Dragonsgate: Angels: Dragonsgate, #1

By James Maxey

The apocalypse is now!

The sylvan planet Emeralla has been devoured by the Waste-Wyrm, a cosmic dragon that feasts upon worlds. When Zeeky and her allies flee Emeralla back to Earth, they are pursued by the Waste-Wyrm's servant, the Kraken. The Kraken raises an army of the dead to open the interdimensional gate that will give the cosmic predator access to Earth. Can humans and dragons put aside their ancient hatreds to unite against their common foe?

Dragongate: Angels, is the thrilling conclusion to the Dragonsgate trilogy. In this saga, dragons and humans are at war in the ruins of post-apocalyptic America. In the ruins of Oak Ridge Tennessee, a malfunctioning machine hidden in a government laboratory has ripped a hole in reality, and now dinosaurs are appearing in the surrounding wilderness. When a band of adventurers led by the famed dragon-slayer, Bitterwood, sets out to destroy the malfunctioning machine, some of them are swept away to a parallel earth where humans have never evolved. On this world, magic is real due the presence of a cosmic dragon named Emeralla. Unfortunately, cosmic dragons are the favorite meal of an even larger cosmic dragon, the planet devouring Waste-Wyrm. Now, Bitterwood must battle devils, spirits, and angels across a series of parallel worlds if he hopes to save his own reality from the interstellar predator.

This series freely blends science fiction, epic fantasy, and eldritch horror, for an adventure unlike any other. It also draws in characters from James Maxey's previous sagas, Bitterwood and Dragon Apocalypse, though the series can be read without having previously read those works.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Maxey
• Release date: May 13, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224323661

James Maxey

James Maxey is author of several novels, the Bitterwood Trilogy of Bitterwood, Dragonforge, and Dragonseed, the Dragon Apocalypse series of Greatshadow, Hush, and Witchbreaker, and the superhero novels Nobody Gets the Girl and Burn Baby Burn.

Book preview

Dedication

For the unforgiven ,and the unforgivable.

Prologue: The Blood-Dimmed Tide

J

EREMIAH PRESSED HIMSELF flat in the weeds as the horsemen approached along the rocky road. In the darkness, he’d heard the hooves long before the riders could have spotted him. He held his breath as they passed with what felt like deliberate slowness. An hour after sunset, the hard ground felt hotter than a stovetop. He half expected the sweat pouring from his brow to sizzle.

Howell’s too soft, one of the riders said to the other. If Carsin was running things, he’d have strung those women up. No point waiting to find out if the men pull through.

Stop grumbling, said the second rider. Carsin follows the golden rule. Howell’s got the gold, so she makes the rules.

Jeremiah recognized the accents. These were Salts, mercenary soldiers from the coast. They’d joined with the rebels of Dragon Forge for an attack on the Nest, which had gone badly for the rebels, and had left only Salts as survivors. Many widows of the rebels were certain that the Salts had betrayed their fellow men. A few had expressed their certainty via vigorous outbreaks of stabbing.

Jeremiah had no doubt that the Salts were traitors. He was only twelve, but it was a hard twelve. His own parents were dead. His adoptive father had abandoned him. Even his younger sister, the one person who should have been loyal to him, had run off. In this world, it was everyone for himself.

Jeremiah rose as the men’s voices faded and the clopping horses’ hooves vanished into the distance. He cursed softly, then loudly, as he fell back down. He blinked away the tears welling in his eyes. He’d been shot in the leg only a few weeks back. Grandma Nettle had managed to get the wound stitched up without infection, but his kneecap was still smashed up. Burke had fitted him with a brace to keep his leg straight, but now the brace was more hindrance than help. The straps had shifted and the iron rod that should have been on the side of his leg dug into his knee like a dagger as he tried to stand.

With loud grunts he jerked the straps, trying to twist the brace back to the right position. Each twist brought a fresh stab of agony. As he shouted the foulest profanities he’d learned to date, he clawed at the buckles, wrestling them open. With an incoherent cry of rage, he hurled the heavy iron torture cage as far as he could. It landed with a loud thump in the weeds only a few feet away.

He again tried to stand. Once more, he fell. His knee simply refused to hold his weight. Flat on his back, Jeremiah ground his teeth together and willed his ruined knee to bend. Inch by inch, he lifted the leg, sliding his heel on the ground. This produced a great deal of pain, but there was a different quality to this agony. Until now, his pain had been a wall, something he simply couldn’t get past. Now, the pain felt like a reward, a result of his disobedient flesh finally yielding to his will. His knee rose higher and higher as he slid his foot, until he could bend it no further. Then, holding his thigh, he lifted his foot from the ground, in trembling, panting increments, until the leg was nearly straight.

