Flight of the Fallen

20 The Feast of Dragon Blood

Crucible paced at the end of his chain and snorted a deep, rumbling rush of anger. The chain infuriated him. It was only bolted around one leg and it certainly was not strong enough to hold him, but it was the principle of the matter. The Tarmaks had put it on him to make a point, that he was chained to them and that he was not going to leave until they decided to let him go. He whipped his tail around in an agitated fit of rage, nearly squashing three inattentive guards, and stamped back to the tree that held the other end of the chain.

The movement set off the pain in his shoulders again. He twitched and squirmed to rub his back against the tree branches, but his efforts only made the pain more irritating. The barbed dart was starting to drive him mad. Every time he moved his forequarters, every time he lifted his wings or shrugged his shoulders or took a step, the barb rubbed a little deeper into muscles that were already swollen and inflamed. The wound was a constant source of nagging pain and frustration. His thirst was beginning to annoy him as well. He was a bronze dragon, a creature of land and water whose affinity for lakes, rivers, and seas always kept him near places of abundant water. These stupid Tarmaks did not seem to understand that. They had been marching beside the swift Toranth River for several days, and all they had allowed him to drink was a few buckets of water. Buckets! His throat and skin were so parched that he could have drunk a stock pond dry.

He twisted around to look at the river only a few hundred feet away. It was nearly dark, but he could smell the water and hear its rustle. He glared at the tree and made up his mind.

One quick precise beam of his breath weapon seared the tree in half lengthwise and melted through the chain. As the two halves of the large tree sheered sideways and crashed to the ground, he tugged his foot loose and galloped toward the river, ignoring the shouts of the Tarmaks behind him. Water splashed in sheets around his feet. He charged out into the fast-flowing current to the deepest channel of the river, stretched out his legs, and lowered his bulk into the cool water. He drank and splashed and drank again until he could feel his body relax and his thirst ease. Eddying around him, the water cooled his wound and washed the dust from his torn wings.

Finally the dragon submerged himself as deep as he could go in the river’s bed and let his head rest on the water’s surface. His eyes closed.

“Are you quite through?” a harsh voice shouted from the riverbank. He opened one eye and saw the Akkad-Ur standing on the bank, his guards around him holding torches and longbows.

“No,” he grumbled.

“I could have my guards kill you,” the Akkad-Ur warned.

“Don’t bother,” said Crucible in acid tones of resentment. “I will go nowhere. I just need water.” His lean head floated near the bank like a large and bilious crocodile. “If you want to keep me alive so you can kill me later, you have to let me have more water than a bucket’s worth.”

The Akkad-Ur jerked his head at his guards to lower their weapons. He watched Crucible thoughtfully for a few minutes then said, “You should tell us if you are in need.”

Crucible’s hooded eyes glared balefully at him out of the darkness. “Very well. I need you to get this thing out of my back and let me go.”

“Food and water will be sufficient.”

“Then it had better be riverfuls of water. Not buckets.”

“We are close to the river’s ford. We will soon be entering the realm of Duntollik,” the Akkad-Ur informed him. “What will you do when we enter the desert?”

Crucible snorted a huff of hot air and steam in a small geyser. “I know where we are,” he growled. But he did not answer the question.

The Akkad-Ur shrugged. “Good. Then you know we will soon expect you to fight. When battle comes, I will place you in the front to decimate their forces. Whether there is water or not.”

Crucible glowered at the Tarmak from his watery bed, his ears flattened to his head. “You can put me anywhere you want, but I will not kill innocent people.”

“All dragons kill. They are the children of Kadulawa’ah. It is in their nature.”

“Who is Kadulawaha?”

“The goddess of the Descent,” replied the Akkad-Ur, ignoring the dragon’s mispronunciation. “The rebellion of the sky gods was instigated by her and her children.”

Crucible hissed another geyser of steam. “We are the children of Paladine. Keep your blue-skinned mythology to yourself.”

The Tarmak crossed his arms and regarded the big bronze like an interesting specimen he was about to pin to a board. “I do not understand you. I offer you a partnership. I will give you lordship over Missing City. I will give you treasure, authority. I will give you freedom, if you join us willingly.”

“I have seen how you deal with your allies,” responded Crucible with a snarl. “The treasure you offer is stolen, the lordship rests on the bodies of my friends. The only freedom you will give me is death.”

The Akkad-Ur went on without a pause as if he had not heard him. “And yet you throw it all away for a woman. A human woman who will age and die in only the blink of a draconic eye. You are a fool.”

“Then I am a fool, for I will not fight for you.”

“Then your woman dies.”

“She is not my woman.”

The Akkad-Ur crossed his arms. “I see. Then perhaps it will not bother you if I told you she is already dead.”

Crucible’s head reared out of the water, creating a wave that washed up the bank as far as the Akkad-Ur’s sandaled feet. His eyes glowed a fierce yellow; his wet horns glittered in the torchlight. His rational mind told him he was being baited, but his more passionate draconic nature burned with rage. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing, really,” the Akkad-Ur said coolly. “I was merely making a point. You care very much for this woman.”

But Crucible would not be placated. “What have you done to her? I want to see her now! Show me she is still alive!”

“I think not. I will leave that to your imagination. Is the Rose Knight still alive, waiting to come rescue you at her first opportunity? Or did she die in the slave pens after my officers made use of her?”

