Dragonseed

the amount of liquid pouring from him. He hadn't eaten a thing all day, and had only taken a few sips of water.

Presser continued to giggle, but the rest of the crowd grew deathly quiet. The circle of men drew back further, dispersing. Some of the men took off running. Only as he watched the frightened reaction of the crowd did Presser's giggles trail off.

Jeremiah stared with unfocused eyes as a pair of black boots came up from behind the crowd. The crowd parted at their approach. The man who wore the boots fearlessly approached Jeremiah, kneeling before him, rolling him onto his back. The man was white haired, his face dimpled with countless scars. His left ear was nothing but a mess of scabby ribbons. The white-haired man looked down with concerned eyes. On one of his hands, several of the fingers were set in splints. He pressed the back of this hand to Jeremiah's forehead. He pulled open Jeremiah's mouth with his good hand, tilting to better see inside, and frowned.

'Whose son is this?' the man asked the crowd.

'He arrived alone,' said Presser. 'Said he'd escaped from Vulpine himself. He's been working in the kitchen since.'

'What's his name?'

'We've been calling him Rabbit.'

Jeremiah swallowed, then whispered, 'Juh…Jeremiah, sir.'

'Where'd you come from?'

'F-from the m-mountains,' he said, his teeth beginning to chatter as chills seized him. 'B-Big Lick. I w-was sold into s-slavery.'

'To which dragon?' the man asked.

'R-r-rorg.'

A second pair of boots approached. These were the biggest feet he'd ever seen on a man. A deep voice asked, 'What's happening, Frost?'

Frost shook his head. 'Stonewall, you don't want to know.'

'I'll be the judge of that,' said the big man.

'This boy has yellow-mouth. Probably contracted it in Rorg's cavern.'

'You're right,' said Stonewall. 'I didn't want to know that.'

'And he's been working in the kitchen.'

'Oh.' Stonewall was silent as he contemplated this news. 'Can yellow-mouth spread through-'

'Yes,' said Frost. 'Since he can still talk, he's not yet in the final phase. He won't live too many more days, though. I had the disease when I was his age, but I was healthy. He's half-starved and infested with lice. He won't make it.'

Stonewall rubbed his eyes. 'How widespread do you think-'

'He worked in the damn kitchen,' snapped Frost. 'Everyone in Dragon Forge is at risk.'

'You've survived the disease,' said Stonewall, sounding calm and thoughtful. 'Others have, too. Spread the word that I want anyone who's survived yellow-mouth to gather at the kitchen. The men who this boy has been in contact with will need to be quarantined. We need to find out what his kitchen duties were. If he was in contact with the food before it was cooked, it may be that the grace of God has spared us. Not much survives the cooking here.'

'This isn't something to joke about.'

'Nor is it something to panic about,' said Stonewall. 'We have to have faith we'll get through this. We'll control the outbreak. We'll isolate those most exposed. We'll start a regimen of checking people's gums daily. Swift action is the key.'

Frost scooped Jeremiah up and slung him unceremoniously over his shoulder. 'Swift action works for me. You go update Ragnar. I'll take care of the boy.'

Stonewall looked at Frost. 'When you say take care of the boy…?'

'This isn't the time to argue.'

Stonewall frowned. 'After what you did to Biscuit, I-'

'I know what I'm doing. Go!'

Stonewall slowly turned away, then loped off on search of Ragnar.

Jeremiah kicked as Frost turned and walked in the opposite direction, but Frost only grasped his legs tighter. Jeremiah lifted his head, straining to see where they were going. They were heading toward the foundry. The double doors stood open-even in the dead of winter, the interior of the foundry was sweltering. The doors looked like the gates of hell. It was dark and shadowy within. White flames danced above a red stream of molten iron flowing into molds.

'Put me down,' Jeremiah said. 'I can walk.'

'You can run, you mean,' said Frost.

'I won't run. I'm sick.'

'I know,' said Frost. 'Very sick. You're going to die, boy. Yellow-mouth is a bad way to go. It's not a quick death. So, I'm going to throw you in the furnace.'

Jeremiah didn't believe him. 'What are you really going to do?'

Frost chuckled, but didn't answer.

They passed through the door into the dark interior. The heat jumped dramatically-it was hotter than the kitchen, a dry, parched blast that sopped up the sweat beading on his skin. The noise of the foundry was as hellish as the swelter, with the constant roar of furnaces stoked by mule-driven bellows, and the banging of countless hammers against anvils.

'Y-you're really going to do it?' Jeremiah asked.

'I'll snap your neck first. I'm not cruel, boy. Only practical.'

Jeremiah still felt dizzy, but panic sent a surge of strength through his limbs. He beat Frost's ribs with his fists. The man's broad back sounded like a drum. He kicked furiously, but to no effect. Frost didn't even flinch.

'Open the furnace door!' Frost yelled. 'Then, get back! This boy has yellow-mouth!'

Slowly, the noise changed throughout the foundry. Hammers fell silent and men began to shout, 'Yellow- mouth!'

'Don't panic, damn it!' Frost shouted. 'Fear is more dangerous than the disease. We're taking swift, decisive action to stop the spread. Gather round. Watch me. This boy is the only one we know of who's sick. I want you all to see that we're stronger than any disease!'

There was a horrible groan as an iron door swung open. The roar of flames grew louder, and the back of Jeremiah's legs grew hotter. Red light cast a stark black shadow on the wall behind them.

Jeremiah screamed, 'Please don't-' His hands flailed around. His fingers fell onto the scabby strips of flesh that had once been Frost's ear. He gripped these shreds of skin for all he was worth.

Frost screeched, pulled Jeremiah from his shoulder, and threw him to the hot brick floor. Jeremiah rolled onto his back, skittering and kicking to get away. He scooted backward until he was pressed against a low brick wall.

'Until now, I wasn't planning on enjoying this,' Frost said, rubbing his ear nub with his good hand. He pulled his fingers away; they were orange with blood and puss. He reached toward Jeremiah's face. 'Before I throw you in, I'm going to break every last damn fi-NNNG!'

Frost cried out in pain as an arrow erupted from his good hand. He drew back, staring at the missile that had entered the back of his wrist and passed through to the skin on the other side, pushing it out in a little pointy tent. The arrow was fletched with fresh green leaves that wilted in the sweltering heat of the foundry.

Frost craned his neck. 'Who?' he screamed. 'Who did this?'

From above, a voice answered. 'The boy is mine. You may not touch him.'

Frost and Jeremiah both looked into the shadows of the rafters. A human figure could barely be seen, the contours of his body distorted by a cloak. It was apparent, however, that he held a bow before him, with a second arrow aimed at Frost.

'This boy has yellow-mouth!' Frost protested. 'He's dying anyway!'

'We're all dying,' said the shadowy archer. 'Some of us today, perhaps. Step away.'

Frost walked backward, clutching his bleeding wrist with the thumb and splinted fingers of his other hand. The arrow swayed when he walked.

The archer dropped a pink rope down from the rafters. He slid down, landing at Jeremiah's feet. Jeremiah