'You got some new orders for the boys on the floor?' Biscuit asked.
'No,' Burke said, taking another swig. He belched in the aftermath. 'I might not survive this.'
'I appreciate the vote of confidence in my surgical skills,' Biscuit said, a wry grin wrinkling the leathery skin around his eyes.
'There's something I know that shouldn't vanish from human memory. I don't want Ragnar to learn the secret- it's my only real leverage over him. But I also don't want this secret to die with me, or with Jandra should she not survive. So listen closely. I'm going to tell you how to make gunpowder.'
THE FORGE ROAD ran through a landscape of rolling hills and farms, one hundred eighty miles to the Dragon Palace. In normal times, it was considered a safe road, heavily trafficked by the king's armies. Human villages were abundant along the Forge Road. The one nearest Dragon Forge was Mullton, a hamlet of two hundred souls, only ten miles distant. Jandra was in the lead as she and her companions approached the town. In the weeks before Hex had stolen her genie, her senses had been fine-tuned by the device, so she still had excellent night vision. A cloudy sky without a hint of stars hung over them. They'd ridden slowly for the last few hours; it was too dark to ride a horse at a gallop.
They traveled in silence. Outside the walls of Dragon Forge they'd encountered the worst of the aftermath of the battle; week-old decaying corpses of sun-dragons, the stench of rot thick even though the cold snap of recent days had frozen the bodies. Lizard had clung to her tightly as they'd passed through the killing fields, trembling, from the cold or from fear she couldn't guess.
She'd half expected to find the town of Mullton razed by the retreating dragon armies. Thousands of earth- dragons and dozens of sun-dragons had fled in the aftermath of defeat. Burke had said there would be reprisals, earth-dragons attacking undefended human villages for revenge or banditry now that law and order had broken down. Yet, as they crested the top of the hill, she was relieved to see the village a few hundred yards away. Little stone cottages were interspersed with log cabins in a model of rustic serenity.
She felt a tension she hadn't been fully aware of until now pass from her body. She breathed a little easier to find this vision of peace so close to Dragon Forge. Except, as she took that easy, deep breath, she couldn't help but taste rotting meat in the air, the same battlefield stench she thought they'd left behind. She noticed that there wasn't a single light in the village. No candle, lantern, torch, or fireplace burned anywhere that she could spot. As they rode past the silent farm houses, no dogs barked as they caught the scent of strangers passing by.
Anza quickened the pace of her horse and caught up to Jandra. She held the reins in one hand, in her other she held a drawn sword.
Jandra asked, 'Do you think-?'
Anza brought her fingers to her lips and guided her horse into the lead. She sat tensely in the saddle, her head turning back and forth as she watched the shadows. They rode toward the center of town, toward a stone well. Behind the well was some sort of monument, like a small pyramid of piled round stones. As they drew closer, Jandra realized they weren't stones.
One by one the four riders drew up in a line, halting before the well. All eyes were fixed on what lay beyond-a neatly stacked pyramid of heads, mostly human, a few dogs. The eyes were all hollow-the ground was littered with the black feathers of buzzards.
Vance was the first to speak. 'I've been to Mullton once or twice. My village used to trade with them.' He paused, swallowing hard. 'It's… it's only half a day's ride from here.'
Jandra noted that the heads were mostly women and children. All the adult men, no doubt, had been pressed into service by Ragnar for the invasion of Dragon Forge. His army had roamed the countryside, raiding villages, offering all men a choice: Join or die.
'There was a girl here named Eula,' Vance said, softly. 'She smiled at my brother Vinton last spring and he spent all summer thinking about her. I kept telling him he should ride up here and court her if he was that crazy about her.'
'Guess he missed his chance,' said Shay.
Jandra thought this was a particularly callous sentiment, but Vance didn't seem to take offense. 'Vinton died the night we took Dragon Forge. In the end, I guess it don't matter if he'd talked to her or not.' He shook his head. 'Looking at this, it's hard to know. Did we do the right thing? Was taking Dragon Forge worth this price?'
