The Dragon Society (Obsidian Chronicles Book 2) (55 page)

The dragon's mouth fell open, and its eyes widened in what was unquestionably a grimace of pain.

Yes it hurts!
the dragon said.

"Good," Arlian said, grinding the spear deeper.

Stop it!

"Don't be ridiculous."

If you kill me, the others will destroy you all.

"They may try," Arlian said grimly. The spear's head had disappeared and the shaft was now driven a good three feet or more into the creature's black flesh—almost half the shaft's length. He had no idea whether it would reach the thing's heart, but all he could do was keep on pushing.

And then, when he had pushed the spear a few inches further, he felt a deep, slow throbbing in the spear's shaft, like the beating of a monstrous heart A great wave of gloating triumph surged up within him.

At last, after half a lifetime spent pursuing vengeance, he was finally going to kill a dragon—not a stumbling newborn, little more than an apparition of blood and magic, but a full-grown monster with the blood of hundreds of innocents on its claws.

It was not one of the three that destroyed Obsidian, but they would have their turn. Even if this one killed him with its death throes, he would have shown the world that dragons
could
be slain, and he had faith that his fellow men would someday use that knowledge and exterminate their ancient foes.

He shoved on the spear again, and a gout of dark blood erupted from the wound, spurting along the shaft, washing over his hand and drenching the black velvet and white lace of his sleeve.

And the dragon fell. Its legs folded under it, its up-raised wing collapsed like a falling tent. A final gout of flaming venom and oily black smoke burst from its mouth as its head dropped to the ground; Arlian felt the heat, but the fireball did not reach him.

There were no sudden spasms, no desperate

writhing, no last-minute slamming or clawing. The creature simply crumpled. The hard scales beneath him were suddenly soft and yielding; the dagger in his right hand ripped down through the dragon's flesh as if it were cutting through rotten cheese. Arlian slid down the monster's side beneath its wing until his feet reached the ground; he staggered, then stood upright, using the dagger to slice open the wing so that it parted and fell down around him.

The dragon had not exploded into blood and air, as the newborns had, but neither had it died after the fashion of a natural creature. Arlian remembered how rapidly Nail's body had decayed; the dragon seemed to be doing the same, but even faster. As he watched he could see its flesh shrinking, the bones already protruding.

And it stank of rot and death. He climbed and cut his way free and stepped out into cleaner air.

And then he heard the cheers.

Bones and ash were all that remained where Toribor had stood; a figure knelt over them, but wore a woman's skirt and was far too slender to be Lord Belly. Arlian was too stunned for a moment to recognize that person through the drifting smoke and ash, but then she looked up at him before rising and turning to flee.

Lady Opal.

Dazed as he was, Arlian still knew what she had been doing, bent over Toribor's remains—she had been after venom, and she might well have found it.

In the street beyond the gate, which had been deserted a moment before, it seemed as if a thousand people had appeared out of nowhere, cheering and applauding.

"Obsidian! Obsidian!" they called.

Arlian stared out through the fence at them, astonished. He was dazed, and it took him a moment to recognize Black, pushing his way through the throng.

And down the street men were shouting orders—

guards clearing a path.

And he could hear roaring behind him, as well; he turned, and realized that the dragon's death had not meant the battle was over.

Flames and smoke were billowing up from the Old Palace; as he watched, a section of upstairs wall sagged and fell in with a crash.

"Rime," he said.

"Ari!" Black was bellowing at the top of his lungs to be heard over the cheers and the fire. "Ari!"

Arlian whirled. "Water!" he called. "Fetch water!

There are still people in there, and one of them can't rise from her bed!"

Black had finally managed to push his way through the gate.

"Forget it, Ari!" he said. "You can't put that out—

look at it!"

"I don't care about putting it out," Arlian said, "but we need to get Rime out!"

Black hesitated, then turned.

A line of guards in the Duke's livery were clearing a path and an area around the gate, and walking calmly along that path, a broad grin on his face, was the Duke of Manfort, in a powder-blue coat with silver and white trim.

"Obsidian!" he called. "Magnificent! Just magnificent."

"Your Grace," Black called, "we need men to fetch our comrades out of the house—could you spare us a few?'

"Of course, of course!" the Duke called. "And the rest will fetch buckets—I'm afraid the Old Palace is beyond hope, but we can keep the fire from spreading, eh?" His grin broadened even further. "Magnificent, Obsidian! Just splendid!"

"Thank you, Your Grace," Arlian said. "You men, follow me!"

Later he could never remember all the details, but he knew he must have led die guardsmen in through the kitchens, then up the servants' stair to the bedchamber in the south wing.

There Isein had insisted that Rime could
still
not be taken from the bed, under any circumstances—Arlian remembered
that,
and he remembered what he had said, though he did not recall any conscious thought before the words came from his hps.

