METRON WATCHED ALBEKIZAN’S party fly from the grand hall toward the Free City. He’d received an invitation to join the king but had politely declined, stating that he was feeling under the weather. Metron had suspected the king wouldn’t take no for an answer, and had been anticipating the appearance of a few guards. Knowing the king proceeded without him was humbling. Apparently, he wasn’t essential to the running of the kingdom.
Despite learning that he wasn’t as vital to the king’s court as he sometimes fancied, he was also relieved. Whatever the king had planned, the timing couldn’t have been worse. The note passed to Metron moments before he’d been summoned made it vital he stay; Androkom, the biologian who boasted of knowing the secret of life, had arrived. The scholar and his equipment were waiting below in Metron’s personal study.
Metron hurried through the stone corridors and stairwells that led to the maze of books below. When he arrived at his study he found the door ajar. It locked with a secret key that only another initiated biologian would possess.
“Androkom?” he said, peering into the dark chamber.
“I’m here,” his fellow biologian said. In the darkness, there was a creak as the shutter of an oil lamp was opened. The light revealed Androkom sitting at the table in the center of the room, his pale blue form half-hidden behind a stack of books. A well-worn leather satchel rested on the table before him. Androkom clutched the strap of the satchel tightly in his ink-stained fore-talons as he nodded in silent greeting. Metron stepped into the room, pushing the door shut behind him. He gasped as the closing door revealed that they were not alone. The rich scarlet scales of a sun-dragon’s breast filled his vision. A familiar face loomed over him.
“Shandrazel!” he cried.
“Please,” Shandrazel said in a loud whisper. “Lower your voice.”
“Sneaking back into the castle with a dragon of Shandrazel’s stature wasn’t easy,” Androkom said. “You’ll understand that we’d rather not be discovered.”
“What’s the meaning of this?” Metron asked, pointing his walking staff toward Androkom. “Are you assisting the prince? This is treason! He’s duty-bound to kill the king!”
“Nonsense,” Shandrazel said. “I never felt any obligations to the old ways. I feel even less now that I know how artificial the so-called ‘ancient traditions’ truly are. Androkom has told me much about the ways of the biologians.”
“Tell me this is a lie, Androkom,” Metron said. “You cannot have told him the initiated secrets.”
Androkom nodded. “I did; at least, what I had time to tell. I respect you, High Biologian. But I no longer respect our ways. The higher I have risen in the ranks, the more I have learned that has troubled me. Shandrazel and I share an abiding faith in the redemptive power of truth.” Androkom toyed with the shutter of the lantern as he spoke, opening it fully to cast as much light as possible over the chamber. The younger biologian glanced around at the dusty tomes and shadowed niches of Metron’s private study. “The Book of Theranzathax speaks of using light to carve the world from darkness,” he said. “We think it’s time for the obscuring haze of lies to be burned away by the lantern of honest inquiry.”
“Androkom,” Metron said, stepping to the table, placing his fore-talons on the heavy oak for balance as he leaned closer. “You must reconsider this reckless path you’ve chosen. I’ve known you for years. I’ve watched you rise through the ranks at a nearly unequaled pace. Why destroy the very title you’ve worked so hard to earn?”
Androkom met Metron’s condemning gaze without blinking. He said, “I entered the ranks of the biologians seeking knowledge. It disturbs me that my role has become one of concealing truths, rather than revealing them. Too much of what’s taken as common fact by most dragons is merely carefully constructed fiction.”
“Yes!” Metron hissed. “Carefully constructed! Designed by the most brilliant minds who ever lived to give dragons a grand destiny! You cannot brashly destroy the work of centuries!”
“Metron,” said Shandrazel, “I will grant that you have only the best interests of dragons at heart. No doubt the most central myths of the dragons were crafted solely for the benefit of our kind. But we are not alone on this world… We share it. Would my father now be waging war against the humans if he knew the truth? The petrified skeletons that adorn our halls… these are not the remains of our ancestors. Our species is barely a millennium old. We owe our existence to humanity.”
“We owe nothing to humanity,” said Metron. “I’ve studied the manuscripts they left behind. When they ruled this world, they poisoned it with their own filth. They were like yeast in a corked bottle, growing until they choked in toxins of their own making.”