I’m going to walk on you, he said, looking at the swollen, misshaped mass of his knee under his thin trousers. You’re going to put up with it without any complaints. You hear me?

Jeremiah pressed his lips together. All his life, his sister, Zeeky, had been the weird child of the family, having long conversations with snakes and birds and bears. She’d never been crazy enough to talk to a body part.

But crazy was all he had left now. He could feed upon the madness of the world and draw sustenance from it, or surrender and let the insanity devour him. Maybe acting crazy was going to get him killed. What did he have to live for? He was an orphan, unloved, in a world that seemed to be actively trying to kill him.

If the world really was going to kill him, he’d hoped for a more dignified death than languishing by the roadside until he starved to death. Fighting through the lightning that jangled his thoughts with each movement, he rolled to his belly, then lifted himself on his hands and knees. The pain got so bad it blotted out his vision. When his sight returned, he was standing, with weight on both feet. Stars danced around the edges of his vision. He laughed when he realized that the twinkling lights surrounding him had nothing to do with his pain. In his struggle to rise, he’d stirred up dozens of fireflies from the tall grass.

He took a step forward, then another. His knee bent with each step, a motion the brace had prevented. With each step, a fresh punch of pain twisted his gut. As each gut punch faded, he lurched forward once more.

Pain is the only path, he said, dropping his voice to a gravelly whisper, an imitation of Bitterwood’s tough guy voice. He didn’t remember Bitterwood ever actually saying this to him, but it seemed like something the old man would say.

Pain is the only path! Jeremiah shouted, as he limped back onto the road. He moved onward into darkness, giggling at how dumb the words sounded, put secretly proud of his grasp of a great, once-hidden truth.

JEREMIAH STAGGERED through the darkness for hours until the world grew silent, with no frogs, birds, or crickets still awake. He’d entered the small window a few hours before dawn where the world falls into true sleep. Jeremiah kept moving, his body wide awake, as his mind slipped into dreams.

It was earlier in the summer. It was the same silent hour, and he was standing in the barn, having been dragged out of bed by Bitterwood. He was blinking his eyes in the light of the single dim lantern hanging near the open door. The night air was chill, damp, and reeked with the stench of Skitter, the long-wyrm that sprawled out across the rafters like some giant snake, soundly slumbering.

What’s so dang important? Jeremiah asked, rubbing his eyes.

We need to talk, said Bitterwood.

About what?

About what happened in the market.

You still mad I lost that coin?

I’m mad you’re lying. You didn’t lose the coin. Someone took it.

Jeremiah frowned.

That kid. What’s his name?

Del, said Jeremiah.

He robbed you.

Shame and anger in equal measure flashed through Jeremiah. Del said he’d beat the snot out of me if I didn’t give him my money. I couldn’t run, since Wash was right behind me. What was I supposed to do?

Fight, said Bitterwood.

I’d lose!

Then lose. If he wants something from you, make him work for it.

Then I’d have empty pockets and missing teeth.

Bitterwood smiled, showing off his own missing teeth.

You like fighting, Jeremiah grumbled.

You ain’t even tried it.

You’re Bitterwood! You fight dragons! I ain’t you.

I wasn’t always me, said Bitterwood. I used to be you. Only, I didn’t just see my bully on market days. I had a brother. Jomath. Used to beat me like a drum. Felt like I spent every waking hour staying out of his way.

I didn’t know you had a brother, said Jeremiah.

He’s dead. Bitterwood’s jaw tightened after he said this.

Did... did you kill him? asked Jeremiah.

Naw, said Bitterwood. But I watched him die. This... fella came to our town. Hezekiah. He desecrated the temple. Most of the men in the town mobbed him, charged him all at once, screaming that they’d tear him apart. My brother was part of the pack.

And Hezekiah killed him?

Hezekiah killed all of them. Seventeen men, hacked apart with an ax. I froze. I stood in the pool of blood, staring at the bodies of the men I’d known, then staring at Hezekiah. I’d never imagined the world could contain someone so... so—

Evil?

Holy, said Bitterwood. Hezekiah’s gaze felt like the eyes of God upon me.

