by James Maxey
"What if Rorg's sons catch us?" the woman asked in a trembling voice.
Bitterwood drew an arrow and placed it against his bowstring.
"No dragon will follow you."
Without waiting to see what they would choose to do, he sprinted toward the tunnel that led to the main chamber. A faint glow lit the tunnel, the light from the fire pit that Rorg's clan gathered around. He sprinted along, hugging the walls. With his soot-darkened cloak and skin, he would be almost invisible among the deep shadows thrown off by the bonfire.
As he reached the central chamber, he dropped to a crouch.
Rorg, pot bellied and elephant-limbed, stood before the crowd of sun-dragons. There were too many for Bitterwood to count. This was a welcome development in the confined space. Only one or two at a time would be able to squeeze into the tunnel he was currently in. His main worry was that he would block the tunnel with corpses too quickly. His eyes searched about the room, the forest of stalactites and stalagmites, the countless nooks and alcoves and tunnels, looking for the best spot to make his stand. He had the luxury of picking the proper moment to strike. The dragons remained focused on Rorg.
"Treachery!" Rorg shouted. "The foul villain Vulpine nearly crippled Thak with his unholy weapons, taking advantage of our honor and fairness. He challenged my son to single combat, then resorting to the trickery of a blade! Can this injustice be allowed to stand?"
"No!" the beastialists roared. Bitterwood's teeth rattled in the wave of sound.
"Sons! Brothers! Honored friends! Join me in my cause of vengeance! We will march upon the Dragon Palace! We shall throw the interloper Chapelion from the throne! We will end the moral plague that has sickened our fellow dragons! The time has come to rule as nature intended. From shore to mountain, we must make this land one endless bone-field! We are predators! All others are prey! That is the only law!"
The dragons erupted into a frenzy of roaring and shouting, hungry for blood. Bitterwood pursed his lips in grim satisfaction. He no longer cared what Zeeky thought. He was having a dragon steak for breakfast.
He drew his arrow. Unfortunately, Rorg, who'd been standing on his hind legs, dropped back to all fours. Bitterwood no longer had a good shot at the big beast. Killing Rorg with a single arrow through his ear-disk would have sent panic through the room. He scanned the remaining targets, trying to decide whose death would have the most dramatic impact.
As the seconds unfolded, the bloodthirsty roar of the crowd fell off, replaced with a confused murmur. Long, serpentine necks began to sway as heads turned toward the back of the chamber. Bitterwood lowered his bow. What was going on?
"Rorg," said a deep voice from behind the assembly, obviously that of another sun-dragon. "I hear you plan to make yourself king."
With all eyes focused on the new arrival at the back of the room, Bitterwood scrambled for a ledge he saw on the western wall. It was about twenty feet up, with a good view of the whole room. Beyond was a hole deep enough that he could safely retreat from the jaws of anyone who tried to reach him. It was also high enough that the piling corpses wouldn't keep him from seeing new targets.
As he scrambled up the slimy rock, the crowd of dragons grew deathly quiet. There was a clanking, clanging sound that reminded Bitterwood of the movements of the now-dead sun-dragon Kanst-the former commander of the king's army had always covered himself in thick plates of iron armor. Bitterwood reached the ledge and turned around. The new arrival was indeed a sun-dragon wearing armor-it looked like it might actually be Kanst's armor, given the high level of craftsmanship. A heavy helmet concealed the dragon's face; chain mail covered his throat. His breast and back were protected by overlapping plates of steel. Even his tail was covered with bands of armor, ending at the tip with a heavy-looking ball studded with blades-a new accessory if this was, in fact, Kanst's armor. A large square shield was slung over his back. Only the great sheets of the dragon's wings were unprotected, but that was of little help. In the air, shooting a dragon in the wing could be fatal with a little assistance from gravity. On the ground, punching holes in a dragon's wings would do little more than annoy him.
The armored dragon lugged what looked like a bulging cow's stomach. Bitterwood thought this was an odd thing to be carrying; from the way the pale blue-white sack roiled with the dragon's motion, it was obviously filled with something liquid. In the dragon's other fore-talon he carried a formidable looking steel-handled axe. Bitterwood's heart skipped a beat when he recognized the weapon-it was the axe of the prophet Hezekiah, an axe that had almost taken his life not long ago. Who was this?
"You have no business here, stranger," Rorg said, eyeing the iron-clad dragon.