“So you support my father’s genocide?” Shandrazel asked.
Metron felt the anger drain out of him at this question. His whole body sagged. “No,” he said softly. “No matter their past sins, I want to avoid the coming slaughter. In my studies, I’ve learned much of human ways. In their time of dominance, humans callously drove uncountable species into extinction. I would like to think that we dragons are above this.”
“As would I,” said Shandrazel.
“And I,” said Androkom. “So, it seems we have some common ground to build upon.”
“Yes,” said Metron. “Still, you should not have shared our secrets, Androkom.”
“I find your hypocrisy on this most intriguing,” said Androkom. “You would withhold the truth from Shandrazel, who’s known for his integrity. Yet you share our secrets with Blasphet, the Murder God?”
Metron scowled. “Blasphet has learned many of our secrets against my will. Showing him tomes written by humans will tell him nothing he hasn’t already deduced.”
Shandrazel said, “What Blasphet knows or doesn’t know isn’t important, in the end. Our course is clear. We must tell my father the truth about the origins of dragons. In light of the new information, he’ll halt the genocide and imprison my uncle once more.”
Metron felt his jaw hanging open. “You… you really believe that?” he asked incredulously.
“My father may be stubborn and stern, but he’s bound to listen to reason.”
Metron shook his head. “My prince, you are too idealistic. The biologians at the College of Spires did their best to craft you into a being that respects truth and fairness, in hopes of shaping a future king. But I fear they’ve left you ignorant of the way the world actually works.”
“No. Not ignorant. Educated. Once my father learns the truth, he will see the folly of his war on the humans and rescind the death orders. We dragons pride ourselves on being the highest product of the laws of nature, the rightful rulers of the earth, while the humans follow religions that tell them that they are separate from nature, and were created independently of it. All along, the opposite was true.”
“He’ll never believe you,” Metron said. “Furthermore, you’ll never have a chance to make your argument. He’ll kill you on sight. He’ll throttle the life from you while you’re standing there like an idiot trying to appeal to his reason.”
“That’s why we need a plan,” Androkom said. “And why we need your help.”
Metron inhaled slowly, contemplating his next words. They wanted his help. Shandrazel, at least, was foolish enough to trust the king. Did he have the same faith in Metron’s own honesty and fairness? If so, Metron might still have a chance. Androkom’s books and equipment were sitting on the table. Blasphet would find these very useful.
“We were thinking you could request a private conference with the king,” Androkom said. “Such is your right. Then-”
“No,” Metron said, raising his claw, unable to believe his luck. “I know a better way.”
“We’re listening,” Shandrazel said.
THE SUN HUNG red and low in the sky when Jandra woke. From her resting place on the hill she could see the king’s castle casting a long, sinister shadow across the land.
Bitterwood sat against a nearby tree, though it took her a moment to spot him. He sat so still that with his drab clothing and tanned skin he blended in against the tree trunk.
She asked, “How long did I nap?”
“Not long,” he said. “Perhaps an hour.”
“I only meant to rest my eyes for a minute,” she said.
“I don’t begrudge you the sleep. I know how hard it is to keep going with a head injury.”
Jandra noticed that her head no longer hurt. She pressed the bandage that covered her wound with her finger and felt no pain. She pulled the bandage free.
“It’s healed isn’t it?” she asked, reaching for her pouch of dust.
“Yes,” Bitterwood said. “In less than a day. Yet you say you aren’t a witch.”
“Even if I were, I couldn’t do this,” she said. She used the dust from her fingers to create a small mirror. For half a second she wondered who she was looking at in the mirror. She’d almost forgotten that she’d changed her hair color to black. Once past the mild shock of seeing a stranger’s hair, she pushed the hair back and studied her brow. She lifted her tiara slightly. There was no bruise. The skin that had been beneath the bandage was pale white compared to the tan she’d developed with all the time she’d spent outdoors. Aside from this there was no sign she’d ever been injured.
“Healing is a skill I’ve yet to master,” she said. “I can do superficial stuff, things I can see and concentrate on, but internal injuries, especially head wounds, are more than I can handle. One misrouted artery can cause a stroke. This is Vendevorex’s work.”
