Dragonforge

debt.'

Again, his words were met only by silence.

'Has my gratitude left you speechless?' Blasphet asked. He took a slow, careful step forward, drawing a yard closer to the dim light at the end of the passage. 'We're much alike. We've transcended mere mortality: You, the avenging ghost; I, the god. We each tap a higher truth as our path to power-we know there is so much more to murder than simply ending a life.'

Blasphet paused, allowing his words to sink in.

'Did you come here in search of an enemy only to discover an admirer? Reveal yourself, Bitterwood. I would look upon the man who rid the world of Albekizan.'

At last, a reply came from the darkness. 'Perhaps we aren't so different. In the end, only one small thing divides us.'

Blasphet tilted his head, still unable to pinpoint the source of the voice. 'And what would this small thing be?'

'I know where you are,' Bitterwood answered.

The words were followed by the hiss of an arrow cutting the air. Blasphet grunted as the arrow sank into the wrist bone of his left wing. He sucked in his breath through clenched teeth as he spun to face the direction the attack had come from. The arrow had flown for mere seconds. Bitterwood wasn't so far away. He held his right fore-talon at the ready as he studied the darkness, glad he'd uncapped the poison. He thought he could discern a shape now, vaguely human, no more than twenty feet distant.

'You could have killed me with a single arrow,' Blasphet said, attempting to keep his voice calm. 'Yet you shot my brother three times. They pulled thirteen arrows from my nephew. You take the same pleasure from the suffering as your victims as I do. You drink fear like wine.' Blasphet crouched down, the muscles in his legs coiling tightly as the nearby shadow emerged more clearly from the darkness. 'I'm sorry to disappoint you. I'm a god. I shall not fear a ghost.'

Blasphet lunged for the humanoid shadow. He thrust his poisoned claw before him, burying it dead center of his target. A rotten tree branch snapped beneath his grasp. He stumbled in the water, trying not to fall. When he found his balance once more, he was left standing with only a large piece of cloth in his hand. A human's cloak from the stink of it.

There was a splashing sound reverberating up and down the pipe. The echoes of his own attack? Or was Bitterwood moving to better target him? Suddenly, he discovered that his left leg was numb. He toppled as he lost control of the limb. A dull pain throbbed through him as he discovered an arrow jutting from his hamstring. He hadn't even felt the arrow strike.

'Bitterwood,' said Blasphet, swallowing hard. His saliva had a metallic flavor. 'Killing me is a mistake! Legends say that you seek vengeance against the dragons who killed your family. Can't you see that I am an instrument to that end? Kill me, and you kill a single dragon. Spare me, and you guarantee the deaths of thousands.'

Blasphet pushed with his uninjured wing to a sitting position against the tunnel wall. At least the next arrow wouldn't come from behind.

'No answer?' he asked. 'My words intrigue you? We've killed so many, each acting alone. Think of what we could do as an alliance; ghost and god, holding the power of life and death over all.'

There was a loud splash as something heavy dropped from the pipes above. Blasphet slithered his tail beneath the water as he saw the silhouette of a man rise, several dozen yards away. If Bitterwood got close enough, Blasphet would trip him with his tail and make one last strike.

Bitterwood was clearly defined now, a black outline against the distant light. He slowly walked closer. Blasphet braced himself to attack. Then, just beyond the range of Blasphet's tail, the shadow stopped. The Ghost Who Kills lifted his bow and took aim.

Blasphet opened his mouth to make one final appeal.

The bowstring rang out. Blasphet screeched as the arrow flashed into his open mouth, puncturing his cheek from the inside, pinning his head to the wall behind him. The agony of the arrow through his jaw muscle was astonishing. Was this white searing energy that filled him the same force that his victims had felt? If so, what a gift he had given them. As the pain washed through the recesses of his brain, it left in its wake a cleansing light that illuminated a simple, fundamental truth: It felt good to be alive. Only facing his end did Blasphet truly understand how much he cherished his existence.

It felt good to breathe. Each ragged gasp inflated his chest with damp air, bringing fresh oxygen to his hungry lungs. It felt good for his heart to beat, for the blood to race through his body with each pulse. Blasphet had long believed death to be a superior force to life. Life was merely a momentary act of resistance, while death was the ultimate champion. Ah, but what an act! What a glorious flickering moment!

Bitterwood stood before him, sword in hand.

'I won't be quick about this,' he said.

Blasphet thought of the thirteen arrows that had been pulled from Bodiel. He recalled how the corpse of Dacorn had been found wedged into the crook of a tree, his tongue crudely hacked out. Blasphet's courage failed him. In one last hope of remaining the master of his own destiny, Blasphet sank the poisoned claws of his right fore-talon into his thigh. The deadening effect of the poison was swift.

Bitterwood pried his jaws open. Blasphet felt the touch of a blade against his tongue. He sighed as each heartbeat carried him away, further, further, to a place where even Bitterwood could not follow.

Jandra stepped aside as Hex staggered upright. The long-wyrm beside him was also stirring, but without Adam near she didn't know how well-behaved Trisky would be. Jandra took the tapestry she'd torn down a moment before and draped it over the long-wyrm. She covered the tapestry with silver dust and willed the fibers to reweave themselves. In seconds she'd created a makeshift straightjacket and muzzle for the long-wyrm. She'd apologize to Adam later if he objected to this treatment of his mount.

Hex stretched to fight off the effects of the poison. He winced as he smacked his head against the ceiling. Hex lowered his neck, his eyes wide open. He looked around the room. 'What hit me?'

'Blasphet,' said Jandra. 'Poison gas. Bitterwood has gone off to catch him.'

'Alone?' Hex asked.

'Yes,' said Jandra.

'That's the last we'll see of Bitterwood, then,' said Hex.

'I was thinking it would be the last we saw of Blasphet,' said Jandra.

'Bitterwood is an impressive warrior for a human,' said Hex. 'But in Blasphet, he's met his match. My uncle didn't earn the title Murder God lightly.'

'You sound oddly proud of this,' said Jandra.

Hex shrugged. 'Pride isn't the correct word. However, I do respect him. Like me, he lost his contest of succession. Yet he didn't fade from the world as I nearly did. Instead, he became a figure even more notorious than my father. History may long remember him after it has forgotten my father's name.'

Jandra was bothered by Hex's confident tone. Had she been wrong in letting Bitterwood chase Blasphet alone? On the other hand, how could she have stopped him?

She said, 'Maybe we should…'

Her voice trailed off. There was something coming down the stairs. The chiming sound reminded her of Gabriel's wings. She drew back as a metallic skeleton stepped into the room. The steely bones were powered by a complex array of moist-looking bags that served as muscles. The machine possessed golden wings, though their color was dulled by a layer of soot. The skull's eyes were disturbingly human set in their lidless sockets.

'Don't be alarmed,' the skeleton said. Its jaws moved, but the words seemed to come from somewhere within its rib cage. 'It is I, Gabriel. The battle is won. The sun-dragons have been defeated; the poisoned torches have all been extinguished. The revived valkyries now search the Nest for any surviving assassins.' Gabriel moved forward, toward the rainbow arc. As he moved, Jandra found her mind once more filling with memories not her own. She could recall building the synthetic creature before her, and a counterpart, the prophet Hezekiah.

Her borrowed memory merged with her genuine memory as she remembered where she'd heard the name Jasmine Robertson before. It had been the name given by Hezekiah as his creator when Vendevorex had interrogated him.

'In the Free City, I fought a man named Hezekiah,' she said. 'Are you the same sort of creature? He nearly killed me.'