Part 24

Artha wasn't surprised to wake up in an empty bed. He sat up, yawning, stretching and rotating a few of the sore muscles. He didn't know how long he'd been asleep, but the long rest had done wonders. He no longer felt like his joints were about to dislocate all at once. Even mechanized gear couldn't smooth out the jolts of riding on hundreds of pounds of draconian power.

Rising and throwing on his jacket, he headed out and spotted the security grid up and active. His father must have fixed it sometime during the night. That made Artha feel a bit better when he saw his little brother standing guard with his back to the gate, staring at something in the middle of the arena.

When Artha followed his look, however, he also forgot about anything besides Moordryd riding on Decepshun's shoulder.

A moment passed before he realized that Moordryd wasn't trying out a new saddle. Some riders used shoulder mounts, but Decepshun had always worn a style called helm gear, made both for a human to perch and for the dragon's protection. But no—Moordryd wasn't just not sitting.

He was holding on, braced with one hand holding his jack stick, his other hand closed around a spine on Decepshun's back. He didn't hang on so much as Decepshun held him magged against her like a piece of gear, but when she suddenly came to a halt, skidding in the sand, she released her hold on Moordryd. Her rider leaped high, boosted by her own strength and momentum, and then he came down with a fierce slam of his jackstick, blasting sand up in two great arcs.

Surprised, Artha shook sand out of his hair, turning down the collar of his jacket to clear it.

And then Moordryd looked up, clearly startled to have Artha so close, dropping his stick.

They regarded each other for a moment. Something subtle had changed. Artha remained the same, but Moordryd knelt even as Decepshun pawed closer, standing beside her rider. But she wore no saddle, and the gear she held was not entirely what Moordryd preferred. Red thrusters, black psi gear...but no green power gear. No brakes.

And Moordryd hadn't yet stood. He remained on one knee, staring up at Artha, breathing hard after what had been very strenuous practice.

Artha spotted dragon prints all over the arena, with deep furrows in the sand where they had come to a sudden halt, where Moordryd had practiced being wielded like a weapon.

"You actually did it," Artha said softly. "You said dragons should rule. And now..."

He glanced at Decepshun, who gave a curt nod.

"Are you still on our side?" he asked her. "Will you still fight Armeggadon?"

With a theatrical roll of her eyes, she snorted.

Artha grinned. "Just making sure."

Moordryd was still kneeling, and as Artha met his look, he felt like he was seeing the other boy for the first time. Kneeling before him, a dark wraith of a fighter with a powerful dragon behind him—but Moordryd had always served a master. His father, Armeggadon...now Decepshun.

Artha realized, then.

Artha rode Beau as a companion and equal.

Moordryd rode Decepshun as her rider. Her subordinate.

Of course the relationship between Artha and Moordryd would change, even if only slightly.

Artha went to one knee, putting his hand just behind Moordryd's helmet and finding the edge. The helm lifted surprisingly easy—lighter than Artha's helm, the front piece was not made of acrylic or metal but rather of a liquid shadow that wavered in the air. And then he was lifting it off, revealing Moordryd's wide eyes looking up.

Moordryd hadn't redone his gel—he hadn't even had access to it for days—so his white hair lay askew, partly covering his face. How many hours had they been training? Fine beads of sweat dotted his skin, and Moordryd was still catching his breath.

"Are you still you?" Artha whispered.

"I'm me," Moordryd said, glancing away self-consciously. "I mean, she's here. I can hear her, feel what she's feeling. But it's not like before."

"Can you move?" Artha asked. "You're holding still."

Moordryd sealed his jackstick and clipped it back on his belt, but he didn't stand and he didn't change position. Artha was pushing the white hair from his eyes, and Moordryd allowed the touch. Against his will, Moordryd briefly flashed back to a moment between him and Rivett, the older rider grabbing his hair and holding it in a tight fist.

Moordryd had never felt the back of someone's hand touching the side of his face before. Just touching. Not a closed fist or a slap.

"It's easier," he murmured, closing his eyes. "If I don't move. I have to be careful when I'm on her back so I don't distract her..."

Moordryd's voice faded.

Artha had never had a boyfriend before. Nor a girlfriend. There had been crushes, infatuations, but no one that he had even considered, not trusting anyone to come that close. Son of a wealthy dragon breeder, now one of the top riders on the street circuit and a wild card in the Down City Circle—Artha had a target on his back a mile wide and he couldn't afford to make a mistake in who he let close.