The new dragon came to a clanging halt a few feet from the fire-pit. "I'm no stranger, Rorg," said the visitor. "My father knew you well. While he never adopted your foolish beastialism, he always admired your brutality. He thought that, of all the abodes in his kingdom, you had the best approach to handling the humans who lived on his land."
"His kingdom?" asked Rorg. "The only king I've ever served is Albekizan. He's dead, and has no sons."
Bitterwood knew that Rorg's statement wasn't quite true. There was one surviving son.
"My name is Hexilizan," said Hex, using his formal name. He drew up to his full height. The light from the fire pit gleamed on his polished breast plate. "You know me, Rorg."
A light slowly flickered in the fat dragon's dull eyes. "Ah," he said. "The disgraced son. Castrated, shamed, sent to live as little more than a slave. Now you come here wrapped in your armor, showing you fear the natural weaponry of the true dragons! Bow before me, Hexilizan, and I may let you leave this cavern with your life."
Hex shook his head, the chain mail on his neck jingling. "Your recitation of my history is correct. I've lived much of my life as another dragon's servant. I found the experience distasteful. The age of kings has reached its end, Rorg, as has the age of slaves."
"You sound like your spineless brother, Shandrazel." Rorg pushed the name from his mouth as if it were a turd he'd found upon his tongue.
"My brother foolishly believed in the equality of all beings," Hex said. "My belief is different: I stand for nothing more or less than freedom. I'm grateful you've called this gathering, Rorg. It makes it convenient for me to address you all. You must all free your slaves. This should be compatible with your philosophy, after all. You call yourselves beasts. Where in nature has slavery ever been found outside of dragonkind? No other creature on this world has ever adopted the practice of slavery."
"Humans are useful parasites," said Rorg. "Without them, who will muck our caves?"
"Even earth-dragons have embraced plumbing," Hex said. "It's time for you to evolve."
"Who are you to come here issuing commands? You're not king!"
"No," said Hex. "I'm not a king. I collect no tax; no patch of the earth is my property. I'm merely a philosopher who sees the myriad injustices of this world. Unlike my pacifist brother, I'm also a warrior. I regard violence as an acceptable argument for convincing others to see things my way."
Bitterwood had seen Hex in action. Bitterwood liked him better as a warrior than a philosopher. Not that he liked him overly much as either.
"You're outnumbered sixty to one!" Rorg snarled as he rose once more to his hind legs. "You're in no position to threaten violence!"
Rorg's fellow beastialists formed a tight circle around the fire pit. Hex was surrounded.
Bitterwood took aim at Rorg. From here, he had a clear shot at the sun-dragon's throat. It would be a simple matter to sever the main artery supplying his brain. The beastialist would be dead within seconds.
His eyes drifted from Rorg to Hex. In his armor, the only vulnerable spots were the narrow eye-slits in the helmet. It would be a more challenging shot. Given the angle of attack, there was also the risk he would merely blind Hex without a clean kill.
Bitterwood contemplated the matter for half a second. He'd been waiting to put an arrow into Hex si
nce the moment he'd met him.
His breath crossed his lips in a slow, calm stream as he let his arrow fly.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN:
BLOOD-HUNGRY AVENGER
THE LIVING ARROW flew from Bitterwood's bowstring with a loud zzzmmm. The note sang musically in the narrow stone alcove. Hex turned his head barely an inch in reaction to the noise. It saved his life. The arrow hit the edge of his helmet's eye slit and bounced off. The ricocheting arrow sliced across the face of a sun-dragon beyond. That dragon howled in outrage as Bitterwood drew another arrow. The other dragons began to snarl. The awareness that they were under attack spread through the assembly like a wave. Yet, an arrow was a tiny thing, nearly invisible in the firelight. None of Rorg's brethren turned their eyes toward Bitterwood. Instead, they focused upon Hex as their muscles coiled, ready to pounce.
Bitterwood suspected if he did nothing but sit and watch, Hex would be dead inside a minute, given the odds he faced. Still, the opportunity to put an arrow into the brain of Albekizan's only surviving son was something he couldn't pass up. Bitterwood placed the fresh arrow on his bowstring and searched for an opening.
