Dragon Venom (Obsidian Chronicles Book 3) (51 page)

None had penetrated to its heart, though; it still lived. Claws raked at the roof, sending shards of shattered tile spraying upward.

And then a sound behind him provided an instant's warning; Arlian threw himself sideways off the platform as an immense gout of flame roared past his ear.

He had forgotten where he was; his action sent him tumbling down the steep slope, and he barely caught himself before rolling off the edge.

He lay on the roof and looked up.

The wounded dragon was rampaging across the northeast corner of the roof, on the other side of the ridgepole, thrashing about as it tore at the spearheads in its chest.

Another dragon now perched on the northwest corner, smiling at him, smoke trailing from its nostrils, venom dripping from its jaw. He recognized its face—this was one he had seen in the cave in the Shoulderbone.

Three more dragons were settling onto the southern side of the roof, on the far side of the central courtyard; their spread wings over-lapped, the six extended membranes easily reaching from one corner of the mansion to the other. A shadow passed overhead, and Arlian looked up to see still more dragons flying above the Grey House. The sky was black with them.

This, of course, was where they were headed—all of them were coming to the Grey House. They had not come to destroy Manfort; they had come to kill Ithar, and to ensure that no more like him were created.

Arlian scrabbled up the roof as quickly as he could, trying to act before the dragons could react; the pain and stiffness in his right shoulder slowed him, but he was able to leap up and grab the release lever on the next catapult.

He yanked down, not bothering to aim. The mechanism thumped,

the weights dropped, and air whistled across wood and obsidian as another four projectiles flew.

One glanced off the wing of the nearest dragon while the other three sailed past it, and Arlian realized that he had no hope of inflicting real damage, or even surviving, if he remained on the roof—the dragons were too close, and too many. He dropped, and let himself slide down the tiles, barely catching himself on the waiting ladder.

A great black claw reached down after him but missed, breaking half a dozen tiles and tearing a gouge in the roof. As Arlian half climbed, half slid down the ladder he found himself thinking foolishly that the roof would probably leak now, with all those tiles broken.

Then he was on the balcony, but he knew that provided no safety; one of the dragons on the southern side of the courtyard was stooping, stretching its long neck down into the square and preparing to spit venom. Arlian grabbed up his heavy spear and ducked through the door into the house as the toxin sprayed toward him.

The fluid failed to ignite—that sometimes happened, he knew, and when it did the foul stuff would dissolve or corrode whatever organic material it touched, instead of burning.

But it would also be recoverable from the stone pavement below—if he and the city somehow survived this, that would be another few ounces of venom that could be collected, mixed with human blood, and fed to pregnant women to create more godlings.

And that was what must be done, he realized as he hurried toward the stairs—more godlings must be made, as quickly as possible. Ithar was precious at present because he was unique, but if there were a hundred baby gods and goddesses, or a thousand, how could the dragons hope to kill them all?

He stumbled, then, as a thought struck him—surely, the dragons knew that was possible. They needed to destroy not just Ithar, but all knowledge of his existence and the means of his creation.

That meant they would try to kill every single person in Lord Obsidian's household; Arlian had not kept Ithar's nature and origin a secret. On the contrary, he had boasted of it.

He had not only told his own staff, he had informed the Duke of his experiment. He had sent word to Lady Rime when Ithar was born, and her entire household undoubtedly knew, just as Arlian's did.

Did the dragons know that?

Word had probably not spread much beyond those three resi-

dences—the Grey House, Rime's estate, and the Citadel. The Duke would almost certainly have said something in confidence to his more trusted advisors, such as Zaner and Spider, but most of the court would not have heard any details. If the dragons destroyed those three buildings and their inhabitants, the knowledge might well be lost.

But did the dragons know that?

They might think killing Arlian and Black and Black's family would be sufficient—or they might think all of Manfort must be destroyed.

The sound of his own feet on the stone as he ran down the stairs was almost lost in the roaring chaos outside; he could hear dragons bellow-ing, flames crackling, men and women screaming, and a thousand other noises.