Zeeky says you don’t believe in God, said Jeremiah.

I guess I don’t, anymore, said Bitterwood, nodding. But I’ll always believe in blood. And it’s better to be standing in a pool of blood than lying in it.

I want to keep all my blood inside me.

Bullies like Del know that. Your fear gives them power.

What am I supposed to do? He’s a foot taller and has 50 pounds on me, easy.

Stand up to him.

I ain’t a fighter like you, said Jeremiah.

Not yet, said Bitterwood. Let’s fix that. Punch me. Right in the gut. Hard as you can. I want to see what we’re working with.

BEFORE HIS INJURY, Jeremiah had been able to walk from Dragon Forge to his farm in two hours. Now it was dawn and he’d barely made it half the distance. Traveling on the road by daylight was too great of a risk. He wasn’t worried that someone would find him and take him back to Dragon Forge. No one there cared if he lived or died. For him, the nightmare would be to meet with one of his former neighbors. They’d notice his injury, offer to help, and look at him with pitying eyes. He was done with pity. It was an insult, a way of saying he was too broken and stupid to take care of himself. Pity was for children, and his childhood was forever gone.

He reached the stone bridge, an ancient structure spanning a winding creek. He slid down the bank as the sun cut through the trees. Twin stone arches formed a useful shelter. He took cover there, stretching out on a dry, narrow ledge to catch some sleep.

Only, he couldn’t sleep. He’d walked so long that his leg had become numb. Now that he’d taken the weight off of it, the pain came back, whispering at first, then screaming. He felt like crying in his growing agony, until he caught a bare murmur of a voice. Someone was passing above on the bridge.

Holding his breath, he was disheartened to discover that he recognized the speaker.

I told you to leave the dang armor. ‘Cause of you, we’re late! It was Wash. When Jeremiah had thought that no one would care if he lived or died, he’d forgotten all about Wash. Wash was fourteen, a giant for his age, already working in the foundry. Wash was also the son of one of the rangers Bitterwood had killed. Jeremiah was pretty certain Wash would happily kill him to work out some of his rage.

Serah said to bring any gear we had, protested the second voice. Del? It had to be Del. Del was about Jeremiah’s age, and followed Wash around like a puppy. Despite his subservience to Wash, Del was a notorious bully, picking fights with anyone smaller than him.

Fortunately, they didn’t linger at the bridge. They panted, marching along at a good pace, clattering and clanking with each step. One of Del’s prized possessions was a rusty breast plate he’d found in the gleaner’s scrap heaps, and both Del and Wash had a collection of ragged swords and nicked daggers that swung heavily from their belts at all times.

It ain’t far now, said Del. They’ll wait for us.

If they’re gone, I’m going to make you eat that stupid armor, grumbled Wash. Something else was said, but they were already far enough across the bridge that Jeremiah couldn’t make out the words.

After they were gone, Jeremiah was pleased to notice that, while he’d been distracted by the voices, his pain had worn itself out, and left his leg numb once more. Flat on his back, with only a river stone for a pillow, he slipped into slumber.

WITH SLEEP CAME DREAMS.

Jeremiah was back in the barn. He’d punched Bitterwood as hard as he could, straight in the gut. Now, his hand was throbbing. He held it with his other hand, his teeth clenched from pain.

Bitterwood hadn’t even flinched.

I couldn’t throw a punch either, when I was your age, said Bitterwood. Whenever Jomath tore into me, I’d just curl into a ball.

But Hezekiah, taught you to fight?

No. He taught me to turn the other cheek, even though he lived by an eye-for-an-eye.

Where’d you learn to fight? asked Jeremiah.

Bitterwood shrugged. It happened after Hezekiah and I... parted ways. My family had been taken from me by dragons. I wandered from village to village, a beggar, more dead than alive. Everywhere I went, people were angry about the dragons. Albekizan had raised taxes and was executing anyone who grumbled. Hezekiah had taught me to preach, so I started preaching. It was time for men to finally take a stand, to rebel against the dragons. I got my ass kicked in village after village by folks who were worried about my rabble rousing. Pain is a good teacher. I learned to use my fists, but still took a lot of beatings. Later, when I threw in with Kanati and Tellico, they trained me in how to fight a little smarter.

Kanati and Tellico?

Burke and his brother, said Bitterwood. Tellico taught me to be a bastard. Some people think it’s dishonorable to strike an enemy from behind. Tellico said that graveyards are full of honorable men. But it was Burke who got me to fight smart. To Burke, bodies were machines. Once you know how they work, you know how to take them apart.

