“I agree,” Metron said. “My own studies tell a similar tale. The words and symbols lie before me on the page, but their context has been lost over the centuries.”
“Not lost,” Androkom interrupted. “Not any more. I understand the context. For too long we biologians placed our faith in books alone, searching them for secrets and wisdom, growing frustrated at the contradictions we’ve discovered. I have moved beyond books and followed the experiments described in the texts. Though I lack much of the equipment available to the ancients, I believe the experiments I’ve conducted to be valid. Let me travel to Albekizan’s palace. I can demonstrate my knowledge to Blasphet. He won’t be able to deny the truth.”
Metron contemplated Androkom’s offer. He envied the young dragon’s confidence, and the fearless way he desired to enter Blasphet’s presence.
“Very well,” Metron said. “Leave your post and travel here at once, my brother. How quickly can you arrive?”
“I anticipated your approval. I have already gathered the texts and materials I need. My flight will take two days, perhaps three, for my load is a heavy one.”
“Bring only what you must,” said Metron. “The Free City begins to fill. Time grows short if we’re to prevent the coming tragedy.”
Metron said farewell to his brother biologians and turned from the white chamber, stepping toward an unseen door. As he emerged into the library, he was greeted by a frightened cry and a flurry of papers thrown into the air. Wentakra, one of his newer assistants, stumbled away from him, looking prepared to run.
“Do not be alarmed,” Metron said. “It is only I.”
“B-but… the wall!” Wentakra said. “You passed through it like… like a-a-”
“Ghost? Yes. Try not to let it haunt you. Tell no one you witnessed this.”
“Y-yes, sir,” Wentakra said. Then his eyes brightened as if remembering something important. “Did Flanchelet find you? He searched for you in this chamber only moments ago.”
“No. I haven’t seen him. What did he want?”
“Albekizan wants to see you at once. Kanst has returned.”
“I know of his return. I witnessed it earlier.”
“They say he’s captured Bodiel’s killer.”
Metron needed half a second to fully grasp the importance of the statement. “Bitterwood?” he asked, his voice betraying his excitement. “They’ve captured Bitterwood?”
“So Flanchelet said.”
Metron turned at once from his subordinate, feeling a glimmer of hope as he hurried back through the maze of books. Perhaps Albekizan might change his mind about the genocide he had ordered once he had his revenge against Bitterwood. With any luck, Blasphet might be back in his cell before Androkom arrived.
Blasphet dismissed the messenger with a wave and turned back to the balcony overlooking the Free City. The balcony was decorated with pots of a dozen colorful species of plants, most of them poisonous. Normally, he felt something akin to peace standing in his little garden. Now, watching the new arrivals entering the city, peace was replaced with a cold anxiety. Bitterwood captured. Would Albekizan break his word and spare the remaining humans after slaking his thirst for revenge with Bitterwood’s blood? Many influential dragons spoke against the king’s plans. The labor of humans provided the wealth of the kingdom. They tended the fields, toiled in the mines, and harvested the sea. Perhaps in the afterglow of Bitterwood’s death, his brother’s reason would return. Blasphet couldn’t allow this.
Blasphet leapt from the balcony, feeling his feathers catch the wind, and for an instant all his worries vanished in the joy of flight as he slipped between the stars above and the ragged darkness beneath. For long years this pleasure had been denied him as he moldered in the dank recesses of the castle dungeon.
As he thought of the dungeon, the sensual pleasure of the air racing across his wings faded, the memory of the cruelty of cages returning to his mind. The bars of a cell could restrict humans in one plane-the horizontal. For a dragon, the pain was squared, the inability to walk about on the earth being secondary to the denial of flying above it. He added this thought to the list of debts to be repaid to the fellow members of his race once their usefulness to him had been exhausted.
As he turned a wide circle in the moonlight, his eyes caught movement outside the walls of the Free City. A handful of earth-dragons marched away from the gates, herding before them a mixed collection of cattle, sheep, and pigs. Blasphet turned the edges of his wings upwards, slowing himself to descend into their path.
“You there,” he said to the apparent leader of the earth-dragons who flinched at his sudden appearance. “Who are you? What are you doing with this livestock?”
The earth-dragon looked confused. “I’m Wyvernoth, sir. This livestock was taken from a human village. The citizens were taken to the Free City earlier today. We’re taking the spoils back to the barracks to stock the larders.”
“I gave no orders that the humans were to be deprived of their livestock. Take this herd back inside. The humans raised them and shall feast upon them.”
“Begging pardon, sir,” Wyvernoth said. “That don’t make no sense. Blasphet plans to kill all the humans. Why feed them?”
Blasphet realized that Wyvernoth had no idea who he was speaking with, which amused him. He said, “The reasoning is simple, my thick-headed friend. The food supply will remain constant in the Free City. Those now within the walls, and those arriving in the next few weeks, will want for little. As more humans arrive, their shares will grow smaller and smaller. Due to the simplicity of the human mind, the humans who were here first will blame their hunger upon the new humans who arrive, rather than the dragons who once fed them so generously.”
“They’ll be at each other’s throats, then,” Wyvernoth said. “They’ll be impossible to control, fighting and squabbling among themselves.”
“Precisely,” Blasphet said, then realized from Wyvernoth’s expression that the earth-dragon had raised this point as an argument against, rather than in support for, the plan.
“Whatever, sir,” Wyvernoth said. “When a sun-dragon wants something done, I do it. If you want the livestock inside, it goes inside.”
Blasphet again took to the air, disgusted by the encounter. Wyvernoth had obeyed him simply because of his race and not because of his reason. There were days when Blasphet felt like the only intelligent being in the world. No wonder he found the lives of others to have so little value. They were simply too stupid to live.
Breathlessly, Metron climbed the stairs leading to the king’s hall. He remembered wistfully the days when coming to this hall had been effortless, when it was just a simple matter of stretching his then young wings and letting the wind carry him to his destination. He felt a slight envy for the earth-dragons who would never have age steal the freedom of the sky away from them.
As he entered the flame-flickered hall, all eyes turned toward him.
Only the king’s most trusted advisors were present. Kanst stood before the throne platform, bedecked in full uniform, the steel plates and chain mail draped across his body in such a way as to reveal the well-defined musculature of a warrior still in his prime. Beside him stood Zanzeroth. A horrible black scab dominated the center of his swollen snout. Metron noticed the bandages on the hunter’s shoulders and legs, and the slight crook in his posture, as if standing caused him pain.
Like a chill in the air, Metron sensed the presence of one other. He turned to the far corner of the room where the torches cast deep shadows. Blasphet waited there, his dark scales blending with the gloom with only the red glow of his eyes in torchlight to reveal him. The Murder God’s gaze briefly acknowledged Metron’s glance, then looked beyond him to the arrival of the royal family.
Albekizan walked forward slowly, his untrimmed claws clicking on the marble floor. Tanthia followed Albekizan, her wings trailing long, lacy ribbons, the feather-scales around her eyes newly dyed in a rainbow of colors. Metron noted a faint blurring of the colors, however, as if recent tears had been shed and wiped away.