But he knew Moordryd—the open hostility between them for so long meant that they had been brutally honest with each other, scorning their attempts at one-upping the other, hurting each other to gain even an inch in a race. Artha knew what Moordryd would do in a fight. Trusted his heart and desires if not everything he said. They had both seen each other at their worst and at their best.

And now Artha had Moordryd on one knee before him.

It was a heady sensation. And like running a race, he let the track dictate his next step.

"So don't move," Artha whispered, closing the short distance between them with a kiss.

Artha had no idea what he was doing, but Moordryd had a little practice. Moordryd tilted his head, adjusting slightly, allowing what was a chaste kiss that he pushed back against, demanding just a little bit more.

And there was a sharp pressure on Artha's lip that made Artha draw back in surprise.

Moordryd had a small smile and even Decepshun looked like she was chuckling. It was a gentle warning.

Dragons bite.

"I'll remember that," Artha promised with his own smile.

Moordryd was about to answer when the city trembled.

The shaking did not last long, only a few seconds, but as the deep thrum of the tower echoed around them, fading into the depths, the tremor left obvious signs behind. Streetlights swung back and forth, sending shadows around for miles above and below. Loose connections came undone, leaving patches of Dragon City in darkness. Shrill alarms whined in the distance, followed by the dull murmur of people and dragons alike startled out of sleep.

Decepshun turned and padded to the far edge of the stadium, climbing up the stands and looking over the side. After a moment, she magged Moordryd up to her back, allowing him to pull himself higher for a better view.

"Magna..." Moordryd breathed.

Artha ran up the steps, standing beside Decepshun and following her gaze.

The lower levels were dark, save for small points of light still somehow receiving power. And down at the bottom, in the engineering levels with the giant flywheels and empty spaces...nothing but a dull red glow. The huge furnaces that fueled the city were normally too far down and too drowned out by the police sector to see, but now they could see the flaming heart of Dragon City.

"Dad..." Artha breathed. "Dad'll know what's going on..."

Artha turned and ran across the sand. Moordryd dropped from Decepshun's back, following after...then stopped. He looked back at his dragon.

It took Decepshun a moment to understand. She heaved a sigh and motioned with her snout for him to go on. Permission he didn't have to ask for—she considered it more like he was simply letting her know where he was going. But she was gratified that he asked.

By the time Moordryd was going down the steps two at a time, Parmon and Kitt were there beside Artha, and Lance watched from behind Connor's chair. He drew up with them, watching Connor silently flip through one camera feed after another.

At first none of them realizaed what they were looking at. The majority of the screens were still broken from Lance's tantrum, and those that worked were cracked and flickered with static. One feed showed them dust filtering past a spotlight. Another showed twisted steel and the edge of a chunk of stone.

Connor stopped and leaned forward, squinting at the next image.

"I don't understand," Parmon whispered. "What is it?"

There was a blurry line of green, something glinting in the corner, and a long straight line over the top of the screen.

"It's a hand," Connor said flatly. "It's the glove of a dragon priest."

"Oh," Parmon said. Then "...oh."

"What was the shaking we felt?" Lance asked.

"Their caves collapsing." Connor continued flipping through the images, losing more and more of himself as every temple showed itself to be destroyed. "Exulto, Tannis, Scio, Vir, Lux...they're gone. They're all gone."

"All the dragon priests?" Kitt wondered.

Artha looked at his father. "But...you're a dragon priest."

"I stay up here," Connor said, staring past the screens. "My temple is just for training—it's..."

He keyed in a new location. The new image was of the familiar training ground, now smashed below several tons of rock fallen from the cavern ceiling.

"I'd be dead, too," Connor said. "If I'd been down there. The entire Order of the Dragon is gone."

He continued to switch from one camera to another, trying to find a single temple, a single city, that had been left unscathed. He only found broken walls, crushed floors. Blood splashed on the lens.

"Was this Armeggadon's doing?" Parmon asked.

"I don't know how," Connor whispered. "It had to be, but..."

One of the video screens flashed in warning. Connor glanced at it and read the incoming message, then sat straight and tried to key it off. The dented control panel produced a few sparks and refused to do anything.

