Hundreds of men gathered in the square. Who was watching the foundry if everyone was out here? He looked around and saw that the bowmen standing watch on the walls were facing inward, curious about the commotion, paying no attention to potential sneak attacks by dragons. What was Shanna doing making such a splashy entrance? She was a spy, after all. She should appreciate the value of subtlety.

"Stand aside." The crowd parted as he hopped along on his crutch. Even half-crippled, he was still a respected figure in Dragon Forge. He'd proven his value with the sky-wall bows; dozens of these men had trained with the shotguns, or witnessed the blasts of the first cannons off the line. Still, perhaps it was his imagination, but he felt a sense of unease when the crowd looked at him. "They say you don't believe in G.o.d," "They say you don't believe in G.o.d," Stonewall had said. It wasn't a healthy rumor to have whispered in the midst of a holy war. Stonewall had said. It wasn't a healthy rumor to have whispered in the midst of a holy war.

As he reached the well, the crowd on the far side parted. Ragnar, prophet of the lord, strode forth. Burke had been avoiding Ragnar since their confrontation over Jandra. The hairy prophet narrowed his eyes as he spotted Burke. By now, he'd seen the cannons in action. Burke felt confident that he was still too valuable for Ragnar to spare. After glowering at him for a moment, Ragnar's expression changed to a smile.

The well was a yard high. Shanna, standing upon it, was a good deal taller than Ragnar, or even Stonewall, who loomed behind him.

"Shanna," Ragnar said, his voice unexpectedly soft. "I'm pleased you've returned safely. I'm eager to learn how you slipped through the blockade. Let's return to my house so that we can discuss what you've learned in private."

Shanna pulled her hood back. Burke squinted as he pushed his spectacles back up his nose. Was this Shanna? The face was right, the same lips and eyes, the same overall structure of the face. But Shanna had possessed a stark black tattoo, a serpent that coiled along her neck and shoulders, and she'd kept her head shaved. Now jet black hair hung down past her shoulders. A wig, perhaps? All traces of the serpent tattoo were absent from her snow-white neck.

"I want everyone to hear my message," Shanna said. "There's no more need for war! Not long ago, I pretended to serve the Murder G.o.d. I tattooed and scarred my body to prove my loyalty. You all can see my tattoos are gone. My scars are gone as well, both physical and spiritual."

She rolled up her sleeve and showed off her forearm. Ragnar furrowed his brow. Burke hadn't known Shanna well enough to know if she should have a scar there, but judging from the confusion in Ragnar's eyes, apparently, she used to.

"What witchcraft is this?" Ragnar grumbled.

Shanna ignored him, speaking to the crowd over Ragnar's head. "I've met a healer. He intends to cure this world of all diseases, all hunger, all hate. Throw down your arms and follow me. I will lead you to the Free City."

At the mention of the Free City, the mob began to whoop loudly. "Remember the Free City," "Remember the Free City," was a common rallying cry for the rebels, many of whom had been present when Albekizan had ordered the slaughter there. That battle had been mankind's first victory against dragons in centuries. Just hearing the words "Free City" was enough to stir men to shouting. But had they listened to what Shanna was actually saying? was a common rallying cry for the rebels, many of whom had been present when Albekizan had ordered the slaughter there. That battle had been mankind's first victory against dragons in centuries. Just hearing the words "Free City" was enough to stir men to shouting. But had they listened to what Shanna was actually saying?

"Shanna, have a care," Ragnar growled. "Healing is a gift of G.o.d alone."

"The healer says he is not a G.o.d," said Shanna. "But I've watched him work miracles! A man with no eyes was given the gift of sight once more. The lame cast off their crutches and walk. The healer is here to cure the pains of all men. Follow me to the Free City, and there will be no more hunger, no more fear, no more pain, and no more war."

The crowd again began to whoop at the words "Free City," though most of the cries came from the back, where they probably had difficulty following what she was saying. People closer to the well mumbled in confusion. Ragnar glared back over his shoulder, scowling. The crowd quickly fell silent.