Hex didn't provide the opening. Instead, he tossed the cow stomach into the air above the fire and hacked at it with his steel axe. The bulging sack burst, spraying oil over the fire pit. Bitterwood felt the heat on his cheeks as the oil ignited in a violent conflagration. He turned his face, closing his eyes to protect them from the sudden burst of light.
When Bitterwood opened his eyes, he saw three of the beastialists pounce upon Hex. Bitterwood watched with grudging admiration as Hex made short work of them. The sun-dragon buried the axe into the breast of his first foe, a blow that was almost certainly fatal. With the blade affixed to his tail, Hex sliced across the throat of the attacker at his rear. From the spray of blood, Bitterwood concluded the attack had hit an artery. He wondered if it was only luck, or if Hex was a better fighter than he'd given him credit for. The final attacker was a young, aggressive sun-dragon who charged forward with no hint of caution. Hex opened his jaws wide and caught his foe's smaller head between his teeth. There was a sickening crunch as the dragon's skull split under the force of Hex's crushing bite.
A thick blue smoke rose from the fire. Through the haze, Bitterwood saw a shot as Hex spat the young dragon's head away. Despite his armor, Hex's open mouth was a vulnerable spot. An arrow straight down his gullet would bury itself in the sun-dragon's brain-stem. He let the arrow fly.
Hex snapped his jaw shut as the arrow reached his mouth, tilting his head so that the arrow was deflected by his armored snout. Bitterwood cursed the dragon's luck. Or was it luck? Hex turned his gaze toward the ledge where Bitterwood stood. The other dragons might not be aware of him, but Hex plainly was.
Before Bitterwood could fire again, Thak, Rorg's eldest son, plunged into battle. He blindsided Hex, knocking the armored dragon from his hind-talons. The two crashed against the stone floor. Hex's armor clanged like an alarm meant to wake the gods. The two dragons rolled, necks and tails entwining, as Thak used his powerful claws to peel back part of the armored plate covering Hex's belly.
Traces of the blue-tinged smoke reached Bitterwood. His nose twitched at the stench of burning peanuts. He recognized the odor, having smelled it when Blasphet attacked the Nest. The smoke was a paralyzing poison that affected all manner of dragons.
Around the cavern, sun-dragons were starting to sway drunkenly. They stared at random shadows, glassy-eyed, oblivious to Thak and Hex's furious tussle. The two rolling dragons toppled the nearest beastialists as if they were huge, red bowling pins. A few tried to stagger from the cavern but none made it to the exit, as their eyes rolled back into their heads and they collapsed.
Bitterwood remained focused on Hex's armored form. The excitement of combat was sparing Thak the soporific effects of the smoke so far, so the motions of the two dragons as they wrestled prevented Bitterwood from finding a good opening.
It was increasingly difficult to ignore the fact that there were nearly three score sun-dragons lying immobile, stupefied by the poison smoke. Here was an opportunity to rid the world of an entire clan of sun-dragons. His hatred of all dragons burned in his throat like thirst and he could no longer resist spilling blood. His bow sang out in the alcove in a steady rhythm as he targeted the immobile forms of dragon after dragon. He emptied his quiver faster than his living arrows could grow back. He studied his handiwork as his heart pounded in his ears. The floor was red and glistening. He'd killed more sun-dragons in a moment than he'd managed to kill in most years. It wasn't enough.
It could never be enough.
Impatient with waiting for his quiver to replenish, he leapt from the alcove, skidding along the slimy stone, drawing his sword as he raced toward an old sun-dragon who was feebly crawling away, his breath ragged and labored. He turned toward Bitterwood's footsteps. His left eye was murky with cataracts as he lifted his head.
Bitterwood buried his sword between the beast's eyes, pausing for a moment of dark pleasure as death twitched all the way to the tail-tip of the once mighty beast. He pulled the blade free. A shiver ran along his spine as he watched dark red fluid running down the blood-grooves of his blade.
Nearby, a dragon rolled to his back, clutching at the arrow buried deep in his breast. Blood bubbled in the creature's mouth. His remaining life could be measured in moments.
The dark thing that drove Bitterwood would not grant those moments. He hacked and hacked and hacked at the beast's neck, as the ghosts of the uncountable, nameless, faceless men who'd suffered a thousand years of cruelties beneath the talons of dragons whispered for vengeance.
As the beast's head came free from its body, Bitterwood straightened, scanning the room. He no longer felt like a creature of muscle and bone. He was crafted from lightning and stone. He wiped his red hands across his lips. Salty blood burned on his tongue like distilled fire.