He tried to think what he could do, how he could help. He could simply join the battle outside, try to kill as many dragons as possible before they killed him, but he doubted that would end well; he was not in his best shape, as he was reminded every time he grabbed at the balustrade with his right hand and felt his shoulder tear. He could try to get out of the city, to spread the word of Ithar's birth throughout the Lands of Man—but that felt like abandoning his people, and besides, how could he hope to make his way out of Manfort without being found by the dragons? He was a dragonheart, and he had come to believe, after years of experience in dealing with the beasts, that that meant the dragons could locate him anywhere, could sense the whereabouts of the thing growing in his blood—perhaps not all the dragons, but certainly the one that had first contaminated him, the one that had killed Grandsir so long ago. Even if he somehow got outside the walls, the dragons would hunt him down. Their hired assassins had always been able to find him; now that the dragons themselves had emerged and joined the fray, he suspected he did not have long to live in any case.

But if he could get Ithar out of the city—or at the very least, knowledge of how he had been made—there might be hope.

A gigantic crash sounded somewhere above him, and the entire

house seemed to shake; plaster dust sifted down the stairwell. The dragons were trying to tear open the house to get at him.

He headed for the kitchen and the cellar stair as the rumble of falling stone echoed down the passageway.

Lord Enziet had lived in this house for centuries, Arlian remembered. Arlian had thought that Enziet had liked it because he believed even the dragons would not be able to penetrate the thick stone walls, but if so, then going by the sounds overhead Enziet had been wrong.

And Enziet was rarely wrong, Arlian admitted to himself. He had probably known that these stone walls would not stop a determined dragon.

And Enziet always prepared for every eventuality. Arlian slowed his pace as a thought began to form.

Enziet had always prepared for contingencies, always. And he had slipped out of the city unnoticed when the Dragon Society had summoned him for an infraction of the Society's rules. Had Enziet had some secret means of escape from the Grey House? Was there a hidden tunnel, perhaps?

That would be entirely in keeping with Enziet's character, and the man had certainly had plenty of time to build one. The logical place would obviously be the cellars . . .

Arlian renewed his speed and hastened to the kitchen, and to the cellar door.

As he descended the dark stairs, though, another thought struck him. If there was a tunnel, and he sent Black and Brook and Ithar and the rest out through it, he did not dare go with them—as a dragonheart, his presence would give away their location.

And, he realized, Brook was a dragonheart, as w e l l . . .

"By the dead gods," he murmured to himself. Separating a mother from her newborn child, in order to protect the child?

But what choice did they have?

And Brook had no feet. Her wheeled chair, clever as it was, could not traverse stairs or rough country, and there was no way of knowing where the tunnel, if it existed, might lead. She would almost certainly have been an unmanageable burden in any case.

But would she accept that? Would Black accept it?

Black was waiting for him at the foot of the stair, candle in one hand and sword in the other; in the gloom behind him Arlian glimpsed several of the household servants, Brook in her chair with her children clustered about her and her babe in her arms, Lilsinir with a heavy bag slung over one shoulder—Arlian had no idea how the Aritheian had gotten there, but was relieved to see she was alive and well, and he recognized the sack as the one she used for transporting her magical and medical supplies.

That was good; if they lived through this, those medical supplies might be important.

"Ari," Black said, "what's happening up there?"

"Dragons are attacking Manfort," Arlian replied. "Hundreds of them—quite possibly all that are left alive in the entire world." He pointed at Brook and Ithar, barely visible in the shadows. "They're after the baby. We need to get him out of here."

"It's more than a mile to the city gates," Black said.

"I know," Arlian said. "But it occurred to me—do you think Enziet might have had an escape tunnel down here?"

Black stared at him for a moment, his face impossible to read in the dim and flickering candlelight. "Of course he would," he said at last, sheathing his sword. "He was Enziet. That's exactly the sort of thing he would do." He turned and shouted, "Children! All of you! Look for a door or a tunnel—perhaps hidden behind something!"

