tried to pull another arrow from his quiver, but the men were charging him faster than he expected. Pet gave up on the arrow and drew his sword, raising it in time to parry a chop from the head-man. He jumped backwards as the foot-man gave a rapid jab that terminated directly in the space his belly had occupied a half second before. Pet had no skills at actual combat, only stage combat, but instinct took over. He dodged and parried, drawing on his acrobatic training as the pair pressed their attack. Unfortunately, he could see no opening for a counterstrike.
A loud metallic zang rang out behind him, followed by a whistle as a razor sharp disk big as a dinner plate flashed past his eyes. The head-man was suddenly headless. Pet's remaining opponent turned white as a ghost as he gazed at something behind Pet. Pet almost turned around to see why, but he was opportunistic enough to know he might never get a better chance to strike. He buried his sword into the right side of the man's ribcage, driving the blade in as deep as he could. The man staggered backward, a curse on his lips. Pet tried to free his sword but it was stuck, trapped by the man's ribs, and the hilt was twisted from his fingers as the man fell backward.
Ten feet away, Pet saw the gleaner woman kick herself free from the dead man who had fallen on her. She rose, clutching her torn clothes to her body. A black-haired woman no older than the gleaner leapt from the shadows with a sword and buried it in the woman's back. The gleaner fell lifeless to the dirt. Her assailant stared at Pet. She was dressed in black buckskin, nearly invisible in the shadows. A Sister of the Serpent? No. She didn't have any tattoos, and she still had hair, even eyebrows.
'Good job,' said a voice behind Pet. Pet whirled around. The tall dark-skinned man stood behind him. He'd caught glimpses of this man earlier and knew his name was Burke. Burke was wearing a huge gauntlet that covered his left arm from shoulder to wrist. The gauntlet forced his arm to be held perfectly straight, and on his shoulder and back there was a tall cartridge full of the razor disks that had decapitated the first swordsman.
'Good job?' Pet asked. 'Are you talking to me or her?'
'Both of you,' said Burke. 'Anza for fulfilling the mission. You for having the moral fiber to stand up to these thugs. What's your name, boy?'
'Pe-Bitterwood,' Pet said. He cringed internally, wondering why he'd fallen back to the lie. There was something about this man's eyes, however, that made Pet feel especially ashamed of his true identity.
'Bitterwood? Oh! You're that fellow from the Free City. Are you Bant's son or something?'
'Bant?'
'Ah,' said Burke. 'You're just a nobody using his name.'
'I prefer to think I'm somebody putting his name to better use than he is,' said Pet. 'I've met the real Bitterwood. He's not as heroic as you might think.'
'I've fought beside the real Bitterwood,' said Burke. 'You're right. He's a psychopath. All he had going for him was his obsessive hatred of dragons. He wouldn't have been out here doing this clean-up work. Nothing would have stopped him from being inside Dragon Forge killing every dragon he laid eyes on.'
'That's where I should be,' said Pet. 'I don't belong out here killing innocent people.'
'Gleaners aren't innocent,' said Burke. 'They're a part of the infrastructure that has kept the sun-dragons in power for centuries. I don't like it either, but it helps to think that we're not simply killing people, we're breaking cogs in a vast machine of death and oppression.'
Pet nodded. He felt tears welling in his eyes. 'It makes sense. But I can't do it. It was bad enough to kill a grown man. I could never kill a woman or child.'
'Then don't,' said Burke. 'Dragon Forge is back that way. It's where I'd be right now, except Ragnar thinks I'm too valuable to risk in the assault. If I die, capturing the foundry loses some of its strategic advantage.'
Pet wiped his cheek, ashamed of his weakness. He desperately wanted to change the subject. 'That's some fancy hardware,' said Pet. 'Are you going to build those for everyone?'
'This?' said Burke, running his hands along the gauntlet. 'This is just a gadget I'm tuning for Big Chief. The disks are lethal at close range, and I can get off about thirty a minute if the damn thing doesn't jam, but after about fifteen yards the accuracy falls off at a laughable rate. No, when we get our hands on the forge, I have a much more fruitful item to mass produce.'