He spun toward the sound of a dragon crying out in agony. It was Thak, flat on his back, with Hex crouched above him. Hex had his snout buried deep into Thak's belly. He jerked his head from side to side, producing a slurping sound as he tore away strips of bloodied hide.
Bitterwood was beyond all caution or strategy. He raced toward Hex, screaming, more beast than man, his sword brandished above his head with both arms. Hex drew back, his emerald eyes widening, as Bitterwood leapt over the bodies of fallen dragons.
Hex swung his tail around, in the tripping attack hardwired into the nerves of all sun-dragons. Bitterwood instinctively leapt over the tail-blade. A shout of "DIE!" tore from his mouth. Using the full weight of his body and the pure power of the righteous rage of all humanity, Bitterwood drove the tip of his sword against Hex's breast plate, right at the point where it would pierce his heart.
The armor dented.
The blade shattered.
Bitterwood's attack ended abruptly as he slammed face-first into the iron wall that was the sun-dragon's torso. He staggered backward, blood streaming from his nose, his lower lip split open. He was only barely aware of Hex's tail swinging back. He jumped, but he was too slow. The armored tail caught him at the hip and threw him across the room like he was little more than a doll. He crashed into a stalagmite.
Sliding down the column, he stared up at the countless stone icicles above. The world spun in a sickening twirl. Some distant sliver of awareness waited for Hex's jaws to snap onto his torso.
Instead, back near the fire pit, there was a cavern-shaking roar. Bitterwood turned his head toward the noise. The ground trembled as Rorg thumped down from his pedestal and charged Hex, two tons of reptilian fury. Hex spun to meet him, burying his mighty axe deep into the dragon's fat neck. The sheer momentum and mass of the patriarch sun-dragon ripped the weapon from Hex's grasp. Hex tumbled backwards and Rorg trampled over him. Rorg's neck swayed; he was obviously drunk from the poison that had paralyzed the others. Still, just as a large man can hold his liquor better than a thin one, the corpulent beastialist proved slig
htly more resistant to the airborne toxin.
Rorg whipped his head back as Hex tried to rise. His jaws clamped down on the chainmail draping Hex's neck. Hex's eyes bulged as he let out an almost airless squeak. Even though Rorg's teeth failed to pierce the mail, the power of his jaws was like a vise upon Hex's windpipe.
Bitterwood rolled to his hands and knees, shaking his head. The bloodlust that had driven him began to ebb. He'd long been torn by the forces within him. There was the blood-hungry avenger who craved the death of dragons regardless of consequences, and there was the cool, rational hunter who carefully planned each move, following well practiced strategies to kill prey without endangering himself. The latter Bitterwood was back in control. Rising, he reached over his shoulder and found half a dozen fresh new arrows ripening in his quiver. He calmly walked to where his bow had landed. He lifted it and turned to the two dragons. Rorg's back was to him. Hex, his neck still firmly clamped in Rorg's jaws, was staring at Bitterwood. His eyes pleaded for mercy.
If Hex wanted to be put out of his misery, Bitterwood was happy to oblige. He drew a careful bead on Hex's left eye. He'd never have a cleaner shot.
As the arrow flew, Hex jerked his head sharply, dragging Rorg with him. The arrow lodged several inches deep into the top of Rorg's skull. With a groan, the beastialist's jaws loosened. He sank to the ground before Hex. His head came to rest upon the bloodied belly of Thak, as if he'd chosen this for a pillow.
Bitterwood reached for another arrow. Hex opened his jaws wide, drawing in a gasp of air as deep as a bellows.
Bitterwood placed the arrow against his bowstring.
Hex lunged toward Bitterwood, jaws open wide, his neck coiling out like a whip.
Bitterwood aimed his arrow straight down Hex's throat. He let the bowstring slide from his fingers. The arrow flashed straight toward its target.
Yet Hex once more anticipated Bitterwood's attack. He snaked his head to the right as the arrow left the string. The arrow punched through the back of his cheek, the shaft jutting from the outer edge of his jaw rather than lodging in the base of his skull. Hex carried through with his strike. Bitterwood leapt backward, trying to get out of Hex's path, but the sun-dragon compensated for that as well. His head shot toward the point in space where Bitterwood landed. His jaws closed in on Bitterwood's bow hand.
