.

CHAPTER ELEVEN:.

BONE AGAINST STONE.

VULPINE SOARED OVER the seemingly endless valley with its patchwork quilt of farms and villages. It was mid-day, though thick clouds muted the light and gave the land a gray pall. Snow covered the nearby mountain peaks, and the clouds hinted at more to come. Despite the ominous weather-or perhaps because of it-the dirt roads below were bustling with humans moving between villages, riding atop donkey carts packed with various goods. This valley was famous for being the breadbox of Albekizan's kingdom. The human uprising at Dragonforge felt like a distant nightmare. Looking down, Vulpine couldn't imagine how any human could truly despise the authority of dragons. Humans farmed, dug mines, engaged in commerce. Dragons guided them in these efforts, moving humans back and forth as the needs of the kingdom dictated. Dragons maintained order. It was a beneficial arrangement for both humans and dragons. A few malcontents couldn't be allowed to ruin the Pax Draco. the seemingly endless valley with its patchwork quilt of farms and villages. It was mid-day, though thick clouds muted the light and gave the land a gray pall. Snow covered the nearby mountain peaks, and the clouds hinted at more to come. Despite the ominous weather-or perhaps because of it-the dirt roads below were bustling with humans moving between villages, riding atop donkey carts packed with various goods. This valley was famous for being the breadbox of Albekizan's kingdom. The human uprising at Dragonforge felt like a distant nightmare. Looking down, Vulpine couldn't imagine how any human could truly despise the authority of dragons. Humans farmed, dug mines, engaged in commerce. Dragons guided them in these efforts, moving humans back and forth as the needs of the kingdom dictated. Dragons maintained order. It was a beneficial arrangement for both humans and dragons. A few malcontents couldn't be allowed to ruin the Pax Draco.

The valley stretched for over two hundred miles. Due to its size, it was divided into two abodes, each ruled by sun-dragons who couldn't have been further apart in their philosophies and manners. The southern end had been ruled by Chakthalla, Albekizan's sister-in-law, a refined sun-dragon with courtly tastes. She'd lived in a palace respected for its elegant architecture, a dwelling that contained nearly as much stained gla.s.s as stone. She'd dressed her earth-dragon guards in elaborate, lacey uniforms, drilled them endlessly, and never used them for war. In truth, Vulpine had always liked Chakthalla. She'd appreciated poetry and drama, and was a fine patron of sky-dragon scholars and artists. She'd also treated her human slaves well, which meant she hadn't created much work for Vulpine. Humans could be rendered pa.s.sive through either fear or fairness, and she'd definitely taken the gentler path. She'd been one of the few sun-dragons to oppose Albekizan's plan of genocide. Of course, she was now dead because of this, a.s.sa.s.sinated by the Black Silence. Her castle lay gutted and looted, a stark example of the fate of those who defied Albekizan.

In contrast to the high-mannered Chakthalla, a brutish bull sun-dragon named Rorg ruled the northern reaches of the valley. At birth he'd been named Zanatharorg, but Rorg had dumped most of his syllables, along with many other things, fifty years ago when he'd adopted the philosophy of b.e.a.s.t.i.a.lism. b.e.a.s.t.i.a.lists were dragons who shunned the trappings of civilization. They lived in caves rather than castles. They wore no jewelry, kept no painting or sculptures, and shunned the weapons and armor that other dragons had adopted centuries ago. The oldest known poem written by a dragon, The Ballad of Belpantheron The Ballad of Belpantheron, told the stories of how dragons had once lived like beasts while the world had been ruled by angels, smaller, weaker beings who nonetheless kept power through their use of weapons. Sun-dragons were blessed with formidable natural weaponry, but a sword and a spear were longer, sharper, and harder than any tooth or claw. The dragons had won their long struggle against the angels when they, too, had learned to forge steel and create their own weapons of war.

b.e.a.s.t.i.a.lists, however, believed that the dragons of ancient times simply hadn't tried hard enough. They regarded the adoption of weapons as a shameful admission that angel culture was superior to dragon culture, and felt that any unhappiness in dragon society could be traced to the fact that dragons were trying to be something they weren't. They weren't angels, visiting this earth from some higher realm. They were the apex of evolution, the most finely honed predators the earth had produced. Embracing their natural role was the key to true happiness.

Of course, one aspect of civilization they hadn't rejected was the use of human slaves. Vulpine had paid many a visit to Rorg's abode, due to the high rate of runaways. Unlike the pristine, well-groomed villages of the southern valley, the villages in Rorg's domain were squalid and bleak, often festering with disease. This, of course, was the reason for Vulpine's visit. The latest outbreak of yellow-mouth was well timed. Yellow-mouth only affected humans, most often humans exposed to sun-dragon dung. Once infected, humans could pa.s.s the disease to other humans via exposure to nearly any bodily fluid. The disease manifested first as mild fevers and weakness, a modest sickness little more bothersome than a cold. The only hint that it might be something more serious was that the inside of the victim's mouth would slowly change from pink to yellow. The early stage could last as little as a week, or as long as a month. Finally, the afflicted human would experience a twenty-four hour period best described as an eruption. He would cough, sneeze, vomit, s.h.i.t, and p.i.s.s uncontrollably, sweating until blood seeped from his pores. The disease killed nearly half its victims. The most sinister aspect of the disease was that it could spread not just in the final, violent stage, but in the earlier phases as well. A mother placing her hand on the forehead of her child to feel for a fever could contract the disease, and then spread it to her husband with a simple kiss on the cheek. Even handling the clothes or blankets of one of the victims could spread yellow-mouth.