"Oh no," Connor breathed, typing increasingly fast. "No no no, the security's not—all of you, hide—"

The warning came too late.

Word Paynn appeared, slouched down at his desk. His stare matched Connor's, tired and empty. He didn't even seem to notice the five teenagers gathered around Connor, surrounded instead by his own screens all showing the same carnage.

"You saw?" Word asked.

Connor blinked. "How did you? You were outcast—"

"Oh please," Word said, waving one hand. "I was patched into half their feeds before I was even kicked out. The only one I couldn't splice into was you, and now..."

Word heaved a long sigh, staring at the ceiling.

"How?" Connor demanded.

"How what?" Word asked.

"I know you, Word." Connor stood, glaring through the broken screen. "You'd only call to gloat. So tell me, how'd you do it?"

Word blinked and snapped his head up. "Do...?"

"The entire order is dead!" Connor shouted. "You just admitted you were spying on them—how'd you kill them?"

"Oh," Word said in realization. "Oh, you think...oh, Connor. No. I mean, I almost wish I did, believe me, no love lost there, but this one isn't one of mine."

"You expect me to believe that?" Connor demanded.

"You have my son right there," Word said as if Connor were an idiot. "I can't see into your temple, it's not like I would have known if he was there training his fool heart out."

Connor winced.

"And even if I could have," Word continued, "you think I could bring all the temples down in one go? Thank you for the vote of confidence, but no."

"Right..." Connor said, lowering his gaze.

"And besides, to create such a strong burst of black energy, you'd need a whole flight of dragons, and my stupid son—hello, Moordryd, good to see you well—made sure that a whole stable of mine vanished."

Word narrowed his eyes.

"I assume they are well?"

Through his father's rant, Moordryd had stood very still and swallowed once. He refused to show any fear.

"If they are here," Moordryd managed to say without his voice shaking, "then it's their choice."

Word stared at him for a long moment. Then sat back in his chair again, silent. Scowling.

"Is there a reason for this call," Connor asked. "I'd like a few minutes to grieve in—"

"Armeggadon lets loose a burst of power and you wonder why I'm calling?" Word asked.

"Armeggadon has more dragons from those that turned on their masters," Connor said, "he's launched his first major attack and killed my friends, and he's resting before he starts his next assault. So yes, why are you calling?"

Word simply stared at him, and his breathing slowly evened out again, his rant over.

"There's something else," Connor realized. "About black draconium. The energy burst..."

"Very good, Connor." Word steepled his fingers, once more in control of his emotions. "You haven't completely lost your wits."

"You wouldn't have called just about the energy," Connor said, sounding out his thoughts. "You would only call if you needed me for something. But you can steal any tech you don't already have, so this is either about Armeggadon, who you're too proud to admit you're afraid of—"

Word rolled his eyes but didn't argue.

"—or it's about your son."

Moordryd's look went from Connor to his father. "Arme—"

"The world does not revolve around Armeggadon," Word snapped. "Black draconium energy manifests all over Draconis, and your blood resonates with it. More to the point..."

Word focused on Connor. "I saw her."

"What?"

"I saw her," Word repeated. "Only for an instant, only from the corner of my eye, but I'm certain I saw her."

"Word..." Connor groaned with the air of someone tired of a particular fight. "I told you. She's gone. They're gone. It was an accident. I stopped blaming you years ago—"

"She wasn't alone." Word paused. "You saw...nothing?"

Connor didn't speak for several seconds. When he did, there was no emotion in his voice.

"You think I should have seen Fira. Magna Draconis, Word, you wait for Armeggadon to hit me like this and then try to stab me with the same old sword."

"I—"

"You've lied to me a thousand times," Connor said. "Why would I believe you now?"

Word opened his mouth to respond, hesitated, then shrugged.

"You shouldn't," Word said. "I have no proof. I have a hypothesis, and a frequency."

"But no dragons," Connor said, smirking. "How convenient."

"My son led away only his own nest mates," Word snarled, then squashed the emotion he'd revealed. "But no, I lack the raw power of a strong black draconium dragon, although I suppose gold might do as well. A universal donor, as you will."

"I do not 'will'," Connor snapped, his brittle control beginning to stretch too thin. "Zulay and Fira are gone. You should accept that."

Word looked at Connor for several seconds, judging his conviction. When he found it unwavering, he turned his attention to Artha and Moordryd.