Burke limped forward. "Shanna," he said. "Did the Sisters of the Serpent give you anything odd to eat? We know that Blasphet had poisons that would enslave the minds of dragons. Is it possible you've been given some drug that is altering your perceptions?"

"Yes," said Shanna. She knelt down on the edge of the well and extended her hand. She turned her palm up and revealed what looked like a handful of large, flat, black ticks. She said, "These are the dragonseed. They are plucked from the healer's own body. Take them. Eat them. Your eyes will be opened to his truth, and you shall be restored. You will walk to the Free City on two legs."

Burke's curiosity compelled him to take one of the strange objects. Once he picked it up, he saw it was more like an oversized watermelon seed than a tick. It was jet black and warm. It smelled vaguely like cloves. Despite his curiosity, he had no intention of putting the seed in his mouth. He thought of Ragnar's earlier cryptic smile. Was this some elaborate attempt to poison him? Or some unfathomable power play, a gambit to make him look foolish in front of the crowd?

If it was a ploy by Ragnar, it only made the prophet's next move all the more shocking.

"Blasphemer!" Ragnar shouted, grabbing Shanna by the wrist. The seeds spilled from her hand and littered the packed red clay around the well. Ragnar yanked her down from the wall. She landed on her knees before him, a cry of pain escaping her lips. "Who has corrupted you? What evil force drives you to utter such foul lies?"

He raised his hand as if to strike her. Shanna looked up, her face somehow serene despite the violence being perpetrated upon her. "It's never corruption to speak the truth," she said.

Ragnar slammed his fist down, a blow that should have knocked all the teeth from Shanna's mouth. Only, the blow never struck Shanna. Burke tossed aside his crutch and reached out, catching Ragnar's hand. The force of the halted blow threw Burke off balance. Ragnar snarled and shoved Burke away. Burke landed in the dirt, flat on his back. He rolled to his belly, ready to push up on both hands.

Stonewall stepped forward and placed his foot into the small of his back, pinning him. Behind him, Shanna let out a gasp of pain. Burke turned his head and saw Ragnar lifting her to her feet by her long hair. So much for the a.s.sumption she was wearing a wig.

Ragnar apparently was confounded by Shanna's tresses as well. "What witchcraft had restored your hair, woman?" he demanded.

"My shaved scalp was a symbol of the Murder G.o.d," she said, crying out the words through her pain. "My new hair is a gift of the healer! It's a symbol of his grace! Everyone who looks upon me knows the truth. The time of war is pa.s.sed! The time of healing has begun!"

Ragnar let out a horrible, guttural scream of wordless rage. He slammed Shanna's head down onto the lip of the well with a sickening crack.

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" Burke screamed, struggling to free himself. "What are you-"

Before he could complete the thought, Ragnar held out an open hand. Frost stepped up and placed a long knife into his palm. Shanna's arms hung limp at her sides. Ragnar still held her by her hair. Her once white robes were now streaked with red. Her eyes were half open, but she looked stunned by Ragnar's blow.

"Death is the fate of all blasphemers!" Ragnar shouted. "Let no man be led astray by the lies of a witch! These are not the days of healing! These are the days of wrath! We shall not rest until we've driven the last dragon into the sea! Remember the Free City!"

The crowd cheered at this battle cry.

"War!" Ragnar cried.

"War!" the crowd echoed.

"War!" he cried again.

"WAAAARR!" the crowd howled, their voices causing the earth beneath Burke to tremble.

Ragnar looked at the bloodied, half conscious woman dangling in his grasp, wrinkling his nose in disgust, as if he'd just discovered a dead skunk in his hand. With a grunt, he jerked her backward and up, until she sat atop the well. He sank the knife deep into her left breast. He yanked the knife free and released her. She toppled backward, her legs flipping into the air, and disappeared down the stone shaft.

The crowd continued to cheer. Burke pushed up with all his might, but Stonewall only pressed down harder.

Ragnar leaned down, staring into Burke's face. He looked calm as he said, "If I discover you were behind this, you'll join Shanna in her watery grave."

