She pulled free the arrow that pierced Blasphet's cheek. Blasphet slumped, and the woman caught his head on her shoulders.
"Your ruse worked, O Murder God," she said. "You trusted me with the knowledge that, should you ever face execution, you would simulate death by dosing yourself with your own poison. Your faith in me was not in vain. I found you in time to administer the antidote."
"Uuuuuhh," Blasphet groaned, feeling a haunting absence in his mouth.
"Bitterwood would have done far worse to you if he'd thought you were still alive," Colobi said. "You'll survive this, my Lord. I'll restore you to health. For now, we must flee. The invasion of the Nest wasn't completely successful. It's only a matter of time before the valkyries search these tunnels."
Blasphet nodded. He could barely feel his hind-talons as Colobi helped him rise. She handed him a valkyrie spear to use as a staff so that he could support himself on his injured hamstring. Colobi stayed beneath his wing as she guided him further down the dark tunnel. Together, they limped away from the Nest.
Blasphet's throat ached as his lungs sucked in the damp air. He could hear his heart pounding with the effort of motion, feel his pulse pressing against the back of his eyes. He'd never felt such misery. Every step reminded him he'd escaped the embrace of death to once more endure the agony of being alive.
Alive.
He chuckled at the thought. His tongueless laugh was an eerie sound that caused Colobi to shudder beneath his wing.
Alive.
Oh, Bitterwood, he mused, his first fully conscious thought since waking. What a pathway to glory you have opened.
After he left Burke, Pet had run into a pair of earth-dragons fleeing Dragon Forge. Pet had killed them, but in the heat of battle he'd lost his bearings. After running more than a mile away from the fortress, he'd finally reoriented himself on a tall hill. Now, he raced through the maze of rusting ruins surrounding Dragon Forge toward the southern gate. A small canal ran along the southern road to the nearby river, the outflow of the fortress gutters and sewers. In the smoky moonlight, Pet couldn't help but notice that the water in the canal ran dark red.
The southern gate was wide open and undefended. If any earth-dragons wanted to escape via this route, Pet saw nothing to stop them. Hopefully, anyone fleeing the fort would run into Frost and his men. Pet ran through the gates and quickly discovered that escape simply hadn't been an option for most residents. Everywhere he looked, he saw slain earth-dragons. More than a few of Ragnar's men were among the dead as well. In the distance, toward the center of town, he could still hear the shouts of combat. He ran toward the noise, his bow at the ready.
At last, he reached the battle. Here at the heart of Dragon Forge, beside a large building belching smoke into the sky from its great chimney, the toughest warriors of the earth-dragons had rallied. A hundred heavily-armored earth-dragons had circled, swinging battle axes that sent human limbs flying with each chop. The hundred dragons were better armed, better armored, and better trained than the men they faced. The only strategy of the humans was to charge the earth-dragons in waves. The dragons were killing five men for every dragon that fell, but the dragons were outnumbered ten to one. Pet climbed atop a rain barrel to see over the heads of his fellow humans and began to let his arrows fly into the center of the circled dragons. Amidst the chaotic action, he wasn't certain if his shots were finding any weak points in the dragons' armor, but still he fired. Through sheer overwhelming force the dragons were falling; one hundred became ninety, became eighty, became fifty, and at last a tipping point was passed. The bodies of the slain dragons became a mountain that the attackers had to climb to reach their remaining foes.
Rising atop this mountain of flesh was Ragnar, his beard and hair caked with gore, his body a network of cuts and gashes. He fought with twin scimitars, his eyes flashing with holy fury as he hacked at every dragon that climbed up the mound toward him. The dragons seemed to understand that killing him was their last hope of holding the city. They kept climbing up, and only the slipperiness of the slope and Ragnar's superior position were keeping him alive. Ragnar slashed savagely at two dragons who climbed before him, but seemed unaware of a third to his back. Pet drew his bow and took careful aim. The dragon was partially blocked by Ragnar. If he was off by inches, he'd kill the prophet instead of the dragon. He imagined the arrow sticking out of the dragon's throat, in the gap between its breast-plate and its helmet. He let the arrow fly.
He didn't even see it hit, but the dragon suddenly toppled backwards. Ragnar was safe. Again and again, Pet placed the arrows in his quiver against the bowstring and imagined a dragon dying.
Moments later, his quiver was empty and the battle was over. The armored dragons who'd made the final stand were dead. Ragnar's men spread out, going from door to door, hunting for any dragons who might still be cowering within.
Ragnar fell to his knees atop the mountain of corpses. At first, Pet thought the hairy man he was succumbing to his wounds. The prophet instead pressed his palms together and closed his eyes, giving thanks to his unseen Lord for the victory they had achieved this night.
Pet joined with a small band of warriors who kicked in the door of a nearby house and barged within. It was some sort of mess hall, with rows of tables and chairs that the warriors knocked over as they searched for more victims. The air took on the cabbage and chili stench of goom as someone smashed a barrel at the back of the room. Pet had never been able to stomach the stuff, so this was no great loss.
Pet found stairs leading down into a cellar. He discovered a small lantern next to the stairs, the wick showing only the barest blue flame. He let the wick out until it glowed brightly, then headed down the steps. He had a fantasy that he would find a well-stocked wine cellar below; sun-dragons were fond of wine, so perhaps earth-dragons kept it around as well. After the events of the night, Pet had a powerful thirst.
To his relief, he saw rows and rows of bottles. To his sorrow he saw they weren't wine, but mostly preserved foods. Unlike the omnivorous winged dragons, earth-dragons ate meat almost exclusively. The bottles were filled with foods Pet recognized: picked ham-hocks, brined eggs, and red sausages preserved in vinegar. He'd had this type of sausage before and liked them, but right now he had no appetite.
There were other things in bottles Pet didn't recognize, or at least hoped he didn't. Was this jar full of brains? Were these pickled eye-balls? He moved to the next row, still hoping there might be wine.
He paused before a bottle with contents that caught his eye. Hands. Human hands. Female, to judge from the size, though it was difficult to say. The fingers were bloated and wrinkled by the pickling brine. The flesh was a disturbing shade of pink, colored by the red chilies that floated in the jar. His stomach twisted into a knot. He was grateful he hadn't eaten anything in several hours.
Then his eyes caught sight of another bottle full of small lizards. Pet drew closer, in sickened fascination. He wasn't sure what kind of lizards these were. They had heads like turtles, but their hands were more like earth-dragon's and… Pet suddenly knew. The earth-dragons pickled and ate their own young. Something inside him snapped.
Pet marched back up the cellar stairs, to go back out among the gleaner mounds to hunt for survivors be they dragon or human. Burke was right. Anyone who had aided the dragons was part of a vast engine of death. In his old life as the pet of a sun-dragon, he owed every luxury he'd ever enjoyed to this system. Every silk pillow he'd slept upon, every golden cup he'd drunk from, every ivory comb he'd ever pulled through his locks-all were the product of an economy of enslavement. All the fine things he'd ever enjoyed, he now knew, were the gifts of monsters.