Shay said, 'I was taken from my family when I was four. Chapelion selected me because he thought the color of my hair went well with the decor. I've been whipped a hundred times, for little things, like getting ink smudges on a sheet of parchment. I can't pull my shoulders all the way straight because of the scars.'
He looked at Vance. 'I'm one of the men your brother died to free. If I ever have children, they'll be free because of him. I promise every one of them will understand the price that was paid.'
Vance responded with a brave, thin smile.
Anza raised her hand toward her cheek, as if to wipe away a tear, but turned her face away before Jandra could focus on it.
Jandra looked back at the mound of skulls. She felt the pressure of all their empty stares, accusing. Bitterwood had tried to tell her that peace with dragons wasn't possible. Even Pet, before he died, had preached that war was the only answer. Burke, the smartest man she'd ever met, didn't believe that dragons and men could ever share the earth.
So why was she cradling a dragon as if it were her own blood? Why, with the world so obviously split by this enormous rift between men and dragons, was she still straddling the chasm?
The world was broken. This pyramid of death bore plain testament to that. And yet, some tiny, small voice inside whispered that if she could only get her powers back, it wasn't too late to fix the world, to patch back together all the broken pieces and spare both man and dragon from the dark days coming.
'Let's ride on,' said Jandra. 'I'm not tired at all.'
BURKE WOKE TO feverish heat and darkness. He felt as if his brain had swollen to three times its normal size and was threatening to split his skull. He was awash in sweat. Invisible ants were crawling over his whole body, from scalp to toes.
Toes.
Since Charkon had broken his right leg, he'd not felt the toes of that foot, or anything much below his hip. Now, his leg felt restored-not good, for it was subject to the same fevered agony that plagued the rest of his body-but at least it felt like part of his body once more, not simply dead meat hanging from his hip.
Why hadn't Biscuit performed the amputation? He ran his hands beneath the heavy wool blankets down his right hip. The steel splint he'd fashioned was gone. His fingers traveled further, and found bandages.
His leg ended only six inches below his hip.
While his mind felt ghostly toes wiggling, his fingers revealed the truth. Biscuit had done what needed to be done. Burke let out a long, slow, shuddering breath. He felt a pang of loss as sharp and clear as if he were at his own funeral. He swallowed hard, feeling tears rising. He hadn't cried since he was six. His brothers had long ago pummeled this weakness out of him. He sniffed and clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to surrender to the grief. He closed his eyes tightly, grateful that he was alone in his bedroom. He was certain that if anyone had been here with him, he would have burst into tears. This feeling turned out to be wrong.
'It's been a long time, Kanati,' a raspy voice said by his bedside.
Burke sucked in a sharp gasp of air; his heart jumped around in his chest like a startled rabbit. He sat straight up, his eyes wide, searching the darkness for his mysterious visitor. By his bed sat a figure in a dark cloak, his face hidden by a hood. Burke was a rational man; until this moment he'd had no fear of some anthropomorphic manifestation of death coming to carry him away. His throat, wet with unshed tears only seconds before, went as dry as the parched fields around Conyers in the decade of drought.
'Who are you?' he tried to say. His lips moved, but only the barest sound came out.
The figure pulled back his hood, revealing an old man, his hair thin and gray, his skin wrinkled and leathery. 'Have I changed so much?'
Burke stared at the visitor. There was something familiar about his eyes. 'Bant?' he asked, his voice cracking. He swallowed and tried again. 'Bant Bitterwood?'
'I always wondered if you'd made it out of Conyers in one piece.'
Burke stared at the flat spot on the blanket where his leg should have been. 'Defeat left me with a few scars. It's taken a victory to rip me in two.'
'Not a bad victory,' said Bitterwood. 'The fields around here are full of dead dragons. The stench for miles is