Is that why Anza is such a good fighter?

Yeah. She’s a genius.

I must not be very smart, then, said Jeremiah. Feels like I broke my wrist.

Not with that weak punch. You hurt yourself because you had your fist too loose. Bitterwood made a fist, holding it tightly so that his knuckles were pale. You gotta really clench it. Make it act like one bone, so that nothing slides around when you punch. Of course, it ain’t one bone. He rubbed the two most prominent knuckles, those next to his thumb. These are the bones you punch with. If you hit with the outer knuckles, your wrist will roll. Keep your wrist tight and straight. A fist isn’t just a hand. Done right, your fist goes all the way back to your elbow.

Jeremiah squeezed his fist tightly. He thought it sounded dumb that a fist went all the way from the knuckles to the elbow, but with his bones showing in his skinny arms, he could kind of see it. He still didn’t see how this mattered. Who’s got time to see how straight their wrist is if they’re about to get beaten up?

You gotta practice until it’s all reflex. When a guy decides to punch you, there’s a second between him starting his punch and him actually hitting you. A second is more than enough time for you to end the fight before it even really starts.

Jeremiah’s brow knitted. He couldn’t keep his disbelief off his face.

Fortunately, Bitterwood didn’t seem angry at his skepticism. Look, said Bitterwood. I’ve had you chopping firewood all summer. How long does it take you to swing an ax?

Jeremiah didn’t answer. He was actually pretty good at splitting logs.

You see where I’m going with this? said Bitterwood.

That I should hit people with an ax?

Naw. I mean, when you split logs, you’re no longer swinging wild. You see the cracks and fibers in the wood. Without even thinking, you know where to hit the log so that the wood will split. You also know how to brace your legs, move your back, and use your shoulders. The ax might touch the wood, but you’re chopping with your whole body. That’s how you gotta punch. You weigh about a hundred pounds. Use your whole body, so that you’re swinging a hundred-pound hammer. With practice, you’ll see where to aim that hammer to drop a fella twice your size.

JEREMIAH WOKE LATE in the day. He was starving, and thirsty as hell. He was still more than a mile from his farm. He knew it had probably been looted, either by earth-dragons or simply by the rangers who’d carried out Bitterwood’s arrest. But, he also knew about hiding places. Bitterwood had left stashes of weapons and gear hidden around the farm. He’d even stashed away provisions, like dried beans and hardtack, buried in jars. Unless the looters had been thorough, Jeremiah knew where to find food, weapons, a few coins, and some fish hooks. After that, he’d strike out on his own. He’d head west until he made it back to the rugged mountains where he’d been born, cross the high ridge, then press on into the wilderness beyond.

He picked scabs from his knee while he waited for the sun to go down. The horsehair used to stitch his wounds shut jutted from puckered scars. It was satisfying to work it out with his nails and watch beads of watery pale pus bubble up. Grandma Nettle had said, since he was young, he’d heal fast. His leg was ten times easier to bend than it had been yesterday. With a few test steps, he found that his knee ached, but no longer sent lightning bolts through his brain when he put his full weight on it.

After dark, he waded through the creek and climbed up the bank on the other side of the bridge. He hobbled along, still slow, but faster than he’d been yesterday. Concentrating on his walking, he realized with a start he’d made it to the Dewey’s farm. If their dogs got his scent, they’d come after him. As he looked around, he found open sky where the looming shape of their barn should have been. Straining his eyes in the darkness, he realized that the house wasn’t there either. The breeze carried the stink of ash. He moved cautiously to where the front door had once been, staring at the blackened foundation. In the side yard, the well was still standing. To his great relief, there was a rope and bucket. The bucket banged and echoed in the night as he lowered it, but at this point he knew there were no dogs about. He easily hauled the full bucket back up.

He grudgingly admitted that life on Bitterwood’s farm had left him a lot stronger than he’d been a year ago. All the wood-chopping had given him firm shoulders and a back that could bear a lot of weight. His hands were hard and calloused, especially his knuckles. He’d spent a lot of summer nights punching the canvas bag full of sawdust Bitterwood had strung up in the barn. He still thought Del or Wash would beat him to a pulp, but if a bag of sawdust ever jumped him, he’d kick its ass.

HE PRESSED ON, further down the road, into another waking dream:

What do you think you’re doing? asked Zeeky, standing in the door of the barn, her hands on her hips. 