Burke wanted to grab the prophet by his beard and yank the flesh off his skull. Alas, Ragnar crouched several inches beyond his reach. Despite his anger, there was a cool, mechanical voice inside him, counseling him on practical matters. "A corpse in the well will poison our water, idiot," he hissed.

Ragnar's calm expression changed to a frown. He turned and addressed Stonewall in a tone of voice that bordered on sanity. "Let him go," he said. "Have your men fish Shanna's body out at once."

"Of course, sir," said Stonewall, though he didn't move his foot. Indeed, his shifted even more of his weight onto it. Burke felt certain his spine would snap.

Ragnar walked away. Only once he was gone did Stonewall release Burke. Burke rolled over and found the giant bodyguard gazing down at him.

"Burke, I understand your actions," said Stonewall. "No man enjoys seeing a woman struck. However, I cannot allow you to hurt Ragnar."

"Why didn't you stop him?" Burke grumbled as he sat up. "Instead of standing on my back, you could have saved her life."

"Ragnar is a holy man," said Stonewall. "You heard the crowd cheer his words. The Lord has chosen him to lead us to war. It's not our role to judge him. It's our role to obey him."

"Those may well be the most brainless words I've ever heard spoken," said Burke.

"Ragnar won the battle of the Free City. He took Dragon Forge from the dragons, and repelled the immense army gathered to take it back. It's hardly brainless to trust his judgment, or conclude that the hand of G.o.d guides his actions. If you would only accept this, and trust him with your secrets, think of the good he could do."

"You have a body to fish out of our water," said Burke. He leaned back against the well and looked down at the black seed still in his palm. Botany wasn't his strong suit, but he was certain the seed was some sort of hallucinogen, whatever it came from. It was the simplest explanation for Shanna's insanity. The missing tattoo was odd, but women were good with make-up, and he hadn't gotten a really good look at her neck. He personally had never noticed a scar on her arm, no matter Ragnar's reaction. As for the hair... a wig and glue? What else made sense?

"Maybe she had a twin?" he mumbled it out loud to test the words for plausibility. They instantly failed the test.

"Ragnar's lucky Anza wasn't here to see this," said a well-known voice. "It wouldn't be that woman's body at the bottom of the well right now." Burke looked up to find a grizzled old man before him. A familiar figure stood behind him, his hand on the older man's shoulder. Despite the horrors of the last five minutes, Burke smiled broadly.

"Th.o.r.n.y!" he said. "You made it. And Vance! You're back! How did you get through the blockade? Are the others with you?"

Vance shook his head. There was something disturbing about the way he wasn't looking directly at Burke. Did he come bearing bad news?

"We thought we weren't going to make it," Th.o.r.n.y said. "The dragons have every road into town blocked off. Worse, they've lined the roads with corpses. Even if the roads weren't guarded, I don't think many people would be coming here. They took all the refugees from Burke's Tavern captive. All the healthy people they've gathered into a holding pen, to be sold as slaves. The sickest of us, they let through the blockade. There was me, Vance, and old Dealon. Unfortunately, Dealon was weakened from the journey and worn down by the terror of walking past all those corpses. He's dead, Burke. Fell to the ground not a half mile from the gate."

Burke lowered his head. When Ragnar had started his little rebellion, Burke had refused to let anyone else from his village join his army, hoping to shield them from the worst of what was to come. Dealon had been the first man to welcome him to Burke's Tavern. He'd been outgoing, kind, and didn't have an enemy in the world. He didn't deserve a death like this.

"I guess it makes a sort of cold strategic logic to let the old and infirm through the blockade. But Vance, you're young and healthy. How'd you slip through?"

Vance shook his head. "I'm blind," he said. "I took a bad blow to my head. The world's been dark since. I'm useless now."

"Don't think that," said Burke. "You're a brave kid with a good head on his shoulders. I'll find useful work for you." He looked back to Th.o.r.n.y. "As for you, the dragons obviously don't know what a treasure they've given us by letting a man with your know-how slip through."