“He seems to genuinely want your forgiveness,” Bitterwood said.
“He won’t get it.” She let the mirror crack and crumble back into dust. “At first, the lie hurt most of all, the idea that he had raised me while keeping such a secret. But more and more I find myself dreaming of the life I might have known. All my life, I’ve been an outcast. I lived among dragons but could never be accepted by them. When I go among people, I find that I don’t fit in either. Vendevorex robbed me of a normal life. I could have had a loving mother and father. Instead I was raised by a cold-hearted killer. He can never set things right between us.”
“I understand,” Bitterwood said. “It’s good that you hate him.”
Jandra wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. Telling her that it was good to hate was so contrary to everything Vendevorex had ever tried to teach her.
Bitterwood continued: “People will tell you that hate eats you from the inside. They tell you to let go of old pains, not to carry a grudge. Don’t listen to them. Hate’s all a person needs to get out of bed in the morning. Hold onto it. Hate is the hammer that lets you knock down the walls of this world. You see what happened to me when I let it go. I lost my way when I allowed my hate to wane.”
“But now you’ve got something better than hate,” Jandra said. “You’ve got hope.”
“Like you, I’m haunted by the life I might have had. Even if my family is alive, I’ve lost twenty years. There can be no forgiveness. If my family is alive then I regret only that I haven’t fought harder and killed more dragons to make a better world for them.”
Jandra contemplated his words. All her life Vendevorex had given her cold and analytical advice. He normally advised her to set aside her emotions, especially the darker ones. How strange to be told to embrace them.
Bitterwood nodded toward the castle which stood like a dark stony mountain in the sunset, casting a long shadow over the surrounding fields. “I’ve noticed a steady stream of dragons leaving the castle. The palace guards are heading for the Free City.”
“Do you think we should go back?” Jandra asked. “If something’s about to happen we should try to save Zeeky and Pet.”
“You’re free to go. My family must come first,” Bitterwood said.
Jandra looked toward the Free City then back toward the castle. Lanterns and torches were being lit in the windows and balconies. She suddenly felt perversely homesick. Oddly, she didn’t feel as worried about the residents of the Free City as she thought she should. Deep in her heart she took comfort from a single fact: Vendevorex was inside the Free City and he was here to stop the genocide. Vendevorex wouldn’t be there without a plan.
“Okay,” she said. “Fewer guards in the palace makes it easier for us,” Jandra said. “We might get the information you want before whatever is happening in the Free City unfolds. Are you ready?”
“Yes,” Bitterwood said.
Jandra rose and once more cast the circle of invisibility around them. They headed toward the castle where she had lived a lie for so long.
JANDRA HAD NO problem leading Bitterwood past the handful of guards remaining in the castle and up the steps to the king’s hall. From here they could descend through the High Biologian’s door into the library.
“Look there,” Bitterwood whispered as they passed near the throne pedestal.
Following his outstretched arm, she could see a quiver of arrows and a bow hanging on the wall high above the throne. A few red feathers caught the pale moonlight.
“That’s the bow Pet took from the armory,” Bitterwood said. “But those three arrows are mine. Where did he get them?”
“I don’t know,” Jandra said.
Bitterwood looked lost in thought. At last, he said, “When the sky-dragon tackled me in the window at Chakthalla’s castle, I lost several shafts. He must have found them. Perhaps this convinced Zanzeroth that Pet was me.”
“Pet’s bought you a second chance,” Jandra said. “When this is done, you’ll help rescue him, won’t you?”
Bitterwood looked at her, his brow furrowed. His voice gave no clue to his feelings as he said, “Let’s move on.”
Jandra nodded. They moved toward the library door. She wondered if it was locked. The point was rendered moot as the door swung open at her approach. Whispered voices met them.
“It’s time,” one said. “The dark will hide us.”
“Lead on,” said another.
Drawing the cloak of invisibility as tightly around them as possible, Jandra took Bitterwood by the arm and rushed forward past the three figures who entered the corridor. Even in the dark she could recognize Metron… and Shandrazel? Why was he here? She had never seen the third dragon. She and Bitterwood slipped into the library seconds before Metron closed the door. Quickly, they made their way to the rooms where the slave records were kept. Her heart sank as she stepped inside. So many rows of files. So many slaves.