Jeremiah groaned as he rose from the ground. He was too breathless from Bitterwood’s punch to answer Zeeky. The question wasn’t directed at him anyway.

Bitterwood said, Teaching your brother to fight.

It looks more like you’re beating the crap out of him.

I’m going easy on him. And he gets to hit me back.

That’s fair, she said. The mighty dragon-slayer bravely lets a little kid hit him.

Little kid? protested Jeremiah.

Zeeky scowled at him. You in such a hurry to be a big man? You think being grown up means learning how to hurt people?

The boy needs to stand up for himself, said Bitterwood. This is all for his good.

Yeah, people doing good things always sneak away in the middle of the night and hide what they’re doing, said Zeeky.

We can’t all whistle and have bears run out of the woods to fight for us, grumbled Jeremiah.

I thought we came out to this farm to live in peace, said Zeeky.

We did, said Bitterwood. We won’t go out looking for trouble, but that doesn’t mean trouble won’t come looking for us.

I’m tired of running from fights, said Jeremiah. You of all people know how dangerous the world is. You think the war between men and dragons is over? It ain’t even begun, way I figure it.

Good going, Zeeky said, looking at Bitterwood. You found the next generation to fight dragons for you.

If it makes you feel better, I’m only showing him how to fight other people.

Great, said Zeeky. The only thing even more dangerous.

JEREMIAH SHOVED HIS MEMORIES aside as he crouched behind the outhouse, peeking around the edge. His farm looked like a different world. The barn was reduced to a black mound of ragged, charred boards. The henhouse was completely gone. Weeds had sprung up everywhere, with grass and thistles already knee high. The whole place looked abandoned, except, obviously, it wasn’t. There was a stream of pale smoke rising from the cabin’s chimney. Through the busted-out window pane he could see shadows moving on the far wall in the dim red light of the fireplace. He could make out voices, definitely human, though he was too far away to catch anything more than murmurs.

Some part of him wanted to march right up to the door and yell, Get out! This is my home! But this was no longer true. It had never been true. Zeeky had run off and left him. As for Bitterwood, for all his talk about standing up for yourself, he’d surrendered when Anza came to arrest him without putting up a fight. Jeremiah felt like an idiot to ever trust that old fool.

He wasn’t, however, enough of an idiot to barge into the cabin and try to toss the strangers out of it. What did it matter, anyway? The house was just a pile of rocks and boards. It meant nothing to him now. It had meant nothing all along.

He’d really wanted the flintlock pistol and powder hidden under the floorboards near the bunks, but he could make do without this. There was a good-sized stash of food and tools in the old oak down by the creek that had everything he needed to survive.

He slipped from the shadow of the outhouse and silently limped along the path that ran next to the creek. All that was left of the corn in the adjacent field was a few bent and trampled stalks. One of the neighbors must have harvested it, and had probably already sold the corn. Jeremiah would never see any payment for his hard work in tending the field. If the dragons had an edge over men, it was that they treated each other decently, while men would steal from each other without batting an eye.

The ancient, gnarled oak loomed before him in the darkness. Jeremiah splashed into the stream, wading up to the broad trunk adjacent to the water. The tree was split along the base, and the knee-high hole had been filled up with stones. Jeremiah grunted as he pulled away the stones one by one. He tossed them aside. They fell with loud plops into the river. Only after he’d pulled aside half a dozen, and shoved his hand into the gap to grab the oilcloth sack within the hole, did he consider that maybe he should have been a little quieter.

A splash came from a little way up the creek. Then another downstream, followed by a voice crying, There! I told you!

Jeremiah tugged at the sack, knowing he had no chance of outrunning whoever had discovered him. Within the sack there was a hunting knife and a hatchet. If he could get his hands on those, and stand his ground...

As quickly as the plan formed, it was over. A large hand grabbed him by the collar and yanked him backward.

I got him! I got him! screamed whoever had grabbed hold of his shirt.

Jeremiah twisted, his feet slipping on the stones. As he fell, he held his arms overhead, slipping down and away, pulling free of his shirt. He landed on his back, in a shallow trickle of water. He tried to roll over, to get onto his hands and knees, only to have the world explode as a heavy boot slammed into his jaw.

Going limp, he heard what sounded like a whole army splashing toward him.

It’s a spy! someone was screaming. It’s a spy!

Holy crap! someone else said. It’s Bitterwood’s kid!