The disease was now rare through most of the kingdom. Most sun-dragons lived in palaces with good plumbing, meaning that their human slaves didn't deal with vast quant.i.ties of dung. b.e.a.s.t.i.a.lists, however, let their droppings fall anywhere the urge struck. Since dwelling in a cave full of your own excrement was unpleasant even for b.e.a.s.t.i.a.lists, human slaves had the ongoing task of mucking out the cave.

Vulpine at last saw the bone field that marked the entrance to Rorg's lair. For half a mile in every direction, white bones gleamed against the gray winter ground: cattle, deer, humans, pigs, and earth-dragons. Smoke rose from the ground in tendrils at a hundred scattered spots extending well beyond the bone field. b.e.a.s.t.i.a.lists had clung to one technology, at least. Since they couldn't see in the dark they still used fire to light their homes, though they eschewed metal and gla.s.s lamps in favor of torches and fire pits.

Vulpine swooped down into the black pit that was the entrance to an expansive underground kingdom, a network of caverns with ceilings hundreds of feet tall. Some individual chambers were several acres in size. It was dangerous to fly in a cavern. All sense of perspective was thrown askew by the absence of sky. However, Vulpine had grown familiar with the contours of the place over his many visits. He flitted like an oversized bat above the heads of human slaves carting out buckets of muck. A few fat and napping sun-dragons peeked up through half-open lids as the wind of Vulpine's pa.s.sage stirred their feathers. b.e.a.s.t.i.a.lists kept their large families close at hand. At least thirty adult sun-dragons shared this cavern.

Vulpine wound his way to the central chamber. He was startled to hear music as he approached. Not singing, but notes from an actual musical instrument. The tones had a bell-like quality to them, but Vulpine sensed they weren't bells. What was making this haunting sound?

Arriving at the central chamber, he found his answer. This room covered several acres, and around the edges of humans stood on ladders, striking the stalact.i.tes that hung from the ceiling with large thighbones. The blows caused the long, slender columns of stone to vibrate, emitting musical tones. The men followed an unseen conductor, timing their strikes to create a slow mournful, melody of low, long notes that called back and forth across the chamber.

In the center of the room an enormous fire pit glowed brightly. The sharp creosote stink of the pine smoke provided a welcome mask to the pervasive odor of raw sewage that hung in the dank air.

A dozen dragons lay around the fire pit. Due to their slightly smaller size and the finer mesh of their ruby scales, Vulpine judged them to be female. Rorg's harem, no doubt. They all stared at Vulpine with sullen, bored eyes as he landed near the fire pit.

Just beyond the fire pit, on an enormous pillow of stone, slouched Rorg himself. The old bull dragon was hideously fat. No doubt it had been many years since he'd been able to get airborne. He was currently picking his teeth with his long, black, hook-like claws. The bloodied remnants of an ox lay before him.

"Greetings, Rorg," Vulpine said, raising his voice over the music of the stalact.i.tes.

Rorg turned his eyes, large as saucers, toward the new arrival. They glowed green in the dim light. Even the folds of skin around his eyes looked fat and heavy. "Slavecatcher. What brings you to my abode?"

The music suddenly grew louder. Vulpine didn't know the tune, but apparently the song was reaching some sort of dramatic climax. Vulpine had to shout as he said, "I've heard you had an outbreak of-" suddenly, the music stopped, the last few notes of the song drifting off gently as Vulpine screamed, "-yellow-mouth!"

Rorg narrowed his eyes. "I don't find your tone respectful, slavecatcher. Have a care. Do you know that, with the death of Albekizan, I am the most senior ruler of any abode? Forty years I've ruled this valley. Forty years, the labor of my slaves has fed the rest of the world. Remember who you speak to, little dragon."

Vulpine bowed his head. "My apologies. I was merely trying to be heard over your music. It was quite loud; though also quite lovely. It has an unearthly quality that I find-"

"Unearthly?" Rorg grumbled. "It is the precise opposite of unearthly. These are the tones of the earth itself! I had long noted that some of the stalact.i.tes in my cavern possessed a musical tone when struck. Last winter, during the coldest, most dreary part of the year, I began to hear music in my head. It occurred to me that if I positioned my slaves correctly and trained them to strike notes at the proper time, I could make the music in my head a reality."

"How innovative," said Vulpine. "You are not so uncivilized as you would like to pretend, Rorg."