“It could take all night to search,” she said.
“A night or a year, you’ve done your part,” Bitterwood said. “I’ll search alone if need be.”
“No,” she said. She had made a promise and intended to keep it. “Let’s get started.”
“ARE YOU SURE this is wise?” Androkom asked, slowing to allow Metron to catch up.
“Positive,” Metron said, his voice strained with the effort of climbing the stairs. “Blasphet may be mad but I understand the source of his madness. He holds no grudge against us.”
“Still,” Androkom said, “do you know how many dragons this monster has killed? It’s not like he’s ashamed of it. He calls himself the Murder God. This would argue against an alliance, I think.”
“Monster or not, Blasphet is currently the king’s closest advisor,” Metron answered testily. “It’s not too late to turn back if you’re afraid.”
“We’re not frightened,” Shandrazel said. “While I question the usefulness of this visit, my uncle is no match for me, physically, should he attempt to betray us.”
At last they reached the main floor and the star chamber. Metron entered without bothering to knock.
Blasphet awaited them, standing before a dying fire in the room’s lone fireplace. He stirred the orange coals with a long iron poker, then placed a heavy copper caldron onto the hook above the coals before turning to greet his guests.
“Welcome, fellow conspirators,” Blasphet said, and bowed ceremoniously. “Especially you, dear nephew. My, you’ve grown in the years since last I saw you.”
“Do not refer to me as a conspirator,” Shandrazel said. “I take this path out of love for my father and the kingdom.”
“Ah! Nobility. I’m glad to see Albekizan’s bloodline has produced a scion that possesses a touch of my own idealism,” said Blasphet in a sincere tone. “You fill me with hope for the world, Shandrazel.”
“I take it you received the note I sent you?” Metron asked.
“Yes,” Blasphet said as he walked to the balcony doors. He closed them, sealing the room. “Now we can be assured of privacy.”
“Is it true?” Androkom asked. “You have a poison that can temporarily paralyze a foe, but otherwise does no harm?”
“Indeed,” Blasphet said. “Such a poison would be a perfect way to assure you of a captive audience from my brother, wouldn’t it?”
“It’s not my preferred approach,” said Shandrazel. “But Metron insists it’s the only way to speak to my father without him immediately going for my throat.”
Blasphet stared at Shandrazel, studying his eyes. Shandrazel didn’t turn away from the stare and met his gaze. Shandrazel noticed a family resemblance in the sharp, well-bred lines of his uncle’s face, despite Blasphet’s discolored hide and bloodshot eyes. It was like looking at some dark reflection of his father.
Blasphet asked, “You still think you can use reason to persuade him?”
“I hope so,” Shandrazel answered.
“Truly, your idealism exceeds my own,” Blasphet said.
“How is this poison delivered?” Androkom asked. “Via drink?”
Blasphet shook his head.
“The blood, then?” Androkom asked. “An… an injunction. Injection, rather.” The young biologian’s speech was slightly slurred.
Metron swayed on his feet. He mumbled, “Blasphet, I… I…” The elder biologian raised his talon to rub his brow.
“Yes?”
“I feel… light-headed. The exertion… of the stairs-”
“No,” Shandrazel said, noticing his own breathing growing shallow. “I feel it too.”
Suddenly the High Biologian’s eyes rolled beneath his lids and he toppled sideways. Shandrazel moved quickly, reaching out to catch the aged dragon in his arms before he hit the stone floor.
“The air…” Androkom said, leaning against a wall to steady himself.
“Is it too warm in here?” Blasphet asked. “I would open a window but that would let the poison out.”
“Betrayer!” Shandrazel shouted, letting Metron slide to the floor. He leapt toward his uncle, his claws outstretched. But the air seemed too thick, slowing him, as if he were moving through water. The room swayed and where Blasphet should have stood he found only a wall. Shandrazel collided face-first with solid stone.
“Feeling a little disoriented, nephew?”
Shandrazel turned around, his legs trembling.
Androkom now sprawled across the floor, as unconscious as Metron. Blasphet had moved back to the fireplace, once more stirring the coals with the poker.
Shandrazel rushed forward, fighting the fog in his mind to focus on the target of his uncle’s throat. He opened his jaws wide.