"I don't hold a candle to you, Burke," said Th.o.r.n.y. "And it's not like I can handle a wrench anymore."

"You know how to read a plan, though. More importantly, you know how to spot a flaw in a plan. I can't wait for you to see the Angry Beetle."

Vance sagged at these words. Burke bit his lip, realizing the word "see" might have been a poor choice. "I'm going to need some help standing up," Burke said, lifting his hand.

Th.o.r.n.y placed his useless claws onto Vance's wrist and guided the young man's healthy hand to Burke's outstretched fingers. "It looks like war has taken a bite out of you as well," said Th.o.r.n.y.

"It was just a leg," said Burke. "Not even my favorite one."

As Vance helped him stand, he asked, "What happened to the girl? The one talking about how we'd all be healed? Did Ragnar kill her?"

Burke nodded. Then, catching himself, he said, "Yes."

Vance shook his head slowly. "When I heard about Ragnar, me and Vinton left Stony Ford to join him, thinking he was a hero. Now I'm thinking he's a monster."

Burke looked around. Some of the Mighty Men were nearby, talking about who was going into the well. If they'd heard Vance's words, they didn't react.

"Sometimes, to fight monsters, you need an ally who's a bigger monster," said Burke. "For better or worse, there are men in this fort who are willing to die for Ragnar. I don't like him and I don't trust him. I know he feels the same about me. But we both know that we need each other if we're going to reach our goals. Ragnar needs me to build weapons. I need him to build armies that will put those weapons to good use. As long as we have the dragons to fight, we'll muddle through. It's what happens after we defeat the dragons that's going to be messy."

Vance nodded. "Did I hear the girl offering you something to eat? 'Cause I'm starving."

"You don't want what she was offering. Come on back to the shop," he said, hopping around, his hand on the well for balance. He crouched down on his one leg to reach his crutch. "I've got some grub there. Nothing fancy, but you'll sleep with full bellies tonight."

"What was she offering?" asked Vance.

"A lot of nonsense, mostly," said Burke. "Blasphet possessed an unparalleled knowledge of poisons. She must have ingested something that drove her crazy."

"But what was she talking about? The dragonseed?"

He couldn't fault the boy for his curiosity. Burke took the seed Shanna had given him and placed it in Vance's palm for the boy to examine. "They're like big watermelon seeds. I can't even guess what plant they come from. But I'm not so desperate that I'm going to put something strange in my mouth because an obviously insane woman promises it will heal me."

Vance rolled the large black seed between his fingers. "Yeah," he said. "Only a fool would fall for something like that."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN:.

MACHINE HEART.

BAZANEL, THE MOST acclaimed chemist among the sky-dragons, stood before the black slate wall in the Golden Tower of the College of Spires, writing out the recipe for gunpowder. He turned and faced his guest, nervously rolling the small rod of bone-white chalk in his left fore-talon. Suddenly self-conscious of his fidgeting, he put the chalk down. With the single remaining claw on his mangled right fore-talon, he scratched at the scaleless ma.s.s of scar-tissue where his ear used to be and cleared his throat. acclaimed chemist among the sky-dragons, stood before the black slate wall in the Golden Tower of the College of Spires, writing out the recipe for gunpowder. He turned and faced his guest, nervously rolling the small rod of bone-white chalk in his left fore-talon. Suddenly self-conscious of his fidgeting, he put the chalk down. With the single remaining claw on his mangled right fore-talon, he scratched at the scaleless ma.s.s of scar-tissue where his ear used to be and cleared his throat.

"The key component is saltpeter... pota.s.sium nitrate. This contains three oxygen molecules, bound to one molecule of pota.s.sium and one of nitrogen. When mixed with the other compounds it's stable until energy is introduced. The oxygen unbinds, then rebinds, producing explosive combustion."

The sky-dragon seated upon a leather cushion looked at the board with a blank stare. Unlike the students he normally lectured, this guest probably had little training in chemistry. She was a valkyrie, a female sky-dragon, one of the warriors who guarded the Nest.