"Then bring the bed," he said. "A man at each corner, another on each side, and cut through anything in the way."

By die time the bed reached the safety of the street the bedposts and canopy had been hacked away, but Rime and Isein and Oeshir were all safe, well clear of the flames.

The fire was still roaring, the walls crumbling, despite scores of people, guards and servants and simply people who had been nearby, flinging buckets of water at it. Black was directing them—he had clearly taken the matter in hand while Arlian had gone after Rime. That was when Arlian realized his memory was failing him; he could not say when he and Black had separated.

Rime was safely out, though, and it was time to get back to his friend's side. Arlian took a step, planning to join one of the bucket lines.

And then the Duke was clapping Arlian on the back, exclaiming that he was magnificent, wonderful, superb, and the street was once again crowded with people shouting, "Obsidian!"

"Your Grace," Arlian said. He looked around, and realized that although a few courtiers had accompanied the Duke, Lord Hardior was not among them—

nor were any other dragonhearts. "Is Lord Hardior not with you?"

'That fool?
No,
he isn't here! He called you a madman, said you would bring disaster on us all, and here you've
killed a dragonl
By the dead gods, man, do you realize that? You've killed a dragon, the first man in all of history to do it! Hardior said it wasn't possible, but you've done it!"

"Yes," Arlian said, turning to look at the dead monster. The black flesh was rotting away rapidly, melting from the bones—the ribs and the top of the skull and the long, thin bones of the wings were already exposed, gleaming white in the afternoon sun.

And the sun was out; the clouds had parted and were rapidly dispersing. The dragon weather was dissipating as the dragon's body did.

Toribor's bones lay by the gatepost, also exposed.

Arlian swallowed. The last of the Six Lords was dead.

The spear-throwing device had been smashed by the dragon's death throes, and now stood broken, collapsed in upon itself and smoldering as sparks and burning debris drifted down onto it.

"I should help with the fire," Arlian said.

"Damn the fire, Obsidian—you've done enough!

You look exhausted, man."

"I am," Arlian said.

And then he fainted, and the Duke himself caught the city's new hero in his own two arms as he fell.

It was just as well, Arlian thought as he lay newly awake in an unfamiliar bed, that he never had found a buyer for the Grey House. At least he would still have a home.

He looked around, trying to identify in which room of the Grey House he had been placed, but nothing gave him any clue.

In fact, he realized when he looked at the broad window, he was not in the Grey House at all.

He vaguely remembered being loaded into the Duke's carriage, and riding somewhere, and being half carried to a bed, and he had assumed it was in the Grey House—but this was
not
the Grey House, where none of the windows were anything like the one across the bedchamber from where he lay.

He sat up, puzzled, and realized that he was not alone in the room; two servants had stood by the door, one of whom was now turning on his heel and leaving—presumably to carry word that Lord Obsidian was awake.

Both of them wore the Duke's livery. Arlian turned and looked out that many-paned window, checking the view, and knew where he was.

He was in the Citadel.

"Is there anything you would like, my lord?" asked the servant who had remained.

"News," Arlian said. "Explanations. And food."

"I can have food brought," the servant replied.

"What would please you?"

Moments later a tray of bread, meat, and wine arrived, accompanied by word that His Grace the Duke of Manfort would be honored if Lord Obsidian could grant him an audience.

Arlian marveled at that as he ate.

"I will speak with him shortly," he told the messenger between bites.

The interview that followed was odd, almost dream-like—the Duke was so utterly cooperative, so eager to please, that any question Arlian asked was answered immediately and directly, any request granted. Their relative stations—the aging noble who was hereditary master of all the Lands of Man, and an escaped slave, little more than a youth, who had made a fortune by investing stolen gold in foreign illusions—seemed to have reversed themselves.

The fire was out, the Duke told him, but little of the Old Palace still stood—a few walls here and there, the ovens and hearth in the kitchens, a portion of the north wing.

The spear-thrower was destroyed, but several obsidian weapons had been recovered, and the Duke's men were combing through the ruins, collecting more, as well as salvaging whatever they could of Arlian's belongings. Flame, smoke, and water had destroyed much, but the contents of boxes, drawers, and trunks had often survived almost unscathed.

The dragon's bones still stood where the monster had died; most of Toribor's bones still lay against the gatepost, but someone had stolen his skull.

Arlian knew who had done that—not which individual, but what group. Toribor's skull would join the others on the shelf in the hall of the Dragon Society.

No more dragons had been seen; the weather remained clear and had turned slightly cool.

"Then we have time to prepare," Arlian said.

"And we
will
prepare," the Duke agreed. "We will build a hundred, a
thousand
of your machines! We will place them all around the city walls, and in every other major city in the Lands of Man. If any dragon approaches, it will be met with a
hail
of obsidian blades! At
last, we
will accomplish what none of my ancestors could! We will
kill dragons
! We will rid the world of their evil, once and for all!"