Jeremiah wasn’t sure if he should confirm this or deny it, but before he could decide at least three people had grabbed hold of his arms and were yanking him back to his feet.

You’re our prisoner! someone cried out.

Jeremiah blinked, trying to see through the stars still dancing in his vision, barely able to see anything in the darkness beneath the oak.

We can’t take prisoners, someone grumbled.

Jeremiah looked toward the speaker, who had a dingy white shirt on, making him look like a ghost floating in the darkness. Between the voice and the overall bulk, he recognized the boy.

Nevan? he asked. Nevan was one of the field hands who used to help out at the widow’s farm. He was only a year older than Jeremiah, not much taller, but solidly built.

He knows me, said Nevan. He’ll know most of us. We gotta kill him.

Crap, it really is Jeremiah, said another voice.

A boy stepped right in front of him. It was Onion, a lanky youth of about seventeen, a hired hand at the Dewey farm. Though, given the state of that farm, Onion was probably looking for work.

I got every right to be here, said Jeremiah. Y’all gonna jump a guy for walking on his own property?

This ain’t nobody’s property now, said Onion. Dragons have turned this into a no-man’s land. All ‘cause Bitterwood went crazy over some damned chickens and attacked Multon.

Dragons were already raiding these farms, said Jeremiah.

Why are we jawing? groaned Nevan. Just slice his throat. Serah never said nothin’ about taking prisoners.

She never said we should kill people, neither, said Onion.

What’s the point of patrolling the perimeter then? said Nevan. Can’t nobody know we’re out here. This is supposed to be a big secret.

I can keep the secret, said Jeremiah. Just let me go. I didn’t come here looking for trouble.

Nah, said another boy, who Jeremiah didn’t recognize. This teen had his arm shoved deep into the oak tree. With a grunt, he pulled the bag out, knocking the remaining stones free. He came out here looking for this. What is it? Bitterwood’s treasure?

Treasure? asked Jeremiah.

That bastard killed rich dragons left and right, said the bag holder, who was untying the sack. This bag’s heavy. I bet it’s full of gold. He shoved his hand into the bag the second the string loosened. He frowned when the first thing he pulled out was a somewhat rusty hatchet.

The kid emptied the sack onto a sandbar. The hunting knife had fared better than the hatchet, with only a few specks of rust. The beef jerky wrapped in parchment was fuzzy with mold. The jar full of dried beans looked okay, at least.

Junk, the boy sighed. He looked up from the sad contents of the sack, his eyes narrowing on Jeremiah’s face. But you didn’t limp all the way from Dragon Forge for a jar of beans. There really is treasure out here, ain’t there?

I swear there ain’t, said Jeremiah.

That’s exactly what you’d say if there was, said Onion. Let’s take him back to the cabin.

Let’s kill him, said Nevan.

Not yet, said Onion. If we’re going to get good at this bandit thing, sooner or later we’ll need to torture someone into telling us where they hide stuff.

If there was a treasure, you think I would have come here looking for a jar of beans? asked Jeremiah.

If there ain’t a treasure, said Onion, you got one long, bad night ahead of you.

FIVE MINUTES LATER, Jeremiah was standing inside the farmhouse, marched there by Nevan, Onion, and the third boy, whose name turned out to be Rye. The farmhouse had been cramped when three people had lived there, but now it was practically overflowing.

Jeremiah hadn’t spoken since coming through the door. His arrival had caused a commotion among his three immediate captors and the five people waiting in the cabin.

He recognized most of these people, and quickly picked up the names of others as they bickered. The oldest girl was Serah. She was an older teen Jeremiah had been too shy to talk to even though she was usually only two booths away during market days. Zeeky had chatted with her several times, though, and at the moment that slim connection was probably sparing him from death and torture. None of the boys seemed willing to do anything without Serah’s approval.

Two other teen girls were there, Mazie, a daughter of one of the workers killed when Hex attacked the foundries, and a red-haired girl who looked kind of familiar, but he couldn’t remember who she was. She glared at him with her arms crossed, with nothing but contempt in her eyes.

Bitterwood should have swung from the gallows for what he did to Bo, the red-haired girl said, after stewing for a minute or two. We should hang his son, so he’d know what it feels like to lose someone you love.

The second she said Bo’s name, Jeremiah knew her. Korrine. She was sixteen, maybe, and people said she’d been planning to marry Bo, one of the rangers Bitterwood had killed.

