"Bant?"
"Ah," said Burke. "You're just a nobody using his name."
"I prefer to think I'm somebody putting his name to better use than he is," said Pet. "I've met the real Bitterwood. He's not as heroic as you might think."
"I've fought beside the real Bitterwood," said Burke. "You're right. He's a psychopath. All he had going for him was his obsessive hatred of dragons. He wouldn't have been out here doing this clean-up work. Nothing would have stopped him from being inside Dragon Forge killing every dragon he laid eyes on."
"That's where I should be," said Pet. "I don't belong out here killing innocent people."
"Gleaners aren't innocent," said Burke. "They're a part of the infrastructure that has kept the sun-dragons in power for centuries. I don't like it either, but it helps to think that we're not simply killing people, we're breaking cogs in a vast machine of death and oppression."
Pet nodded. He felt tears welling in his eyes. "It makes sense. But I can't do it. It was bad enough to kill a grown man. I could never kill a woman or child."
"Then don't," said Burke. "Dragon Forge is back that way. It's where I'd be right now, except Ragnar thinks I'm too valuable to risk in the assault. If I die, capturing the foundry loses some of its strategic advantage."
Pet wiped his cheek, ashamed of his weakness. He desperately wanted to change the subject. "That's some fancy hardware," said Pet. "Are you going to build those for everyone?"
"This?" said Burke, running his hands along the gauntlet. "This is just a gadget I'm tuning for Big Chief. The disks are lethal at close range, and I can get off about thirty a minute if the damn thing doesn't jam, but after about fifteen yards the accuracy falls off at a laughable rate. No, when we get our hands on the forge, I have a much more fruitful item to mass produce."
"What?" Pet asked.
Burke reached for his thick leather belt, which was studded with countless tools in specialized pockets, from hammers to tweezers to wrenches to screwdrivers. He flipped open a large pouch on the side and produced two palm-sized flat ovals of polished steel with deep grooves cut into the edges. "These wheels aren't much to look at now," said Burke, "but a hundred of these things are going to kill more sun-dragons than if I built a thousand Big Chiefs."
Pet couldn't even imagine how that was possible. The wheels weren't sharp at all, and they didn't look heavy enough to do any real damage if you threw them at something. Still, he'd heard that Burke was a genius. Pet took it on faith that these wheels were important.
"Get to the forge," said Burke, walking over to the man Pet had stabbed. With a grunt, he pulled Pet's sword free. "The battle's still going on. Kill as many dragons as you can. Anza and I will be heading into the city come dawn. For now, we'll help clean up the remaining gleaners."
"Yes sir," said Pet.
"Before you run off, what's your real name, boy?"
"Petar Gondwell," he said. Feeling a sudden need for full disclosure, he said, "Pet."
"Don't get yourself killed tonight if you can help it," said Burke. "The world still needs a few men like you, with the courage to stand up to thugs and the moral fiber to at least feel some remorse at the thought of killing a fellow man. There aren't many like you left in the world."
Pet felt mildly disoriented; had the world truly turned so topsy-turvy that he was now being praised for his morality?
Burke tossed the sword toward Pet. An image quickly flashed through Pet's mind of the sword slicing off his fingers as he caught it, but then his years of practice as a juggler took over and he casually snatched it from the air by its hilt. He placed it in its scabbard and ran back toward Dragon Forge to discover who he was. A moral man, a coward, or just another cog in a vast machine.
Chapter Twenty-Three:
Click Click Clang
"Interesting," said Blasphet, leaning close to Graxen. Unlike the dead-meat breath possessed by other sun-dragons, Blasphet's breath smelled almost medicinal, a not unpleasant mingling of camphor and cloves. "Your pupils are barely dilated, and your respiration is only mildly labored. The first time I used my paralyzing smoke on Metron, I drew a sample of his blood. I altered the formula to make him immune. It's fortunate he has no other relatives here. Apparently his blood kin share the resistance."
"Wh-why?" said Metron, still curled in a ball on the floor. "Why would you spare me?"
"I find your inner torments delightful," said Blasphet, turning from Graxen to address Metron. "Knowing that your old lusts have brought doom to your species must feel like a knife in your brain. Any brute could cause you physical agony. Only a god could flay you from the inside."
"Why do you hate him so," asked Graxen. "Why would you attack the Nest? What grudge do you bear against sky-dragons?" The anger in the voice prompted the score of armed women who remained in the room to form a wall between Graxen and Blasphet. Graxen felt too lightheaded to overpower them. If he did defeat them, then what? Blasphet was twice Graxen's size and his claws were no doubt poisoned. All Graxen could do for now was stand over Nadala's unconscious form. If anyone approached, he would fight to his last breath to defend her.
From above, valkyries cried out in surprise and anger before their voices trailed into silence.
"This has nothing to do with grudges," said Blasphet. "Metron, as I built the Free City, you told me I used the gloss of philosophy to justify my cruelties. Your words haunted me during my recent imprisonment."
"I'm sorry," Metron whimpered.
"You need not apologize. You were correct. I've justified decades of murder by telling myself that it was an intellectual pursuit. I told myself that when all the secrets of death were unraveled, I would hold the key to unquenchable life. Now, you've guided me to a much simpler truth: I take pleasure in the suffering of others."
Blasphet placed his fore-talon on Metron's shoulder and lifted him, helping him stand once more. Metron showed no resistance; he would stand if Blasphet wished him to stand. His eyes were fixed on the floor in a look of utter defeat.
"There's a value in discovering oneself," said Blasphet. "The pleasure I feel in the suffering I cause is nearly sexual in nature. In retrospect, it seems obvious. Sex is pleasurable because it leads to the propagation of life. The procreative orgasm fills the body with bliss as it taps into a universal creative force. Yet, given the duality of this world, mustn't the universe possess a counterforce? An opposite yet equal climax that results when the energy of destruction is unleashed? Just listen to the screams above us."
Blasphet cocked his head to better hear the distant cries, his eyes wandering dreamily over the carpet of dead valkyries that covered the Thread Room.
"Never," he said, his voice trembling with excitement, "never have I felt more divine."
Graxen felt sickened by the Murder God's words. He wanted to leap at the monster and claw the look of serene satisfaction from his eyes. Yet, the second he moved, he knew the Sisters of the Serpent would slay both him and Nadala. He had to do something. But what?
The Murder God's reverie was broken by a commotion from the stairs that led up into the rest of the Nest. A Sister of the Serpent leapt down the stairs, panting loudly. She tripped on the wing of a slain valkyrie as she ran into the room, landing on her hands and knees. Breathless, she gasped out the words, "Valkyries. In the sky. Out of range."
"How many," asked Blasphet.
"A hundred. Maybe more."
"I prepared for this," said Blasphet. "Smoke and knives were never sufficient to finish the task. This is why I had a crew capture the bell tower. Run there and tell them to ring the alarm. It's time for phase two."
But, before the girl could run back up the steps, the bells began to ring on their own. Graxen listened to the familiar sound of the gates and grates sliding into place, sealing the Nest. The machinery groaned and grumbled in every wall.