James Maxey: Dragonforge

A moment later he passed over the edge of the dam. The sky in all directions was thick with valkyries. He felt a stir of grim pride that he was sufficiently threatening to justify such a force.

He followed the river once more, adhering to its twists and turns, lost in thought. What did it matter that he wouldn't be allowed to breed? There were hundreds of dragons who shared his fate. More, there were male dragons who refused the chance even when offered. Many prominent biologians believed that any mingling of the sexes would muddy the mind; they dared not risk the damage even a single night of passion might cause to their intellect. The fact that Androkom wouldn't be invited to breed would perhaps not bother him at all. Metron, the former high biologian, had famously refused an invitation to the Nest with the words: "I would rather history judge me by my works rather than the quality of my biological debris."

As he flew, Graxen's musing about breeding slowly gave way to thoughts of food. The king's messengers traveled light, relying on the hospitality of those they were sent to speak to. Fortunately, his next destination wasn't far. The town of Dragon Forge was no more than thirty miles distant.

The terrain changed as Graxen neared the town. The nearly pristine forested mountainsides that surrounded the Nest gave way to rolling hills, many of them stripped of trees. Giant mounds of rusting metal dotted the landscape, and ragged shanty towns sat beside muddy stream banks. Humans in rags trudged along, hauling carts full of rusting scraps. These were gleaners, men who made their living by scouring the landscape in search of relics from a previous age, incomprehensible artifacts crafted from steel that had long ago decayed into rust. Yet, even rust had value-the gleaners sold their wares to the foundries of Dragon Forge, where immense furnaces melted down the scraps of metal, freeing the ores, which were then refined and cast into the armor and weapons used by the armies of the dragons. The humans below were fueling the engines of their own oppression.

Three plumes of smoke rose in the distance. Graxen's nose wrinkled as the stench of the foundries reached him. He traced a wide arc around the town, looking for a good landing spot. The earth-dragons below looked like small beetles from this height, as they hurried across the packed-earth streets of their town. Nowhere within the fortress was there any hint of vegetation. The surrounding hills were nothing but rust-colored clutter and weeds, with a few bare and scraggly trees here and there. Earth dragons weren't known for their appreciation of beauty.

At the far side of his arc, glancing back through the smoke plumes, Graxen caught a glimpse of sparkling light. Continuing in his orbit, he discovered the light was the gleaming helmet of a valkyrie a few miles distant. Was he being pursued this far from the Nest? Or was it mere coincidence? Valkyries must do business with Dragon Forge-all the steel grates and spikes that turned the place into a fortress must come from somewhere.

He slowed his flight. The valkyrie continued toward him. Was this some messenger from the matriarch? Perhaps she'd changed her mind? The instant he had the thought, he dismissed it, and was embarrassed by his heart's willingness to hold onto hope.

Graxen decided to meet the valkyrie head on. He adjusted his path to match hers and the distance between them rapidly closed. As they drew within a hundred yards of each other, he was struck with recognition. It was Teardrop, the dragon who'd given him such a chase. She'd once more donned her armor, though she wasn't carrying her spear. Was she pursuing him out of some desire for revenge? If so, why come unarmed? She began to glide in an arc and he joined her in a counter path, so that they traced a large circle through the air. They looked at each other across the gap as they glided leisurely in their orbit.

"You dropped your bag," she said, the hint of a smirk showing in her eyes. Graxen noted the leather satchel hooked over her belt where her manacles had once hung. She flicked her tail forward and knocked the sack free. It fell slowly, dancing in the wind. Graxen dove and snagged it in his hind-claws. The bag felt heavy-something was inside. He jerked his head up. Had this been a ploy to distract him from a sneak attack? The valkyrie continued in her slow circle, looking toward him with an expression devoid of malice.

"Thank you," he said, flapping his wings to reach her flight level once more.

"I'm sorry Sparrow attacked you. She should never have been allowed on that patrol."

"She was only doing her job."

"Our job is to defend the island, not to abuse innocent messengers."

"I'm used to hostility," said Graxen.

"It's left you with remarkable reflexes," she said.

Graxen wasn't used to complements. He found himself unsure how to respond. There was a long moment of silence.

Teardrop took his quietness as an invitation for further explanation. "Sparrow only became a valkyrie a year ago. On her first patrol, she and two more experienced guards were ambushed by a band of tatterwings."

"Oh," said Graxen. The only thing lower in the ranks of the sky-dragons than a freak was a tatterwing. These were criminal sky-dragons whose wings had been slashed as punishment. Forever condemned to the ground, tatterwings survived by begging or by banditry. It sounded as if Sparrow had fallen victim to the latter kind.

"The elder valkyries were killed. Sparrow was… abused. She only recently returned to duty. Her attack on you was an attack upon the ghosts that haunt her. And, of course, she is from the lineage of Pachythan. So, she perhaps felt an extra obligation to be tough with you."

Graxen wasn't certain what her lineage had to do with anything. Pachythan was the younger brother of Metron. Was she saying Sparrow was more diligent due to being the niece of such a prominent sky-dragon?

She added, "I didn't want you to think ill of all valkyries. Most would never have attacked you unprovoked."

"I'm glad you don't think of the events that followed as a provocation," Graxen said.

"If you'd been near when I freed myself, I would have gutted you. But, I bear no grudge. You simply outflew me. I won't be such an easy opponent should we meet again."

"Noted," said Graxen. "Although, it seems unlikely we will meet again. The matriarch has vigorously uninvited me from the Nest."

"As is her duty," said Teardrop. "Fly far, Graxen the Gray. Go with the knowledge that you've earned my respect."

"I'm honored," he said. "May I ask your name?"

She banked away, flapping her wings, her body aimed for the Nest. She glanced back, then called out, "Nadala."

Graxen drifted in a slow gyre, watched Nadala grow smaller as she flew away, until she was only a speck, then only a memory.

Graxen returned his attention to Dragon Forge. He dropped down into the city, toward a broad avenue that ran near the central foundries.

In unison, thousands of earth-dragons were filing into the street chanting,

"Yo ho ho!

The slow must go!

Yo ho ho!

The slow must go!"

The verse lasted all of five seconds, with the "yo ho hos!" rising in tone, and the "slow must goes" falling. The verse was then repeated, and was then repeated, and was then repeated, until Graxen was struck by the intense urgency to complete his mission here and move on. He dropped the bag in his hind-claws just before landing. Coming to rest, he retrieved the satchel and slung it over his shoulder. He again noticed the weight, but before he could examine it he was nearly run into by an earth-dragon marching straight toward him. Earth-dragons were squat, wingless creatures, resembling the unholy union of a human, a turtle, and an alligator. Most stood little more than five feet high, and were almost as broad due to their powerful musculature. Their green, beaked faces resembled the heads of turtles. As a species they were notoriously nearsighted, which could explain why the one that approached him was only inches away from collision before he stopped, looking befuddled.