James Maxey: Dragonseed

Jandra put the shotgun to her shoulder, imitating the firing stance she'd seen in Burke's sketches when he'd designed the gun.

"I think you'll find this gives me the authority," she said.

Frost didn't look impressed.

"Is this more of your magic, girl?" Frost mocked. "Where I'm from, we burn witches. Perhaps we'll cook the lizard over the fire we build from your bones."

The dragon child grabbed Jandra's coattails. He cowered behind her legs and yelled, "No eat! No eat!"

Frost took a step forward.

"Not one more step," Jandra growled.

Frost took one more step.

Jandra raised the barrel of the shotgun, targeting the empty air above Frost's head. She pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. What had Burke said about a safety? She examined the intricate firing mechanism.

Frost reached out to grab the gun. Jandra slipped aside the metal latch that kept the flint from falling. She pulled the trigger again as Frost's fingers closed on the barrel. The hammer clicked down. For half a second, there was a flashing light and a sizzle, plus a lot of smoke.

Lightning struck.

At least, it seemed like lightning, with a bright flash, a thunderous boom. The butt of the shotgun slammed into Jandra's shoulder, knocking her into the wall. Everyone in the crowd jumped in unison, wide-eyed.

Frost released the gun and spun away, cursing. He raised his hand to his right ear. Jandra had meant to aim above his head, but the gun had fired in a more or less random direction after Frost grabbed it. When Frost lowered his bloodied fingers, his ear was gone. Only a few shreds of bloody flesh dangled where it had been.

Jandra was disoriented. She hadn't expected the gun to be so loud. She looked around, uncertain where the dragon child had gone. Her arm was numb from the impact of the shotgun.

She couldn't help but wonder why the goddess had worked so hard to rid the world of guns. Of what use was a weapon that crippled its user?

The crowd grew deathly silent as Frost recovered his wits. He narrowed his eyes in anger.

"Witch," he snarled. Jandra could barely hear him over the ringing in her ears. "The last time a woman scratched me, I tore her nails out!" He lunged toward her, arms outstretched.

Before Jandra understood what was happening, something human-sized dropped down from above, landing between her and Frost. The crowd sucked in its collective breath.

There was a loud SNAP. Frost shrieked.

Jandra blinked her eyes. The person who had jumped in front of her was Burke's daughter, Anza. Anza was dressed in black buckskins and had at least a dozen blades strapped to her body. It was said that Burke had trained Anza in the art of combat from the day she'd learned to walk. Frost fell to his knees in front of Anza. Anza shifted her body slightly and Jandra could see that she had Frost's middle and ring fingers in her grasp, bending them back much further than unbroken fingers could possibly bend.

Anza pushed Frost away and stood between Jandra and the crowd, drawing a long slender sword from the scabbard slung over her back. The razor-sharp edge gleamed like a mirror in the smoky light.

Men at the back of the mob looked around and wandered off, as if suddenly remembering other appointments. Some of the nearer men looked down at the ground as they, too, walked away. Only two men remained behind to help Frost back to his feet.

Frost looked as if he were on the verge of spitting at the two women. Then, his eyes flickered upwards. Burke was at the window above, looking down sternly.

Frost growled, "Wait until Ragnar learns of this!"

"Why don't you go tell him?" said Burke. "He can come to me if he wishes to discuss the proper punishment for a man your age threatening teenage girls with violence. I'm disappointed in you, Frost. You're one of the best fighters I know. But there's a fine line between a fighter and a bully. I would advise you to learn where that line is."

Frost glared as he turned away, leaving the two woman alone.

Anza gazed up at her father, a smug look in her eyes.

"Don't feel proud," Burke scolded. "You just ruined the hand of one of my most experienced blacksmiths. And Jandra, that was a damned stupid thing to do. Why didn't you let them eat the varmint? It may be small and cute, but it's still an earth-dragon. We killed them by the thousands to take Dragon Forge. What's one more dead lizard?"

"This is only a child!" Jandra protested. "He's innocent! He's more frightened of us than we are of him."

"Where'd the lizard go?" Burke asked. He was still in his chair, and couldn't look straight down.

Jandra studied the area. Had the dragon slipped away while she was distracted? Finally, she noticed a shadow on the wall, and a peculiar outline. She knelt and reached toward the shadow.

The outline on the wall shifted color slightly. The eyes became visible as they looked at her. The chameleon-like camouflage vanished as the dragon shifted back to a deep green hue, almost black. It held a skinny arm toward her, the claw at the end outstretched like a human hand, though it had only three fingers. These digits ended in claws that any bobcat would have envied.

"No eat?" the dragon child asked.

"No eat," said Jandra, taking his hand. "I'll protect you." She lifted the dragon child up and hugged him to her chest.

"Good boss," he cooed.

IT WAS LATE morning when Vulpine, the Slavecatcher General, drifted down to the rocky bank, his eyes drawn to the blue-scaled corpses being picked at by black-feathered buzzards. The buzzards hopped away as he landed, some taking to the air to perch in the branches of nearby pines, others, more bold, backing up only a few yards to glare at him. Even though the faces were mutilated, with the eyes torn away and the flesh around the mouths pecked and peeled, Vulpine recognized these dragons, fellow slavecatchers, good and honorable defenders of order. He shivered as a chill wind stirred his feather-scales.

There were human corpses as well, similarly mutilated by the buzzards. Vulpine recognized them as Hemming and Turpin. The world was no worse off without them. He noted that Shay wasn't among the corpses, nor was there any sign of Chapelion's stolen books.

Had Shay somehow managed to kill three slavecatchers? It made no sense. It was plain that all three dragons had been downed by arrows. He'd heard about the new bow that had caused the massacre at Dragon Forge, a weapon with more than twice the range of a longbow. Dragon Forge was barely ten miles distant. Had these slavecatchers fallen victim to a rebel patrol?

He noted something odd about the arrows. He reached out and plucked one from a corpse and held it to better catch the light. His eyes weren't playing tricks. These arrows were yard-long, perfectly straight shafts of living wood. The fletching at the end wasn't feathers, but fresh green leaves growing in perfect symmetry. Stranger still, the killing end of the twig showed no trace of an arrow head. The wood simply narrowed down to a hard, thorn-like point. What tree grew such twigs? One final artifact of the arrow disturbed him. The shaft couldn't have been in the corpse for more than a day, judging from the condition of the bodies. Yet, the part of the arrow that had been buried in the body was covered with white, threadlike projections, as if the arrow had been taking root. The shaft sported several fresh pale bumps, like it was budding.

Vulpine snapped the shaft. The bark that peeled away from the jagged break was bright green and full of sap. He sniffed the wood. It was an unremarkable odor; he still couldn't identify the species. The biologians back at the College of Spires perhaps could assist, though his gut told him that this was something new under the sun, that no one had ever seen living arrows before. Most biologians were rationalists, but Vulpine was old enough and wise enough to suspect there were invisible forces beyond the comprehension of dragons. Most slaves believed in magic, in ghosts and witches, angels and demons, and Vulpine had some sympathy with these beliefs.