Blasphet suddenly possessed supernatural speed. He drew the poker above his head, then chopped it down between Shandrazel’s eyes in a blur.
There was a flash of light, a crash of drums, then darkness. The darkness broke with pale red light as Shandrazel opened his eyes once more. He was on the floor, looking across toward Metron’s slumped body. The High Biologian’s silver-tinted scales seemed surrounded by tiny halos. Why was Metron on the floor? Shandrazel’s head throbbed with distant pain. He braced himself with his claws and slowly rose. The floor was spinning as if on a giant turntable. He could vaguely hear someone saying, “You’re as hard-headed as your father.”
Another crash and the floor raced up to meet him. Everything grew silent and still.
“WAKE UP,” THE voice said.
No. Shandrazel ached too much to open his eyes. He pulled the blanket of sleep more tightly around his mind.
“Wake up!” the voice repeated, and this time the demand was met by a strong poke in Shandrazel’s gut. Shandrazel tried to twist away from the pain but couldn’t move. The rattling of chains provoked his curiosity more than the voice did. Then he remembered. Blasphet! His eyes jerked open.
“Ah,” Blasphet said from somewhere near. “You’re back. Good. The dosage affected you more than I would have guessed. You barely stirred while I was strapping you in.”
Shandrazel tried to turn his head toward his uncle’s voice but couldn’t. His head was held fast by cold, hard bars. He shifted his eyes and flexed his limbs. His whole body was trapped in a narrow cage in which he lay flat, his wings pinned behind him with crossbars trapping his limbs, allowing not even a wiggle. The cage was suspended so that he faced downward. Below him sat a huge pool of black liquid. He noted that the cage bars weren’t metal but were fashioned from thick rods of glass. He would have little trouble breaking them, if only he could get some leverage.
To the side of the pool he could see a wheel around which was wrapped a sturdy chain. Blasphet stepped into his field of vision, standing beside the wheel, grinning. On the other side of the pool Androkom was chained to the wall, his body slumped over, a stream of drool dripping from his mouth.
“I designed this for your father,” Blasphet said. “But you’ll do fine for practice. This way I can work out any kinks before I try it on my dear brother.”
Shandrazel growled. He tensed and released every muscle of his body, struggling for even an inch of movement. The cage began to sway, but only barely.
“I’d love to stick around,” his uncle said. “Alas, I’m pressed for time. With this device your death will take hours.”
Blasphet turned the wheel. It clicked once and the cage dropped a fraction of an inch.
“The pool beneath you is acid. This device allows me to lower you into the pool using precise measurements, then raise you to examine the results. I’ll do a detailed drawing at each step. It should make for fascinating reference material, as the interior of the body is revealed, layer-by-layer. Practicing on you will allow me to get the subtleties worked out for your father. I have this marvelous vision of dissolving his eyelids without touching the eyes,” Blasphet said. “It probably won’t work, but what is life without a dream?”
Shandrazel kept silent, contemplating his possible actions. His silence prodded Blasphet into talking further.
“This acid cauterizes wounds, so you could live for several hours once we begin. Who knows? I might spend days on this project. Will you still be alive when we reach your heart? Oh, the suspense!”
Shandrazel relaxed his entire body. He tried to allow slack to build in the cage. Unfortunately, some mechanism took up the slack. He managed only to immobilize himself further.
Blasphet looked disappointed. “This is the point where you’re supposed to scream, ‘You’re mad!’”
“Will you prattle on like this the whole time?” Shandrazel asked. “If so, could you dissolve my ears first?”
“I may be able to accommodate you,” Blasphet said. “For now, I must bid you farewell. Your father has some business cooked up at dawn, which fast approaches. I believe he plans to kill Bitterwood. I must attend. It’s important I remind him how shallow and meaningless his vengeance will be.”
Blasphet raised his claw in a gesture of farewell, then turned and vanished from sight. A few seconds later, Shandrazel heard the rattling of a key in a door, then footsteps fading into the distance.
When he was certain his uncle was gone, he said, “Androkom?”
Androkom’s eyes opened and he sat up. “I’m awake,” he said. “I didn’t want him to know.”
“Have you already thought of a way to escape?” Shandrazel asked him.