There was a great scurrying, and lamps flared as Kerzia and Amberdine, and Stammer and Lilsinir and the maids and footmen, began searching the cellar walls. They scattered, leaving Brook hesitating in her chair, holding Ithar and watching her husband and Arlian.

"There's something else," Arlian said, as Black started to turn away to join the hunt.

Black paused. "Yes?"

Arlian beckoned, and led his steward over to Brook. There he knelt and whispered, "The dragons are tearing down the house above us." He pointed upward, and the crashing of falling stone confirmed his words.

"They want Ithar."

"I know," Brook said.

"They know where I am," Arlian said. "Because I'm a dragonheart.

The dragon who poisoned me, all those years ago, can sense where I am because I bear his spawn in my heart."

"Then how . . . " Brook began, but Black held up a hand, and she fell silent.

"If we find an escape tunnel, then Black and the children and servants must take Ithar and flee—but I will stay here, and fight any dragon that finds its way this far down. I mustn't go, or the dragons will be able to follow."

"Ari . . ."

"You said Black and the children," Brook said, interrupting her husband.

Arlian looked her in the eye. "Yes," he said.

"Because I'm a dragonheart, too."

"Yes. And the venom came from that same dragon. If it can find me, it can find you."

"So I must stay, too." She spoke calmly, but Arlian could see her hands trembling, could see how wide her eyes were.

"Or flee by another route, perhaps," he said. "I can scarcely ask you to fight at my side. I can carry you up the stairs . | . "

"Ari, are you mad?" Black growled. "Leave Brook here? Take Ithar away from her?"

"You need to save the baby, take him where the dragons cannot find him, tell everyone how to make more like him. If there is just one godling, the dragons will hunt him down, sooner or later; if there are a thousand, what can they do? Take him, to show everyone what can be done, how we can use our land's magic to make the world a better place, how we can have magic that heals rather than poisons us."

"Ari, Brook is my wife. Yes, I want to save Ithar, and all my children, but I am not going to leave my wife!"

"Yes, you are," Brook said, thrusting the baby toward him.

Black blinked. "What?"

"Save the children. Leave me. Better Arlian and I die and the rest of you live than that we all die."

Black stared at her.

"She is a dragonheart," Arlian said quietly.

"So I see," Black replied, taking Ithar in his arms. He looked down at those calm, softly glowing blue eyes, then at Brook's cold brown ones.

Then, without another word, he turned away and headed for the far end of the cellars, where the children were calling to one another.

Brook watched him go, then asked, "What if the dragons can sense Ithar, as they sense us?"

"Let us hope they cannot. Ithar is a creature of magic, yes, but unless there is some far deeper game here than I can comprehend, he bears no dragonspawn. You took that upon yourself for him. Still, it is possible, and we can just hope for the best."

For a moment they were silent, and then Brook asked quietly,

"What if there is no tunnel?" Arlian noticed a quaver in her voice, and looked down to see a tear welling in her eye.

"Then we all die," he said. "I'm sorry, Brook." He glanced up at the ceiling, then after Black's retreating figure. "I'm sorry for everything." Somewhere above them a wall collapsed with a tremendous crash, and Arlian could hear the crackle of flames. He hefted the spear in his left hand.

"Brook," he said, "do you want to stay down here, or should I carry you up to the kitchen? I'll need to make a second trip for your chair."

"I'll stay here," she said. "I am trying my best to be brave, my lord, but I am not ready to deliberately go any closer to the monsters that have come to kill me."

"Fair enough. I intend to go up there, though, to hold them off as long as I can." He turned toward the stairs.

At the bottom step he paused, listening, as he realized that he could no longer hear the girls' voices. "Black?" he called.

"We found it, Ari," Black's distant voice replied. "Good-bye, my lord—and Alliri. May the dead gods keep you safe."

Then he heard a faint thump—a door being closed.

Arlian swallowed.

Behind him he could hear Brook weeping, but he did not look;

instead he turned and marched up the stairs, the spear ready in his left hand.

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