Shay held up the shotgun. "Forget the archers. This is what you need to worry about. It can punch holes in armor. The earth-dragons we fought at Burke's Tavern had armor and we cut right through them."
"Hmm," said Hex. "I'm sure we can think of something. Perhaps you can enter the city in disguise."
Hex peered toward the western sky. "It will be dark before long. Perhaps we should rest. I don't like to fly after dark. Landing is often problematic."
"It's a shame the visors don't fit you," said Shay, pulling his own silver visor from the satchel that hung at his side. He looked down into the leather bag, at the many treasures within it he'd taken from the long-wyrm rider barracks. He had a second bag slung over his other shoulder-Jandra's pack. He'd stuffed her coat into it. It was probably pointless to hold on to her things, but it felt wrong to leave them behind. "If you could use the visor, we could fly all night."
"At some point, you'll need sleep as much as I do. You can't move forever on pure adrenaline."
Shay stretched his back. He ached all over from his earlier efforts in digging. "You're probably right. A couple of hours of sleep might do us both some good. At the first light of dawn, we'll split up. You go to the Free City and get the genie. I'll go to Dragon Forge and find Bitterwood."
Hex took another sip from the stream as he thought about this plan, lapping the water like a giant cat. His tongue looked awful, with a circular wound all purple and raw right in the center of it.
"Your plan is sound," said the sun-dragon. Water streamed from the right side of his mouth. "I only hope that the goddess doesn't find him first."
BURKE GROANED AS he stretched out on the burlap sack they'd spread on the chicken coop floor, a filthy mess of waste, feathers, and straw. They'd traveled to Nat Goodsalt's farm near Burke's Tavern and found the house and barn burned to the ground. The chicken coop had been the only building still standing, though it was blackened on one corner and the door lay on the ground a dozen yards away. All the chickens were gone. The spoils of war, no doubt.
It was dark outside; the wind whistled as it pushed through the cracks in the thin walls. Scratching noises within the straw told Burke he was sharing his bed with mice, but he was too tired and sore to worry about his bedmates. Covering ninety miles on uneven terrain with one leg had narrowed the focus of his world these last few days. It was difficult to think of anything other than the bloody, puss-filled blisters that the crutch had worked into his armpit.
Burke barely moved when a shadow fell across him. From the smell, he knew it was Thorny.
"Vance is hunting up some grub," said Thorny. "I looked around and can't find any bodies. Goodsalt must have fled before the dragons got here."
Burke nodded slightly, too worn out to speak.
Somewhere not too far away, there was a crisp, musical ZING as a sky-wall bow was fired, followed by, "Woohoo!"
Thorny left the doorway and peeked around the edge of the coop. "Dang if that boy hasn't got us a possum!"
Burke's stomach gurgled at the thought of food. "Let me rest my eyes for a minute, then I'll help cook it."
Thorny said something in response, but the words sounded distant. Sleep yawned before him like an open pit. He slipped into its depths.
When he woke, there were voices outside the door. It was still dark outside; he could smell a campfire and charred meat, and something else, something he couldn't identify at first.
It smelled musty, slightly sour, almost like… a dragon? He sat up, his eyes wide as they probed the darkness. He bit his lower lip to keep from crying out in pain as he tried to move his left arm. The blisters had scabbed over as he slept; it was like his upper arm had been glued to his rib cage. His eyes watered as he peeled his arm free.
Burke was freezing. They'd escaped Dragon Forge with only the clothes on their backs, plus the few meager supplies they'd stolen from the cabin. His toes were full of tiny little knives of ice. His phantom leg shared the symptoms. He reached down and rubbed the toes of his remaining foot through his boot. Though he knew it was irrational, he moved his hand to where his nerves told him his other foot lay. On some instinctive level, he was disappointed when his fingers closed on empty air. On a more rational level, he was relieved that he still had at least some tenuous understanding of reality.
He scooted closer to the wall and carefully peeked through a crack to see what was happening. That tenuous understanding of reality took a sharp blow as he found himself staring at the side of an impossibly long, multi-limbed dragon covered with overlapping copper scales. The head of the beast reminded him of old prints he'd seen of eastern dragons-purely mythological creatures, unlike the flesh and blood dragons he was used to fighting. For a mythical beast, it looked solid enough. Its breath came out as great puffs of steam in the frosty night.
The beast turned its giant head toward the chicken coop. Burke jerked his eyes from the crack and pressed his back against the wall, his heart racing. He searched the blackness of the chicken coop for a weapon. The shotgun must be outside with Vance.
As the seconds ticked past, he began to assemble a theory about the oversized lizard waiting at his door. Jandra had talked about a new kind of dragon, a long-wyrm, that fit the description. More importantly, she'd told him about the long-wyrm riders. These creatures weren't as smart as other dragons and were closer in intelligence and temperament to horses.
He could still hear Vance and Thorny talking. They didn't sound particularly nervous. From time to time a little girl's voice chimed in. And, there was an older male voice, gruff and gravelly. Bitterwood?
He steadied himself with a hand against the wall and rose. He didn't bother trying to find his crutch. He hopped into the doorway and studied the scene once more. Beyond the long-wyrm, there was the glow of a fire. This is where the voices were coming from.
The long-wyrm turned its head to him once more, but didn't show any signs of attacking. It seemed merely aware.
"Thorny?" Burke called out.
Thorny stood up on the other side of the long-wyrm. "Burke! Sorry. We didn't mean to wake you. We have visitors."
"I see," said Burke.
A second man rose up beside Thorny. He wore a heavy cloak, his face hidden in the shadows of the cowl. "You look like hell, Kanati," the man said.
"It is you," said Burke. "Now I see why you didn't want a horse. I take it this beast is yours?"
"He belongs to Zeeky, actually."
The little girl's voice called out, "No he doesn't! Skitter's my friend, not my property!"
Burked hopped out of the chicken coop, keeping his hand on the wall for balance. Vance ran to his side to help him hop to the fire.
In addition to Bitterwood and Thorny a boy slept on a blanket by the fire, and a small, blonde girl he assumed was Zeeky sat next to him. There was also a pig, wearing a metallic visor and a sneer.
Vance helped lower Burke to the ground only a few feet from the fire. Burke welcomed the heat. He hadn't been truly warm since he crawled out of the river. Not so long ago, whenever he closed his eyes, he would see visions of new weapons he might design. Now, he kept imagining bath tubs continuously filled with hot water, regulated by a finely balanced system of pipes and gauges.
"This is Zeeky," said Bitterwood. "The pig is Poocher."
"I've never been introduced to a pig before," said Burke.
"Poocher's family," said Bitterwood. "Sleepyhead over there is Jeremiah. Keep your distance. He's got yellow-mouth."
"Oh," said Burke. He'd never had the disease. He wasn't certain in his weakened state he'd survive it. "How'd you find us?"
"Skitter smelled cooking possum," said Zeeky.
"Skitter?"
"The long-wyrm," said Bitterwood.
Zeeky said, "Normally, I would have had him ride past the campsite, but the villagers whispered that a friend of Bitterwood's was nearby, so I let him follow his nose."