“No. You?”
“Not yet,” Shandrazel said, trying to turn his head. “My field of vision is limited. Tell me everything you see.”
“You, mostly, the pool and the wheel.The chains holding me, of course. There are two pairs of manacles, one for my wings, one for my legs. They run through iron rings in the wall. They look well made. There are a few lanterns on the other side of the room. My tail’s free but I can’t reach anything of use.”
To demonstrate, he pulled himself as far from the wall as the chains would allow and thrust his hips forward, his tail snaking between his legs and stretching out about a yard across the pool.
“Can you touch my cage with your tail?” Shandrazel asked. “If we can get it swaying enough to bang the ceiling, perhaps we could break the bars.”
Androkom stretched, but his tail failed to reach the cage by several feet.
“Just as well,” Androkom said. “If we did break the bars, you’d only plummet into the acid. There’s not enough distance for your wings to catch the air.”
Shandrazel stared into the acrid ebony fluid beneath him. The stench made his nostrils water. He rubbed his snout as much as he could against the cool, smooth glass. The motion pulled one of the delicate feathers that adorned his snout free. It drifted slowly downward. Against the perfect blackness of the pool, it seemed to fall forever, into a void, until it touched the surface. Then, with a hiss, it vanished into nothingness.
“HERE!” JANDRA SAID, raising papers over her head. “I can’t believe it! After all these hours!”
Bitterwood rushed to her side and snatched the papers from her hand. The cover page read: “An Inventory of Human Slaves Captured in the Village of Christdale.”
The first page contained a list of male children. He recognized the names, but one name was missing. What had happened to Adam? He turned the page and saw a list of names of women, and beside each was marked their fate. The widow Tate: dead in transit. His neighbor’s wife, Dorla: sold to a noble dragon from the Isle of Horses. Then Recanna! Ruth! Mary! All had a “K” marked next to their names.
“What does this mean?” he asked, pointing at the mark. “Please tell me it doesn’t mean ‘killed.’”
“It means ‘Kitchen,’” Jandra said, looking over his shoulder. “They weren’t sold at auction, but were kept by Albekizan to be put to work in the kitchens.”
She took a closer look at the names next to Bitterwood’s fingers. All this time they’d searched for the name of his village; he hadn’t told her the names of his family. Her mouth went dry.
“You can’t mean…” Bitterwood’s face broke into a look of joy. “They’re here! My family is within these walls!”
Jandra didn’t answer. She turned away from him. Perhaps the names were only a coincidence. Perhaps this was a different family. Perhaps…
Bitterwood turned around, the smile falling from his lips. “What?”
“It’s… I knew them,” Jandra said, still with her back to him.
“Knew? What happened to them? Why won’t you look at me?”
Jandra spun around. “Because they’re dead! Every human who worked in the palace is dead. Albekizan ordered them killed in retaliation the day after you killed Bodiel.”
The papers dropped from Bitterwood’s hands, fluttering to the floor around him like dying leaves.
ZEEKY WOKE TO the sound of voices from below. She had run to the closest building she could find after the dragon dropped her, and spent the day hiding in the attic, waiting for things to calm down so that she could sneak back to the barn.
But during the day, more residents had arrived in the Free City, and it was her bad luck that out of hundreds of empty buildings, some of the new arrivals had picked the building she hid inside to make their home.
It was dark outside. What time was it? Something about the smell of the air hinted that it wouldn’t be long now before the dawn.
The words of the men speaking in the room beneath her were difficult to make out until she heard a now familiar name: Kamon.
“You can’t mean it,” the first voice said.
“I saw him with my own eyes,” said the second. “I would have killed him then but he was surrounded by a dozen Kamonites.”
“I’ll stand with you,” the first voice said. “As will my brothers. Kamon will pay for his poisonous lies.”
The conversation was dropped suddenly as a loud bang shook the house. Someone had kicked in the door.
“Humans!” a dragon snarled. “Wake up! You must go to the square! Albekizan will address you!”
The men raised their voices in protest until a whip cracked, silencing them.
Suddenly, the trap door to the attic flew open and the beaked head of an earth-dragon popped through, looking straight at Zeeky.
“Get down here,” he commanded.
