Ragnar stepped out, the cross of swords in his left hand. He slammed it onto the brick steps. The iron blades sang out like bells.
'There is no disease in Dragon Forge!' Ragnar shouted.
Stonewall furrowed his brow. There were whispers in the crowd.
'There is no disease in Dragon Forge!' Ragnar again cried out. 'The Lord spoke to me in thunder! He said we have no reason for fear! Our righteous cause will not be brought low by illness. He shields us from plague and fever. Any who were sick are now healed by the power of our faith!'
Stonewall looked over the ragged men who'd come from the quarantine barracks. While none of them were the picture of health, none of them were incapacitated either. None even looked feverish, save for one of the younger men, a boy really. Stonewall felt as if he should know this boy's name. At last, it hit him. This was Burr, the boy Jeremiah had vomited on. When he'd gone into the quarantine barracks, Burr had been a big lad, his face ruddy and plump. Now, his cheeks were pale and hollow. Could worry alone have produced this change?
'Every man is to return to his work when he leaves here,' said Ragnar. 'Let the dragons tremble when they see the smoke rising from Dragon Forge once more. The archers on the walls report they've seen the movements of catapults. Their pitiful engines of war are nothing compared to our cannons! Tonight, we will demonstrate our power! I want all the cannons currently ready placed upon the walls. We begin our barrage of the blockade tonight!'
Stonewall cleared his throat. He leaned over to Ragnar and whispered, 'Sir, there are only five spots along the wall that can support the biggest cannons. We've been working to reinforce the wall for more, but…'
Ragnar answered him by shouting to the crowd. 'By nightfall, we will have fifty large cannons upon the wall. Every man here is rested and ready! Our task is clear! Our cause is just! Remember the Free City!'
The crowd cheered at these sacred words.
'Remember the Free City!'
Again they roared.
'Remember the Free City!'
Now even the sad looking men from the quarantine barracks pumped their fists in the air and shouted.
Save for Burr. The boy, already pale, grew paler still. His eyes rolled up into his head and he fell forward onto the brick steps at Ragnar's feet.
The men closest to the Ragnar who'd witnessed the boy fall stopped shouting. Like a wave, the cries of war faded and confused, hissing whispers spread from the front of the crowd to the back.
'The boy is overcome with excitement!' Ragnar shouted. 'There is no disease in Dragon Forge.'
Every man pushed away from Burr's unconscious form, deeper back into the crowd, standing as if there was an unseen wall that wouldn't allow them to be closer than twenty feet of the boy.
Stonewall stepped down and rolled the boy over. He felt as hot as a just-fired gun barrel. Steeling himself, Stonewall pushed back the boy's lips. His gums were puss yellow.
From the man standing nearest, he heard the whisper, 'Yellow-mouth!'
Ten seconds later, there was full bore panic through the streets. Men were shouting. There was a shrill cry of pain near the back of the crowd as a man was trampled.
'Be still!' Ragnar shouted. 'Have faith! Remember the Free City! Remember the Free City!'
The screams of fear only grew louder as the crowd streamed away.
'There's… there's no disease in…,' Ragnar's voice trailed off as he looked toward the heavens. His fingers went limp and the iron cross slipped from his grasp.
Stonewall looked up as the bright sky dimmed.
The sky was full of rotting human corpses, flying over the walls of Dragon Forge in long, graceful arcs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT:
THE PATH OF SCARS
ALTHOUGH IT WAS still light outside, the interior of the barn in which Bitterwood and his companions stood was full of flickering candles that gave the air the scent of tallow and beeswax. They waited in silence as the woman who'd led them to the barn knelt in front of a canvas-covered platform.
Bitterwood was growing impatient with the woman's lengthy prayer. Jeremiah was heavy in his arms, but he didn't dare put him down. He felt that, as long as he was holding the boy, he was holding onto the last spark of life that still glowed inside the child.
Hex had settled into a seated position. Bitterwood spotted the weakness in the giant dragon's limbs. Normally, when he witnessed weakness in a dragon, it triggered the same instinct a dog feels when seeing a wounded rabbit. Now, Bitterwood felt something approaching sympathy for the sun-dragon. After cradling Jeremiah for so long, he no longer took any pleasure at seeing even a dragon suffer.
Burke joined Hex on the floor, as did Thorny. Vance and Zeeky were still on their feet, as was Poocher, who paced back and forth nervously.
'Can't you make him sit still?' Bitterwood grumbled.
Zeeky shrugged. 'This is the barn where he was penned up with the other animals the last time we were at the Free City. He remembers the smell of the place. Smells get him agitated.'
Poocher looked at her and grunted.
'For instance,' she said, 'he smells a sun-dragon here.'
Bitterwood looked at Hex, who possessed the distinctive draconic odor of rotten fish.
'I mean he smells a second sun-dragon,' said Zeeky.
Before they could discuss this further, a throng of young women in white robes, their faces hidden by hoods, filed into the barn. They quickly lined the walls.
Bitterwood was assessing their potential threat when Vance, Burke, and Thorny all gasped. Hex's scales suddenly bristled. Poocher squealed. Bitterwood turned to the canvas platform and found Blasphet seated before him, not twenty feet distant. Hovering a few inches above Blasphet's ebony brow was a glowing circlet of silver he knew well: Jandra's tiara.
Blasphet eyed him with an unblinking gaze. The great beast's mouth opened as he said, 'The light is better than when we first met, oh Ghost Who Kills.' He narrowed his eyes. 'You're shorter than I remembered.'
Bitterwood dropped to one knee before Blasphet. He leaned forward and carefully placed Jeremiah onto the straw-covered floor. He stroked the boy's cheek to brush the hair from his face. He turned his head toward Hex, who looked dumbfounded by Blasphet's sudden appearance. Vance, too, was standing slack-jawed, oblivious to Burke and Thorny, who were trying to stand.
The only ones nearby who still had their wits about them were Zeeky and Poocher. With the bristles along his spine raised like little spears, and his head tilted forward to turn his small tusks into weapons, Poocher looked ready for battle.
'Protect the boy,' he said.
When he rose, all his gentle, fatherly instincts were gone. His bow was in his hand as if it had always been there. He plucked an arrow from his quiver with as little thought as he gave to commanding the beat of his heart.
Blasphet rose, his serpentine neck snaking toward the beams of the loft. The light from the tiara cast shadows down his torso. 'Put down your bow. There's no need-'
Before he could finish his sentence, Bitterwood fired. The arrow raced straight toward Blasphet's eye. A full foot from its target, a gleaming tomahawk flashed across its path, knocking it away. Bitterwood didn't pause to ponder its source. He already had another arrow aimed. With a zzzmmm, his second arrow flew, flashing toward the black beast's gut.
With a speed that was difficult for even his eyes to follow, one of the white-robed disciples leapt into the arrow's path, her slender arm whipping out. She caught the shaft in mid-flight. Her hood fell back, revealing a woman with deeply-tanned skin and jet black hair.
'Stop!' Burke shouted.
