James Maxey: Dragonseed

"I'm sure you would," said Burke. "I didn't mean to imply that you wouldn't."

"Blasphet claimed he was the god of murder. He believed it, I think. He thought he was a god."

"I never met him," said Burke, uncertain where this change of subject was heading. "I always did admire the body count he racked up among dragons, though. You too, by the way. You put the fear of God into every dragon in this kingdom, Bant."

"No," said Bitterwood. "That wasn't who they feared. There is no god, Kanati, to dispense vengeance upon the wicked. I had to do the job myself. I am the Death of All Dragons. I am the Ghost Who Kills."

Burke studied the lines of Bitterwood's face. There was a haunted look to the man's eyes. Something about dragon-hatred eventually broke the minds of almost anyone it seized.

"What brings you here, Bant?" asked Burke.

"A girl who talks to ghosts."

Burke furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"

"I'm not traveling alone," said Bitterwood. "I'm the guardian of a girl named Zeeky, and her brother, Jeremiah, once I find him. Their family was killed by the goddess. The ghosts of everyone from their village are trapped in a crystal ball. Zeeky can hear them whispering to her. They've told Zeeky we need to save Jandra."

"You're here because you're guided by ghosts?" Burke asked. Saying it out loud didn't help it make more sense. "I'm afraid the ghosts have led you astray. Jandra was here, but she left at sunset. What time is it?"

"Almost dawn," said Bitterwood.

"She's miles away by now."

Bitterwood sighed. "In fairness to Zeeky, the ghosts didn't say Jandra was here. We followed her first to the Nest. We learned that she'd come to Dragon Forge. I should have come straight to the gates yesterday. Instead I wanted to investigate the area. It wasn't a waste of time. I killed a few slavecatchers."

"Did the ghosts say what you're saving Jandra from?"

"No," Bitterwood said. "I can't hear them myself. Only Zeeky can. She says they're tough to figure out. They all talk at once."

"I don't place any faith in the words of ghosts, but if you want to chase after Jandra, she's heading up the Forge Road. My own daughter, Anza, is with her."

"You have a family now?" Bitterwood asked.

"Only Anza. Biologically, she's my niece, but I've raised her as my own. She's definitely my child in spirit."

"How so?"

"Do you remember what they called me at Conyers?"

"Kanati the Machinist."

"Now I'm Burke the Machinist. My name I wear lightly; the Machinist is my true identity. I've always been comfortable working with cogs and clockwork and springs, far more than I have with my fellow men."

"What's this have to do with your daughter?"

Burke lowered himself back down onto the bed, his weight resting on his elbows. Perhaps it was the pain in his head that weakened him. Perhaps it was the presence of the man who'd shared in his darkest defeat, long ago. Whatever the source of the weakness, there was something he had to confess: "From the day Anza was old enough to pick up a dagger I've been… programming her. When she was five, I captured a young earth-dragon and had her kill it."

Bitterwood didn't look shocked by this confession. Somehow, this caused Burke's guilt to well up even faster. "I've raised her with a single-minded focus on combat. I've taught her to think of her body as a weapon, precise and tireless. She fights like nothing you've ever seen, Bant. She's my ultimate weapon. But there are times when I look into her eyes, and there's something cold and mechanical staring back at me. Fate gave me a daughter. I turned her into a machine."

Bitterwood winced as Burke's words triggered memories. "I had daughters once," he said, softly.

"I remember your story. Albekizan killed your wife and children and burned your village. It was the spark that brought flame to that time of drought."

"I was wrong," said Bitterwood.

"About what?"

"My family hadn't been killed. They were taken captive and sold as slaves. They lived another twenty years, beyond the day I believed they'd died."

"Oh," said Burke.

"They were executed the day after I killed Bodiel, Albekizan's beloved son. The king ordered all the palace slaves slain in retribution."

"Oh," Burke said again. What else was there to say?

"It'll be light soon. I should leave."

"I hope you find Jandra," said Burke. "Do you… do you need anything before you go? I've made a new type of bow that's going to be far superior to whatever you're using."

Bitterwood grinned. It was an unsettling expression. "I doubt that."

"How about fresh horses?" asked Burke. "We don't have many to spare, but I…" He let his voice trail off. Bitterwood was still grinning.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"I was thinking of what you would say if you saw my ride. I won't be needing a horse."

Burke lay back on his pillow. The movement made his brains slosh. He closed his eyes, fighting back a wave of nausea. A cold draft washed over him. He welcomed its cool touch. "If you don't need anything from me, I guess you should be on your way."

Bitterwood didn't answer. Burke opened his eyes. He was alone in the room. For a moment he wondered if he'd dreamed the whole encounter, a phantom companion to match his phantom toes. But he could still smell Bitterwood's distinctive smell, a mixture of stale sweat and dried blood. Not for the first time in his life, Burke wondered if he'd done the right thing. He hadn't known Jandra long, but he liked her, and judged her to be competent and sane. Had he done her any favors by putting this strange ghost onto her trail?

CHAPTER FIVE:

THE CHILL OF night yielded as the winter sun climbed in a flawless blue sky. Shay unbuttoned the collar of his coat as they stopped by a stream to allow the horses to rest. The cool fresh air felt good against his throat. The tiny puncture wounds from Zernex's claws were scabbed up and puffy beneath his fingers. He wished he had a mirror. The grooves on the underside of a sky-dragon's claws collected a foul-smelling goop that harbored disease. Shay hoped he hadn't survived the encounter with the slavecatchers only to perish of some horrible illness.

Shay was exhausted but didn't complain when the others voted to keep going. As the day wore on they passed through three villages, all destroyed, the severed heads gathered into mounds. The tracks of earth-dragons were everywhere. They all rode in silence. Anza looked especially withdrawn, her face an emotionless mask. She had to be wondering if her home had also suffered this fate.

Shay was also worried about the town. Had Burke's hidden library been destroyed? He felt guilty that the fate of the books weighed so heavily on his mind, when Anza no doubt faced the loss of friends and family. He could still feel the empty hole that had opened in his gut when he saw The Origin of Species crumble to ash. How could he have been so wrong about Ragnar? The prophet had been delivering firebrand sermons calling for human rebellion for years. His words traveled throughout the kingdom as hushed whispers from slave to slave. Burke may have been the strategist who supplied the rebels with a worthy arsenal, but it was Ragnar's vision that the rebels followed. How could such a great leader despise books?

It was late in the evening when the dragon tracks they followed suddenly veered south, leaving the Forge Road. Ruts from a convoy of supply wagons led up the sloping hill of a field gone fallow. Shay looked toward the top of the ridge, wondering if an army was on the other side.

"Where to you think they've gone?" Vance asked, pulling his horse beside Shay.

Anza snapped her fingers and traced a wavy line in the air. Shay was puzzled by what she was attempting to convey. Anza looked frustrated, and repeated the motion.