'What?' Pet asked.
Burke reached for his thick leather belt, which was studded with countless tools in specialized pockets, from hammers to tweezers to wrenches to screwdrivers. He flipped open a large pouch on the side and produced two palm-sized flat ovals of polished steel with deep grooves cut into the edges. 'These wheels aren't much to look at now,' said Burke, 'but a hundred of these things are going to kill more sun-dragons than if I built a thousand Big Chiefs.'
Pet couldn't even imagine how that was possible. The wheels weren't sharp at all, and they didn't look heavy enough to do any real damage if you threw them at something. Still, he'd heard that Burke was a genius. Pet took it on faith that these wheels were important.
'Get to the forge,' said Burke, walking over to the man Pet had stabbed. With a grunt, he pulled Pet's sword free. 'The battle's still going on. Kill as many dragons as you can. Anza and I will be heading into the city come dawn. For now, we'll help clean up the remaining gleaners.'
'Yes sir,' said Pet.
'Before you run off, what's your real name, boy?'
'Petar Gondwell,' he said. Feeling a sudden need for full disclosure, he said, 'Pet.'
'Don't get yourself killed tonight if you can help it,' said Burke. 'The world still needs a few men like you, with the courage to stand up to thugs and the moral fiber to at least feel some remorse at the thought of killing a fellow man. There aren't many like you left in the world.'
Pet felt mildly disoriented; had the world truly turned so topsy-turvy that he was now being praised for his morality?
Burke tossed the sword toward Pet. An image quickly flashed through Pet's mind of the sword slicing off his fingers as he caught it, but then his years of practice as a juggler took over and he casually snatched it from the air by its hilt. He placed it in its scabbard and ran back toward Dragon Forge to discover who he was. A moral man, a coward, or just another cog in a vast machine.
Chapter Twenty-Three:
Click Click Clang
'Interesting,' said Blasphet, leaning close to Graxen. Unlike the dead-meat breath possessed by other sun- dragons, Blasphet's breath smelled almost medicinal, a not unpleasant mingling of camphor and cloves. 'Your pupils are barely dilated, and your respiration is only mildly labored. The first time I used my paralyzing smoke on Metron, I drew a sample of his blood. I altered the formula to make him immune. It's fortunate he has no other relatives here. Apparently his blood kin share the resistance.'
'Wh-why?' said Metron, still curled in a ball on the floor. 'Why would you spare me?'
'I find your inner torments delightful,' said Blasphet, turning from Graxen to address Metron. 'Knowing that your old lusts have brought doom to your species must feel like a knife in your brain. Any brute could cause you physical agony. Only a god could flay you from the inside.'
'Why do you hate him so,' asked Graxen. 'Why would you attack the Nest? What grudge do you bear against sky-dragons?' The anger in the voice prompted the score of armed women who remained in the room to form a wall between Graxen and Blasphet. Graxen felt too lightheaded to overpower them. If he did defeat them, then what? Blasphet was twice Graxen's size and his claws were no doubt poisoned. All Graxen could do for now was stand over Nadala's unconscious form. If anyone approached, he would fight to his last breath to defend her.
From above, valkyries cried out in surprise and anger before their voices trailed into silence.
'This has nothing to do with grudges,' said Blasphet. 'Metron, as I built the Free City, you told me I used the gloss of philosophy to justify my cruelties. Your words haunted me during my recent imprisonment.'
'I'm sorry,' Metron whimpered.
'You need not apologize. You were correct. I've justified decades of murder by telling myself that it was an intellectual pursuit. I told myself that when all the secrets of death were unraveled, I would hold the key to unquenchable life. Now, you've guided me to a much simpler truth: I take pleasure in the suffering of others.'
Blasphet placed his fore-talon on Metron's shoulder and lifted him, helping him stand once more. Metron showed no resistance; he would stand if Blasphet wished him to stand. His eyes were fixed on the floor in a look of utter defeat.
'There's a value in discovering oneself,' said Blasphet. 'The pleasure I feel in the suffering I cause is nearly
