'Humans have survived disasters we couldn't,' said Metron. 'Plagues, for instance. Dragons have been spared plagues due to our relative newness as a species. A thousand years is insufficient time for a microbe to have adapted to us as a carrier. What happens when that day comes? With all the females clustered together in the Nest, a single disease could wipe out our species overnight.'
'We're spared plagues due to our superior breeding and fastidious hygienic practices,' the matriarch said, in a tone that made it seem she was addressing a hatchling instead of the most learned sky-dragon in the kingdom. 'Our isolation is a barrier to disease, not an opportunity.'
'An intriguing hypothesis,' said Metron. Then his eyes twinkled. He looked as if he'd just guided the matriarch onto the exact intellectual ledge he'd wanted her to stand upon. 'Since we're rational creatures, we can test it. We can select a pool of candidates to live outside the Nest and the Colleges. The test subjects may settle where they please, and find mates as they please. A hundred members of each sex should provide a reasonable study group. Then, we will track their offspring for ten generations in a second Thread Room to analyze if the genetic health of their offspring improves or declines compared to the main population.'
The matriarch tilted her head in such a way that it looked as if the idea had lodged in her brain and suddenly weighed down her left lobe.
'A second Thread Room?' she said, her voice almost dreamy. 'I can think of many questions that such an experiment could answer.'
'Nadala and I could be the anchor for such a population,' said Graxen.
'No,' the matriarch said, raising her fore-talon dismissively. 'The control group must start with untainted candidates. Neither you nor Nadala would meet the criteria.'
'I would hope, as designer of the experiment, that I would have some say in selecting the population,' said Metron. 'I will choose half the males and half the females without restriction; you shall select the other half.'
'No. No, while I'm intrigued by your proposal, I fear you're overlooking a rather clear set of facts,' said the matriarch. 'You're a tatterwing. Your wings still stink of pus and scabs, and already you've forgotten your status? Your presence here is a crime punishable by death. Graxen, too, was told that if he returned he would face execution. It would be poor precedent for me to reverse that decision. And Nadala… my poor, deluded, hormone- poisoned Nadala… your sins are greater than either of these males. You're a traitor to the Nest. As such, your punishment will be far worse than either of these fools.'
As the matriarch spoke, she punctuated her words with sharp, rapid taps of her cane against the tiles. The tapestries that lined the room bulged outward. Fifty valkyries poured into the chamber from unseen doors. Nadala sprang to place herself between Graxen and the guards. 'Run back to the stairs,' she hissed. 'I'll hold them off as long as I can.'
Graxen moved to her side. 'I'll not abandon you.'
'How romantic,' said the matriarch. Then, to the valkyries, 'Take them!'
A handful of the valkyries advanced, spears lowered. Things quickly became confused as the nearest valkyrie stumbled drunkenly. Spears clattered on the tiles as they slipped from trembling talons. One by one, the valkyries began to drop, unconscious. Graxen noted an acrid odor, like the smell of burning peanuts wafting through the room. A faint haze of blue smoke could be seen swirling as the valkyries continued to fall. Nadala suddenly swooned, her eyes rolling upward in their sockets. Graxen caught her before she hit the floor.
'W-what treachery is this, Metron?' the matriarch growled as she swayed unsteadily, reaching out one fore- talon to the blackboard to maintain her balance.
'I am not to blame for… oh. Oh, no,' said Metron. 'No! By the bones, he's played me for a fool! Why didn't I see his plan? I swear I didn't know he followed me!'
As Metron spoke, the last of the valkyries toppled. Then the matriarch, too, succumbed to the mysterious smoke. Only Metron and Graxen remained standing.
'What's happening?' Graxen cried out. 'Who has followed us?'
The tapestry where they had entered was suddenly torn asunder. Bald human girls clad in leather armor danced into the room, brandishing black, wet blades. Metron moved as fast as his old body could manage to stand over the matriarch's fallen form. Graxen dragged Nadala to Metron's side, laying her carefully upon the floor, then taking a defensive stance next to his father as group of girls surrounded them. Graxen took note of the tattoos on their shaved heads. These must be the Sisters of the Serpent, the cult that had attacked the palace.