There was no exit save for the hole the dragon was stood in. Luckily, she was small and dragons were slow. She leapt forward over the dragon’s shoulder, sliding down his spine as he uselessly grabbed behind his back, trying to catch her. She grabbed his tail, swinging her feet down to land in a running position. But her feet stopped just inches from the floor. The full weight of her body hung by her collar. She twisted around to see a second earth-dragon holding her at arm’s length, looking at her as if she were some awful bug.
BLASPHET WHEELED OVER the scene below. It was early morning; the sun was just peeking over the eastern horizon. All of the residents of the Free City had been gathered in the square, packed in tightly by the guards that stood in thick columns in the adjoining streets. They looked groggy, disoriented. Blasphet’s research had taught him that humans were most sluggish and compliant in the predawn hours. Apparently, his brother knew this as well.
Toward the front of the crowd, a large platform had been hastily erected overnight. The platform was surrounded by dark-green, heavily armored earth-dragons-nearly the entire unit of the Black Silences-separating the crowd from the platform by rows three dragons deep. On the unpainted boards of the impromptu stage stood Albekizan, looking too smug and satisfied for Blasphet’s comfort.
Behind Albekizan stood Tanthia, her eyes dark and sunken with depression, a look that Blasphet found quite attractive in a female.A heavy wooden post protruded from the center of the stage next to the king; beside this stood Pertalon, who was laboring to chain the captive Bitterwood with his back to the post and his arms stretched high above his head. Bitterwood’s wrists were fastened to an iron ring, leaving his toes barely touching the platform. Completing the group on the dais were the hunter, Zanzeroth, and Kanst, dressed in his full ceremonial armor. With a turn of his wings and a rustle of scales, Blasphet dropped to the platform to complete the assembly.
Albekizan didn’t acknowledge Blasphet’s arrival. Instead he checked Bitterwood’s chains as a leather strap was placed around the prisoner’s head. He then tied the strap around the post in such a manner as to ensure that the human couldn’t look away from the crowd.
The crowd murmured in speculation. Blasphet noted one voice in particular in which he could recognize madness, always an interesting quality.
“The prophecy!” the madman shouted. “It is as I foretold! Bitterwood must suffer this hour so that we can be free!”
Small chance of that, Blasphet thought.
“Well, Brother,” Blasphet said. “Today’s your big day. Tell me, do you intend to kill him quickly? Or perhaps make it last hours, as if that will bring release from these endless days of mourning he has inflicted upon you?”
“His fate will be prolonged,” the king said. He moved behind the post and reached his claws around, placing them on Bitterwood’s face.
“Do your worst,” Bitterwood said, though Blasphet’s trained ear could hear the deep current of fear flowing beneath his brave words. “I don’t fear death!”
“Nor should you,” King Albekizan said. With his sharp claws he grabbed the skin above and below the captive’s eyes and forced them open. “For it is not your death we are here to witness. This is a public execution.”
Blasphet felt the scales along his back rise.
The king continued. “You’ll watch as my troops slaughter this mass before you, an unspeakable tableau of gore and agony. When this crowd is exhausted, we shall gather another, and another, and another, and all will die, day after day after day, because of you. Only when the last human in my kingdom has been killed will I grant you the surrender of death.”
“No!” shouted Bitterwood.
“No!” shouted Blasphet, rushing forward. He wouldn’t allow his brother to ruin his plans for the Free City by killing everyone before the experiment had even begun. Before he could reach the king, Pertalon jumped into his path and held him from his goal.
As the two struggled, Bitterwood cried, “Kill me! My life for theirs! I’m the one who wronged you!”
“Kanst,” Albekizan said, his eyes gleaming in the dawn light. “Give the command.”
HEZEKIAH TWISTED HIS neck from side to side as Vendevorex sat back, exhausted. The artificial man flexed his hands, almost like a human would flex a limb that had been asleep. “My mobility is restored,” Hezekiah said in a tinny, hollow voice. “I assume you’re done with me?”
“You assume wrong,” Vendevorex said, handing the prophet his broad-brimmed hat. As Hezekiah donned the hat, Vendevorex lifted the heavy axe with a grunt. He held it to the artificial man and said, “You and I are just getting started.”