Ordinarily, sky-dragons lived with the complete segregation of the s.e.xes. The extraordinary events of recent weeks had produced the current cooperation. The aerial guard had always been a small force, and it had suffered losses in the battle of the Free City. The valkyries had lost hundreds during Blasphet's a.s.sault on the Nest. Only a combination of forces could now have a hope of restoring order to the fractured land.

Bazanel could count on his claws the number of times he'd been in the presence of a female of his species-even though he had fewer claws than most. Breeding was strictly controlled by the matriarch, the leader of the Nest who guided the genetic destiny of the sky-dragons. Male sky-dragons who excelled in scholarship were rewarded with the opportunity to breed so that their desirable traits might remain in the species.

At the age of fifty-four, Bazanel had never been invited to the Nest, though he was widely acclaimed as the most knowledgeable chemist the biologians had ever produced. No doubt his physical appearance had some bearing in this decision. He'd long had a special interest in the study of unstable chemicals. A side-effect of this interest meant that more than half of his body was marred by scar tissue. He was completely deaf in his right ear and plagued by incessant ringing in the left. Holes riddled both wings, rendering him flightless. His once fine tail was now only a stub. And yet, against all odds, his reproductive organs remained intact. Genetically, he was a whole being. The matriarch had to know this. Why was he snubbed?

The valkyrie's name was Rachale; she had several burn wounds along her neck, still red and puffy. During the attack on the Nest, some of Blasphet's forces had used a crude flame-thrower-no doubt she was a veteran of this battle.

She asked, "You're certain saltpeter can be found in bat guano?"

"Oh yes," said Bazanel. "Most abundantly. It's in any number of other sources as well-almost any urine will have the necessary components. Caves merely provide a convenient, stable environment for the crystals to grow."

"Given your knowledge of the ingredients, how much gunpowder do you think the rebels could have made in this short period?"

"Perhaps quite a bit," said Bazanel. "Some of the ancient waterworks in that area have been the undisturbed home of bats for centuries."

Rachale nodded slowly. "We're placing a great deal of faith that you've gotten this right."

"This requires no faith" said Bazanel. "This is chemistry. If you follow the formulas I've provided you, you will manufacture gunpowder by the barrelful. I stake my reputation as a scholar upon it."

"It isn't your reputation as a scholar that causes our concern," said Rachale. "It's your reputation for carelessness."

"I see," said Bazanel. Her use of the word "our" was of interest to him. Was this an opinion of the matriarch?

"Over the course of the last three decades, you've gutted four towers, caused structural damage to six others, killed two students, seventeen human slaves, and injured countless more. You're lucky to be alive. Luckier still, I think, that Chapelion has allowed you to retain your position. At the Nest, such carelessness wouldn't be tolerated."

Bazanel drew his shoulders back and tilted his chin upward. Rachale's words displayed such staggering ignorance that, if all females were this limited in their intellect, he was grateful he'd never been invited to breed.

"Chapelion understands that mine is the work of a pioneer. I've expanded the frontiers of knowledge. My scars are badges of honor, not marks of shame. I believe this meeting is over. Return to Chapelion with my report. He will have the intellect to appreciate the treasure I'm giving him."

Without waiting for her reply, he turned and limped toward the staircase that spiraled down the outer rim of the tower. Rachale's accusation festered in his mind. Carelessness? Carelessness? Carelessness? In his indignity, a previously unthinkable course of action formed in his mind. In his indignity, a previously unthinkable course of action formed in his mind.

The action he contemplated violated the most fundamental moral code of the sky-dragons, but they had pushed him to this. It was time for him to draft the most scathing letter any dragon had ever crafted, a letter that would make the matriarch weep with shame when confronted with the tremendous injustice she'd perpetrated.

His rage was still burning by the time he limped his way into his laboratory in the cellar. The cool, musty air calmed him somewhat. The familiar smell of his lab soothed him further. He did note, however that the atmosphere reeked of lamp-oil.