Crucible’s roar shook the camp, sent the horses plunging in panic, and the Tarmaks running for their weapons. He sprang upright in falls of cascading water and sprang at the Akkad-Ur, who was still standing calmly on the bank. He reached a shallow shoal not far from the water’s edge when the pain hit him. It exploded between his shoulder blades, seared up his neck and down his back, and burned into his brain like a firebrand. His strength turned to ash, and his legs fell out from under him. He crashed into the mud and gravel writhing in agony. Red ribbons of pain twisted through his mind. The dragonfear pulsed from the dragon’s body in almost palpable waves, but this time the Akkad-Ur was ready. When the terror squeezed his belly and his men fell to their knees around him, he twisted his fist and brought his spell to an end.

The pain stopped and Crucible lay still, gasping in the shallow water.

“I fear you have forgotten, Dragon,” said the Akkad-Ur, “who holds the end of your chain. The dart of the Abyssal Lance in your back has now moved another inch or two closer to your heart. It is nearly buried beneath your scales. Is this what you want? To die in consuming agony on a muddy riverbank?”

Crucible groaned. “I just want to see her.”

“No. I think another form of persuasion would be more effective to curb your belligerence and change your mind about your participation.” He snapped his fingers and two tall Keena priests in sleeveless robes came out of his tent carrying a large iron box suspended between two poles. They set the box down by the Akkad-Ur’s feet, bowed, and handed him a pair of heavy leather gloves. Their faces expressionless, they stood back to watch.

The bronze raised a suspicious eye. He waited warily while the Akkad-Ur donned the gloves and unlocked the box. Using some care, he lifted the hinged lid and reached inside. He pulled out an oblong orb large enough to fill both hands, as sleek as polished metal, and the color of pale gold. A brass dragon egg. He set it on top of the box and angled it to his satisfaction.

Crucible recognized the egg and felt a bolt of dread go through him that was almost worse than the barbed dart. “No,” he whispered.

“We keep these quite warm to incubate them,” the Akkad-Ur informed him. “We have fourteen left. We had more, but we have used them for various things. I find the inherent power of magic in the embryos to be most useful.”

The Akkad-Ur pulled out a large dagger. In front of Crucible’s horrified gaze, he stabbed the blade into the top of the egg, pulled it out, and stabbed again. He paid no attention to the albumen and blood that trickled out from the break. Carefully measuring and stabbing, he cut a circular hole in the egg and pried off the top. An attendant brought a large cauldron.

Grief stricken, Crucible could only stare as the Akkad-Ur tipped the egg over and poured out the contents into the cauldron. He choked back a cry as a bloodied, half-formed embryo slid out and fell with a splat into the ruined contents of its egg.

“There are thirteen more,” the Akkad-Ur said. “We will kill each one before your eyes if you do not obey my every command.”

Crucible glared at him, hate in his glowing eyes.

“Do we understand each other?”

The dragon forced a nod. What he had just seen left him speechless.

The Tarmak turned his back on the dragon and raised his dripping dagger over his head. “The feast of dragon blood will be prepared tonight! Who will partake of the offering?”

A roar answered him as every warrior around him raised his weapon and shouted.

The two Keena collected the heavy cauldron and carried it to a large fire. While Crucible watched, grim and shaking, they chopped the embryo to bits, mixed its body back into the egg, and added powders and liquids until they had made a foul looking soup. Other priests gathered and began chanting and beating drums while the ghastly soup cooked. The call of the drums sounded through the huge camp and brought the Tarmaks crowding around the clearing. When the potion was cooked to everyone’s satisfaction, the head priest pulled out the small, underdeveloped dragonet’s skull, filled the brain pan with liquid, and gave it to the Akkad-Ur.

Bathed in torchlight, the Akkad-Ur faced the east and raised the skull in salute. “To the godson, Amarrel, Keeper of Dragons, Champion of the White Flame, beloved of the goddess, we who are about to fight in your name, salute you!” So saying, he brought the skull to his lips and drank the contents in one long swallow. The Tarmaks howled their approval in time to the beating of the drums.

Crucible turned away. He heard the warriors rush forward to get their smaller shares of the potion, but he could not watch it. He didn’t know why they cooked and ate the baby dragon or what purpose it served for them. All he knew was the baby had been killed because of him, because he had been greedy for water and lost his temper. If Iyesta had been alive, she would never have forgiven him.

His thoughts went back to iron box. It was heavy and rather large. Where would the Tarmaks store thirteen of those things? And how did they keep them warm? He tried to dredge out of his memory everything he had seen in the massive column of Tarmaks, wagons, beasts of burden, horses, chariots, and the slave train, but he could not remember seeing anything large enough to haul thirteen of those big iron boxes. Maybe they were scattered throughout the column on various baggage wagons. He didn’t know. Maybe the Akkad-Ur was bluffing and only a had a few while the remaining eggs stayed safely in Missing City. It did seem rather ridiculous to bring fourteen dragon eggs on an invasion. But how could he know for sure? Did he want to risk any more of the eggs?

Linsha and the dragon eggs. Two invisible lengths of chain far stronger than anything the Tarmaks could forge from steel.

Growling deep in his throat, Crucible curled up in the shallows of the river and brooded on revenge.