"And you?" he asked. "Neither one of you would take the chance to see your mothers again?"

Artha was pale. He turned his head, refusing to meet anyone's look. His hands clenched at his side. As if to shield him, Kitt and Parmon each stepped in front of him.

"This is low," Kitt growled. "Even for you, Word Paynn."

"You have no idea how low I would sink, child," Word said. "Not for this."

His last chance—he lifted his look to his son and waited for his answer.

Too aware of the eyes on him, Moordryd couldn't gather his thoughts. His father was scheming as always, but this made no sense. Word had lost many of his dragons but not all of them. He had to know he couldn't control Decepshun. He had to know that Moordryd wouldn't leave his friends. Not for this.

"I don't even remember her," Moordryd said softly. "I never met her."

Word didn't answer except to watch him.

Moordryd frowned. "Why would you try dangling this in front of me when I wouldn't feel anything about it?"

Word still didn't answer.

"It's literally nothing to me."

Moordryd took in his father's cold eyes and steady gaze. There was no emotion, no hope.

Word would not beg.

But Word had asked. And that was more stooping than Moordryd had ever known from the man.

Still. It was not a decision he could make. Not anymore.

"I have to ask Decepshun," Moordryd said.

"Wait—"

"Hang on—"

"Whoa—"

Artha grabbed Moordryd by the shoulders, turning him to face him.

"Moordryd—"

"I know my father, stable brat." Moordryd let out a breath. "I'm not saying I will. But..."

He looked up at his father, whose eyes opened ever so slightly wider despite Word's best efforts.

"If Decepshun agrees, then we'll meet you at the Dragon Eyes crew quarters. Tonight."

"When—?" Word started.

"Tonight." Moordryd refused to give any more than that. "If she agrees."

Word narrowed his eyes at his phrasing. Guessing at his meaning, he glanced at Connor with a growing grin.

"Do you still think my dreams are so farfetched?"

Connor's smirk was ugly, full of past hurts and present wounds.

"Who's in charge, you or Abandonn?"

Word's screen went blank.

Connor instantly came to his feet, stalking past his sons toward his dragon's stable.

"Dad—" Artha started.

"Not now."

Connor was already vanishing down into the depths of the cavern, likely to examine the damage to the temple. He left behind five confused teenagers who looked at each other to see if any of them knew anything else.

"Do you really think it's such a good idea?" Parmon asked softly. "To meet Word like that? Alone?"

"I won't be alone," Moordryd said, staring at the screen as if his father was still there. "I'll have Decepshun. If she comes."

Artha was still looking at the stairs where Connor had gone. Artha frowned, visibly angry, and he turned away, back to Moordryd.

"This is stupid," Artha said. "Mom's gone. Both of our mom's are gone. And what's any of it mean? My mom died of cancer ages ago."

"From what it sounded like," Kitt said, "your dad's been holding out on you. It...wouldn't be the first time."

Artha winced as if struck. Connor wasn't above faking his death to his own sons. Lying about their mother's death was not hard to believe.

The air felt awkward. No one knew what to say. With a shaky breath, Moordryd forced himself to turn away from the screen.

"Wait," Artha started. "I'm coming with you."

Moordryd startled to hear it. "I...what?"

"He means," Kitt said, "we're all coming with you."

"We are?" Parmon asked.

"Drac!" Lance turned and sprinted up the stairs. "Just lemme get Fracshun!"

"Not yet, you little pest!" Moordryd yelled up after him. "I said tonight! Did none of you hear me say tonight? Or that Decepshun has to decide? Or that it's my father—"

"Exactly," Artha said. "I don't know what dad's doing, but we're going. We're going to hear what your dad has to say, and then we decide from there. Okay?"

Faced with three determined faces, Moordryd almost took a step back. He'd never had a crew circle around him like this. The Dragon Eyes followed him, but much like a pack of dogs follows the strongest stray. This...

He turned quickly and blinked a few times. A moment passed before he mastered his voice again.

"Okay..." He coughed. "Okay."

The stairs loomed ahead of him, dark and foreboding despite Lance waving him up. Despite himself, he felt the old cringing fear welling up in him.

"Thanks," he said softly.

The hand on his shoulder, squeezing once, was a new feeling he couldn't quite place yet.