"Trust me," said Bitterwood. "Sun-dragon hide is tough enough. Hit a dragon on his breast scales with the edge of a sword and you'll be lucky to scratch him. But I can put an arrow through two inches of oak-a dragon's hide isn't as tough as that. Once an arrow has punched through the hide, the veins of a dragon bleed as freely as any other animal."
"You really know a lot about dragons," said Zeeky. She was finally accepting the fact that Bitterwood was, in fact, Bitterwood. When they'd first met, she thought he was lying.
"I've taken enough apart to know how they're put together. The breast scales are tough, but there are plenty of spots on a dragon where the hide is no thicker than your skin, some with big arteries right beneath them. I can kill a dragon without damaging the meat if I need to. I'd make a good butcher."
Zeeky furrowed her brow. "You wouldn't eat a dragon, would you?" She had strong opinions on what should and should not be food.
"Fighting dragons is hard work," he said, apologetically. "I get hungry."
He looked at Poocher, who he could swear was grinning. The pig appeared to be taking pleasure at Bitterwood's discomfort. "I told you I was a dragon-slayer when I met you," he said. "If I'm willing to kill them, I should be willing to eat them. It would be wasteful otherwise."
"You killed Jazz also," Zeeky said. "And all those long-wyrm riders. Would you have eaten them?"
"I'm not a cannibal."
"Dragons talk," Zeeky said. "Even you can understand them. I talk with dogs and owls and horses. I talk with long-wyrms and ravens and pigs. They're all smart creatures who don't deserve to be eaten."
Poocher snorted, as if saying, "Amen!" Bitterwood didn't plan on giving up bacon, but right now wasn't the time to debate it.
"I don't want you eating dragons any more," she said.
"Do you mind if I go in now? I should warn you I might kill a dragon or two trying to save your brother."
"There's a difference between killing to eat and killing to save a life," she said patiently.
Bitterwood grabbed a fist-sized chunk of half-inch rope from the saddle bags. The rope was lightweight; it was also a vibrant shade of pink that glowed faintly in the gloom. They'd found this fragment of rope in the kingdom of the goddess. It was, as near as he could determine, unbreakable. It was also sensitive to his thoughts, just as Gabriel's sword had been. It would grow as long as he wanted it to grow and never get any heavier. With a thought, the rope would shrink back to this convenient size. He had no idea why it worked, but, like his new bow and arrow, he found it hard to remember how he'd ever gotten along without it.
"I scouted this area five years ago," he said. "I wiggled down some of chimney holes into the main cavern. I came here to kill Rorg, but had to abandon the mission. Since he was always surrounded by his family, it was too risky a fight."
"The way you throw yourself into a fight, I didn't know you were worried about risk," said Zeeky.
"I spent a lot of years tracking down dragons responsible for the atrocities at Conyers," he said. "Albekizan, was, of course, the big target. Rorg was there too. He was a few hundred pounds lighter, and a good deal less insane. By the time I tracked him down, he'd gotten too heavy to fly. His beastialist philosophy made him more of a joke than a threat. I decided to focus my efforts on other targets. I always knew I'd be back."
"If this dragon's a joke, saving Jeremiah shouldn't be so hard."
"It's not Rorg I'm worried about," Bitterwood said as he tied one end of the rope to a tree. "It's the few dozen other bulls who are part of the clan. Until now, I didn't really have a good way of carrying in enough arrows to make sure the job got done." He reached back and fingered one of the arrows in his quiver. "I'll try to do this quietly. If you start hearing screams, don't be alarmed."
He walked to one of the smoke vents and dropped the rope down. "Stay in the shadows," he said. "You've got six hours until daylight. If I'm not back, ride up the mountain and find a safe place to wait out the day. Meet me back here at sunset."
Bitterwood slung the bow over his shoulder and backed into the hole, the smoke tickling his nose. He climbed down the twisting, natural chimney, his hands growing increasingly black with soot. He reached a junction where the shaft opened into another shaft. The hole was barely two feet across. He shoved his bow through, then his quiver, balancing them on narrow ledges. He shed his cloak and wiggled through, then reached back and grabbed the cloak. He willed the rope to lengthen, letting it dangle down the shaft to the next level spot fifty feet below. From there, he would have to crawl through a shaft only three feet tall for almost a quarter mile, until he reached the side cave where Rorg's slaves slept.
He doubted that they would be sleeping much tonight. The deep bass rumble of the singing sun-dragons shook the stone. A haunting melody accompanied it, played on an instrument Bitterwood couldn't identify. It sounded something like bells, only not as metallic in tone. He could make out various bits of the lyrics. Dragons are mighty, humans are weak, and other such puffery. As long as they were singing, their attention would be focused on Rorg.
He wriggled through the last narrow gap of the long tunnel and found himself in a cavity of a rock wall thirty feet up in a large, round chamber. Several small fires were scattered around the cave. Perhaps a hundred humans sat around the fires, staring sullenly into the flames. The singing from the nearby dragon rally echoed within the room.
"With our claws we rend their flesh!" the dragons sang. "With our jaws we crush them! Their blood slakes our thirst!" Beastialist lyrics weren't famed for their subtlety.
Bitterwood dropped the rope into the room. Instantly, every eye turned toward the motion. Frightened humans tended to be hyper-alert. Fortunately, no one screamed.
Bitterwood held his fingers to his lips, signaling for silence, then rappelled down to the floor. The walls were slimy. Due to the condensation of breath, the whole cavern glistened as if it were coated with a fine layer of spit. Urine and shit fouled the air. The humans were boiling turnips in carved stone bowls sitting in the fire pits.
Everyone rose as he reached the ground. These humans were a wretched lot. They were clothed in thread-bare rags. Both men and women had their hair cropped close to the scalp in uneven clumps, no doubt to make it easier to pick off fleas and lice. All stood with slumped shoulders. They stared with sunken eyes set in faces that were little more than skulls covered with paper-thin, boil-covered skin.
"I'm looking for a new arrival," said Bitterwood. "A blond boy, no older than twelve. His name is Jeremiah." Not a voice was raised as the crowd watched him with unblinking gazes. "He would have arrived about a week ago." He waited. Did they understand him?
"Our wings block the sun!" the dragons sang. "The earth trembles as we land!"
A woman took a tentative step forward. She was covered in brown smudges, thin as a sapling, and perhaps seven months pregnant. She cradled a small bundle wrapped in rags. The bundle wasn't moving; if it was a baby, Bitterwood hoped it was asleep. She cast her gaze toward the floor as she spoke, in a voice so soft and hesitant he barely understood it: "He's gone."
"Gone?" Bitterwood asked. "Dead?"
The woman shook her head. "Vulpine took him."
"Took him where?"
"Dragon Forge?" the woman said. She didn't sound certain of this.
Bitterwood furrowed his brow. Why would the Slavecatcher General want Jeremiah? And why would he take him to Dragon Forge? His heart froze in his chest.
"Was the boy well?"
The woman shrugged.
"No sign of yellow-mouth?"