Fortunately, her desire to hang him was currently going against the group consensus. Unfortunately, this was because the other two boys filling out the group were Del and Wash. They sided with Onion and Rye that Jeremiah was a good candidate for torture.

Onion said, Nevan, Korrine, you’re outvoted. We ain’t gonna kill him... yet. First, he’s gotta tell us where Bitterwood’s treasure is hidden.

Serah let out a frustrated growl as she threw up her hands. You’re dumber than a stump, Onion! Zeeky and Jeremiah were poor as dirt! There ain’t no treasure.

But Bitterwood killed all those drag—

I stood downwind from Bitterwood in the market, said Serah. That guy couldn’t afford a bar of soap.

Who cares about treasure, said Wash, butting in. Bitterwood murdered my pa in cold blood. It’s only fair we get to carve up his boy.

I ain’t his boy, Jeremiah said. I was nothing to him but free help. That, and his punching bag whenever he was bored.

Oh, boo hoo, did the bad man hit you? said Wash.

Knock it off! shouted Serah. She glared at Onion. You couldn’t have just chased him off? Tellico didn’t tell us to take prisoners.

Then why send us out on patrol? protested Onion. What were we supposed to do when we caught someone?

Kill them, obviously, said Nevan.

Shut up, said Serah. Let me think.

We can’t let him go, said Korrine. He’s seen our faces.

Who the heck am I going to tell? asked Jeremiah. I’m running away from Dragon Forge.

Sure, said Korrine. That’s convenient. Tellico calls a secret meeting of his new crew and you happen to show up the night we’re supposed to meet him. You gotta be one of Howell’s spies. She looked at Serah. And spies get hung.

Not until we find out where the treasure is, said Onion.

There ain’t no treasure! snapped Serah.

Ah, to hell with it. Of course, there’s a treasure! said Jeremiah.

That brought the bickering to a halt. Jeremiah felt as surprised as the people around him looked. He’d formed a plan, and couldn’t believe that the first step had worked.

You all know Bitterwood killed Albekizan, said Jeremiah. He grabbed anything he could shove into his backpack. Gold, gems, all kinds of stuff.

Then why was he living in this dump? asked Serah.

You think he’s dumb enough to go around screaming, ‘Hey! Come rob me!’

Told ya, said Rye.

Look, I can show you, said Jeremiah, holding up his hands. He was lucky that, in all the talk of torture, his novice captors had never thought to tie him up. He took a tentative step toward the bunks along the back wall. No one moved to stop him.

Stand clear, he said, as the others leaned in. There’s a booby trap. Poison darts. He got the poison from Blasphet.

The invocation of Blasphet caused the others to lean back. He knelt, digging his finger into a knot hole in the floorboard. He twisted his finger to push aside the catch that held the board in place. Calmly, he lifted the board. He felt pretty sure they couldn’t see anything with him blocking the hole. He stuck his whole arm in, fishing around until his fingers closed on what he was looking for. He rose, spinning around, with a flintlock pistol in hand, the hammer cocked.

Get back! he snapped.

He’d expected at least a moment of hesitation or fear. Instead, Wash screamed, Get him! and lunged.

Jeremiah let go of the pistol. It wasn’t loaded anyway. A whole summer of sparring with Bitterwood kicked in by instinct. Jeremiah easily swayed to the side to avoid Wash’s bulk, while forming a perfect fist and aiming it straight at the older boy’s nose.

A second later, Jeremiah had blood on his knuckles, and Wash was on the floor.

There was another second where no one else in the room seemed to understand what had happened. A second was forever. Jeremiah swung his fist again, putting his full weight into it, driving hard into Del’s guts. Del was a giant next to Jeremiah, but he was used to delivering beatings, not taking them. Del staggered backward, holding his belly, stumbling into Onion and Korrine.

Jeremiah saw his opening. He lurched toward the door, letting out a feral growl that caused Mazie and Serah to jump aside.

Then, Nevan was in front of the door, drawing his short sword from the scabbard on his belt. Nevan’s steel pulled free as Jeremiah drove his knuckles into the boy’s throat. His foe fell backward through the door. Jeremiah plucked the sword from the air as it fell.

Don’t let him escape! cried Serah, as Jeremiah stepped through the door.

Jeremiah spun around just outside the door, facing them. He’d made it this far by taking them by surprise. With his bum leg, he couldn’t outrun them.

What would Bitterwood do?