The doorway to the stairs darkened. The black-scaled form of a sun-dragon squeezed through the too-tight opening, then stood erect in the much larger Thread Room, stretching his wings. Graxen was used to the company of Shandrazel, but this dragon seemed even larger, more menacing, as his black hide sucked in the light.
'Blasphet,' said Metron, his voice cracking, on the verge of tears.
One of the girls darted forward. Graxen tried to stop her, but time felt distorted. The smoke that had felled the others slowed him. He couldn't reach the girl before she landed a savage kick in Metron's gut. The elderly tatterwing doubled over, falling to the floor.
'Your unworthy tongue may not speak the holy name!' the girl snarled.
'Greetings, old friend,' Blasphet said, looking down at Metron's curled form. 'For your own safety, I'd recommend use of my proper title.'
'Murder God!' cried Metron, as his tears erupted.
Ragnar stood atop a mountain of rusted rubble. His army stretched out around him in the thousands, a motley collection of slaves and farmers and mercenaries, most dressed in rags, many carrying only the crudest of weapons. Ragnar's voice was loud as thunder as he shouted, 'The Lord is our light and our salvation! The serpents who've devoured our flesh shall stumble and fall! Though they raise their weapons against us, we shall not fear! The Lord shall give us strength to break their swords and shatter their shields. He shall delight in the desolation of our enemies!'
The army of men cheered, and Pet was certain that any element of surprise they might have possessed was lost. They were only half a mile from the eastern gate of Dragon Forge, hidden among the man-made hills of scrap. The debris blocked them from sight of the fort; he wondered if it would also swallow up the noise.
Pet, by his unearned reputation as a great archer, had been placed with a small contingent of men with long bows. The bows weren't the best weapon for attacking a sleeping city. If they fired blindly over the walls, their arrows would most likely lodge into rooftops or empty city streets, harming no one. When Ragnar's army poured through the gates, firing into the city would be as likely to injure a human as an earth-dragon. So, the archers had been told to hold back from the initial assault, to await further orders from one of Ragnar's closest companions, a white-bearded man everyone called Frost. Pet found himself disappointed not to be part of the main attack. He'd reached the moment in his life where he needed to know if he truly possessed the courage to fight. In the Free City, he'd been rescued by Ragnar and Kamon, then assumed the role of shouter of inspirational words. In actual combat, however, he'd lagged near the back, and had finished the battle without ever giving a dragon so much as a scratch.
Now that Ragnar had whipped his army into a frenzy, he gave the command for them to spread out to all four of the city gates. They divided into roughly even mobs and began flowing away through the ruins. They were a sad looking army; a few had shields, fewer still had helmets and breastplates. Many were armed with nothing more than clubs. The dragons inside the city had access to much better weapons and armor. Fortunately, earth-dragons kept roughly the same schedule as men, and most were asleep now.
As the archers waited, Pet climbed the rust heap. From his position, Pet could see the eastern gate in the distance. A half dozen earth-dragons stood guard. More accurately, a half dozen earth-dragons squatted near the wooden gate talking and passing around a ceramic jug from which they took long swigs. The night was bright, with a sky clear enough that the moon cast crisp shadows.
Suddenly, a score of those crisp shadows separated from the wall and rushed toward the guards. Men dressed in black cloaks pulled long knives that glinted as they slashed, swiftly and precisely. The earth-dragons silently vanished beneath the flapping black cloaks. For a moment, Pet was amazed by the efficiency of the attack; the way that six living beings had been brought to an instant, silent death. Unfortunately, seconds later, a howl reached his ears. One of the dragons had screamed in pain, a sharp, ear-splitting yelp that stopped in a wet gurgle. The sound had simply taken a few seconds to reach Pet.
Pet placed an arrow against his bowstring. The element of surprise was definitely gone now. These six might be the last easy kills of the night.
Ragnar apparently had become impatient with stealth anyway. His war cry reached Pet, an incoherent warble