"Nor are you sky-dragons as civilized as you imagine," Rorg said. "Your books, your paintings, your plays and poems and choirs... you've stolen all your so-called culture from the angels. I may be the first true artist the dragon races have ever produced. This is natural music, Vulpine, bone against stone, the product of a true dragon heart."

Vulpine bowed his head once more. He knew from experience it was simplest just to flatter the old swine into doing what he wanted, then leave as quickly as possible. "I meant no offense. I am, in fact, awed by your invention. It is, no doubt, the harbinger of a greater dragon civilization to come. However, we can debate the artistic future of dragons another day. Today, I've come because I need one of your slaves."

"No," said Rorg.

"No?" asked Vulpine, bewildered. He hadn't known he'd asked a question.

The sun-dragons he'd flown over in the entry chambers were now lumbering into the room. These were males, younger than Rorg, no doubt his many sons. There were at least ten in the room now. One of them, a strong young bull, approached Rorg's stone pillow. This dragon had the bulk of a fully grown male, but still possessed the tight, balanced musculature of a younger dragon. He was a formidable specimen, a dragon in his prime. His red scales were so vibrant in their sheen they looked like wet rubies as the firelight danced across them.

"I may live in a cave, slavecatcher, but I'm not ignorant of the world outside," Rorg said. "I know that Albekizan is dead, and his successor, Shandrazel, was killed by the human rebels at Dragon Forge. I know, further, that Chapelion currently sits on the dragon throne, intending to be king in practice if not in t.i.tle. You sky-dragons believe yourselves clever. Your biologians train the sons of other sun-dragons. You serve as their advisors in adulthood. You believe yourselves to be the true power in this world. In my abode, I have no libraries or colleges. I have no biologians to whisper lies in my ear and call it wise counsel."

"Your independence is admirable," said Vulpine. "I don't see how my request for a slave threatens it."

"You slavecatchers tout your importance to maintaining order among the human rabble. Yet, we now see the failings of your methods. Humans have seized the most shameful and decadent icon of your so-called civilization, Dragon Forge, the foundries that supplied the kings' armies with swords and spears and armor."

Vulpine ground his teeth. It was grating to hear Shandrazel's failures blamed on the slavecatchers, but perhaps there was some tiny grain of truth to it.

"Rorg, I concede all that you say. Events unfolded more rapidly than I antic.i.p.ated after Albekizan's death. In retrospect, stationing reinforcements at Dragon Forge would have been an obvious precaution. Despite his heritage, Shandrazel wasn't well trained in the art of war. I should have personally advised him on security precautions. I didn't. Now, however, I will rectify my error by taking charge of reclaiming the foundries. I know that you've had an outbreak of yellow-mouth. I need a freshly infected slave, one who can survive long enough to travel to Dragon Forge and have his disease progress to the final stages soon after his arrival. The human rebels sleep packed into tight barracks and dine elbow-to-elbow in communal halls. Currently, they enjoy the benefits of a well-built sewer system, but a dam will end this advantage. A single infected individual should spread the disease quickly. Within a month, the place will be a ghost town."

"A sound plan," said Rorg. "One I antic.i.p.ated. This is why I deny your request. The shameful age when dragons used tools draws to a close. The future belongs to my kind. Look at my son, Thak." Rorg gestured to the young bull-dragon who stood beside him. Thak stood on his hind-talons, his neck held high, towering above Vulpine. "He is the pinnacle of my bloodline. He and his brothers will journey to Albekizan's palace and throw Chapelion from the throne. He will burn the angel-tainted contents of the grand library and knock down its walls. The tapestries will be shredded, the sculptures crushed to gravel. Once Thak has firmly established his claim to the throne, the dragon armies will spread throughout the kingdom and bring mankind to its knees."

"This is rather short-sighted on your part, Rorg," said Vulpine. "The present human rebellion-"

"There is no hint of rebellion among my slaves! I maintain them in a state of perpetual hunger and weakness, allowing them only the most meager sc.r.a.ps of their labors. Despite the hunger, they work harder than any ten slaves in any other abode in the kingdom. Do you know why, Vulpine?"

"The bone field at your door no doubt has certain motivational powers."

"Indeed," said Rorg. "I've built that bone field with my teeth and my claws. Thak will not reclaim Dragon Forge, Vulpine. He will raze it. No wall of the foundry will be left standing."

Vulpine looked Thak over. Thak returned his gaze with an expression that suggested hunger, as if he were sizing up Vulpine as a snack. Turning back to Rorg, he said, "I admire a dragon of vision. Chapelion seeks a new sun-dragon to serve as king. Thak looks the part. If he wants the throne, we'll give it to him-with the understanding that he will respect the counsel of the High Biologian. Consider my offer carefully. You'll be the father of a new dragon dynasty."

"You seek to give us what we can take with our superior power?" Rorg asked.

"Have a care, Rorg," said Vulpine. "If you attempt to take the throne by force, the aerial guard will crush you."

"Thak," said Rorg in a low voice, "kill this fool."