Jeremiah’s jaw tightened. Bitterwood would kill them. It’s better to be standing in a pool of blood after a fight than lying in it.

Nevan was on his hands and knees, ready to rise. Jeremiah lifted his sword overhead. He hadn’t been trained to use a sword, but he’d been chopping wood all summer, splitting logs a lot harder than a man’s neck.

With a scream of rage, he swung.

The blow never landed. A large hand caught hold of his forearm as it fell, halting his assault with an iron grip. A jolt ran through Jeremiah as the fingers holding his bare forearm flooded his brain with what felt like lightning. The air smelled suddenly of the aftermath of a storm.

Twisting to see who’d grabbed hold of him, he was shocked to find Burke standing behind him. No. Not Burke. Burke was dead. But this man so resembled him that, though Jeremiah had never met him in person, he had no doubt who he faced.

I appreciate your bloodlust, boy, said Tellico. But save it for more fruitful targets.

Tellico let go of his arm. The storm scent vanished, and the hairs along Jeremiah’s arms fell slack. The instantaneous change to his senses removed any doubt. Tellico was wearing a set of the goddess’s silver wings, folded up and hidden beneath his coat. Jeremiah had once bonded with such wings. Among his many reasons for hating Bitterwood was that he’d been forced to surrender his wings to Burke following the defeat of Vulpine.

He’s not one of the recruits, said Serah, standing in the doorway of the cabin.

The cripple’s a spy, Nevan said, his voice faint and choked as he rubbed his windpipe.

This cripple whipped you good, said Tellico. Don’t you know who this is?

"Do you know who I am?" asked Jeremiah, certain Tellico must be mistaking him for someone else.

You’re Jeremiah. Bitterwood’s son. Looks like he taught you a thing or two about fighting.

I’m no one’s son, said Jeremiah. I’m an orphan.

Then you’ll fit right in, said Tellico. All my recruits are orphans. I can never replace the families they’ve lost. But, for those who follow me, I try to provide something better.

Something to live for? asked Jeremiah.

Something worth dying for, said Tellico. Serah, call the others in from their patrols. It’s time I explained what all this is for.

Serah started shouting out names into the darkness, summoning other boys in from patrol. She had the loudest voice Jeremiah had ever heard.

I don’t want to know what’s going on, said Jeremiah. I only want to grab my stuff and—

Fly away? said Tellico.

Jeremiah’s eyes widened. Tellico crouched, leaning in close, bringing his mouth next to Jeremiah’s ears.

With his voice concealed from the others by Serah’s shouting, Tellico whispered, The wings recognized you. You’ve used them before. Prove yourself worthy, and you might use them again.

How? asked Jeremiah.

Isn’t it obvious? asked Tellico, rising back to his full height. My Swamp Devils were killed during the massacre at Talon Lake. I need a new crew. And one member of my crew will be entrusted with a rather special bit of gear.

But—

Tellico cut Jeremiah off. Save your questions until the others come in. I’d rather not have to repeat myself. All will be explained.

THERE WERE TOO MANY RECRUITS for them all to go inside the cabin, at least twenty, mostly boys, with a handful of girls. Jeremiah didn’t know most of them, but from the nasty looks he got he suspected they all knew him. Bitterwood might have been a legendary dragon slayer, but this didn’t make him beloved among his fellow men. The safest course of action would have been to sneak away while everyone was focused on Tellico, who stood in the doorway of the cabin, backlit by the glowing fireplace, his deep voice holding everyone’s attention. Only the possibility of once more getting to wear the silver wings kept Jeremiah from slipping into the night.

Tellico was confirming the dark tale of betrayal that Jeremiah had heard whispered through the town. The reinforcements Howell had brought to Dragon Forge hadn’t come to aid the rebellion, but to crush it.

Many of you are orphans due to her actions, said Tellico.

So, we’re going to kill her? asked Serah.

Not yet. I’ve spoken to her about her motives. They’re more complex than simple treachery. She believes herself to be the puppet master of Zaline, the Salt Queen, perhaps the most powerful ruler remaining among the sun-dragons. I believe Howell’s delusional, but I may yet be able to twist her into seeing Zaline as a foe to be disposed of.

But Burke’s dead because of Howell, said Serah. If you were close enough to talk to her, you were close enough to kill her.

And then what? asked Tellico. "Her men would swear their loyalty to me? No. If she was dead, the Salts would follow Howell’s second in command,