by James Maxey
Jandra saw no reason to doubt the consensus of the crowd. She believed that one day Bodiel would return and vanquish his father to seize the kingdom. She hoped he would be a fair and wise ruler.
“Ready the prey!” Metron shouted, tilting his staff toward the open end of the room where a dozen earth-dragons stood guard over the iron cages that held the slave men. The men were lean and tan, their oiled muscles gleaming like brass. Both were rebel slaves famous for their ability to escape; though, as evidenced by their presence, neither had yet perfected the skill of avoiding recapture.
Bodiel would be pursuing Cron, the younger of the two slaves. Shandrazel had the advantage of pursuing Tulk, the older slave. Tulk, though strong and wily, was rumored to be nearsighted. Jandra had reason to wonder if this was true because, from across the room, Tulk was staring at her. Jandra again felt a stirring of guilt. She was in awe of the ritual she was witnessing, swept up in the grandeur. Shouldn’t she feel some remorse over the fates of the slaves? She averted her eyes, unable to watch Tulk’s face. She stared at the sleeves of her gown, stitched with metallic blue thread to resemble the scales of a sky-dragon.
The thick-muscled earth-dragons grunted as they wheeled the iron cages to small doors in the rugged stone wall. Beyond the doors were mazes, and beyond the mazes lay the vast forest.
“Release the prey,” Metron said, lowering his staff to the ground with a crisp snap. On cue, the drummers pounded a bass rhythm that filled the night air. The cages rattled open. Tulk tripped as he left his cage. The crowd gasped. Jandra looked up to see Tulk jumping back to his feet. Tulk cast her one last glance then turned from her, vanishing into the dark tunnel. The crowd murmured in hushed tones. A human stumbling from the cage was a bad omen.
“Humans these days are worthless,” Albekizan said, addressing the High Biologian. “In my youth the humans had more spirit. They were always finding sharp rocks to wield as weapons, or hiding in tiny caves. I remember how one doubled back and hid within the palace for two days before being captured. Now, the slaves run blindly, leaving a trail of excrement any fool could follow. Why can’t we find good prey anymore, Metron?”
“Sire, the laws of nature are strict,” the sage dragon answered. “For centuries we have culled the finest men from the villages, only to kill them for their excellence. The breed must inevitably decline.”
Vendevorex startled Jandra by interrupting the conversation between the king and the High Biologian.
“Perhaps, Sire, a moratorium on the sport of hunting humans might improve things,” Vendevorex said. “If you banned the sport for a century, the human stock could recover. They breed at a much faster pace than our kind.”
“Bah!” Albekizan snorted, raising his bejeweled right talon dismissively. “You and your softness for humans. They make fine pets and adequate game, but you would let them breed like rabbits. The stench of their villages already sullies my kingdom.”
“Their villages fill your larders with food and your coffers with gold,” Vendevorex said. “Allow the humans to keep more of the fruits of their labors, and they will improve the conditions in which they live. They dwell in squalor only because of your policies.”
“Be silent, wizard,” Albekizan growled. “You shouldn’t speak to me thus.”
“You asked for my opinion, Sire.”
“Did I?”
“Indeed, Sire. Over a decade ago, you commanded me to speak freely in your presence. Your infallible decree still stands to this day, does it not?”
Albekizan ground his teeth and turned away from the wizard. Jandra always feared for her master’s safety during these exchanges. She admired Vendevorex’s boldness, but worried one day Albekizan might be pushed too far.
Metron broke the tense silence by saying, “Sire, it is time. You may give the word.”
Albekizan rose, spreading his wings wide. His voice boomed through the hall: “Let the hunt begin!”
Bodiel leapt into the air. The dragons cheered as he beat his wings against the rising wind and lifted into the darkening night. But the crowd’s cheers changed to whispered confusion seconds later. Shandrazel remained standing in the hall.
The king growled. “It may be you failed to hear me above the thunder. The hunt has begun! Go!”
“Father,” Shandrazel said, then paused to take a breath. After a moment he looked up, facing the king squarely. He said in a firm but respectful tone, “You know my feelings. I do not desire your throne. I will not hunt Tulk. This ceremony is archaic and cruel. There is no need for blood to be shed. Simply appoint Bodiel as your successor. Your word is law.”
“And you are breaking that law!” Albekizan shouted, spittle spraying the floor before him. “I command you to hunt!”
Jandra drew closer to Vendevorex who wrapped a wing around her.
Shandrazel stood unflinching before his father’s anger. With a shrug he said, “I am indeed breaking your law. Command the guards to arrest me. I won’t resist.”
Albekizan leapt from his pillows and raced toward Shandrazel. He pulled up short of his rebellious son, their eyes locked. The king’s muscles tensed visibly beneath his hide. He stood frozen in rage but Shandrazel did not back down.
All the dragons in the room averted their eyes. No one wanted to witness this shameful confrontation between the king and his son. No dragon would risk the king’s wrath by staring. So most heads were turned to watch events outside the hall. The edge of the storm had reached them and rain began to splatter on the marble floor. Illuminated by the still distant lightning, Bodiel could barely be seen gliding low over the treetops nearly a mile distant, searching the foliage for signs of his prey.
Then, Bodiel folded his wings back and dove into the forest, swift as an arrow racing toward its target. Lightning flashed again, now much closer, momentarily blinding Jandra. The thunder made her jump. Vendevorex hugged her more tightly. When her vision cleared, Bodiel had vanished.
“Oh!” Queen Tanthia cried. “Oh no!”
“What is it, my love?” Albekizan asked. “Is our rebellious son breaking your heart?”
“It’s the shadows,” Tanthia said, quivering. “The shadows in the room have grown so dark. I feel their chill in my soul.”
Albekizan turned his back to Shandrazel to face Tanthia. Calmly he said, “There’s nothing to fear.”
Almost as if his saying it had made it so, the night fell quiet. The thunder faded and the wind shifted, silencing the rain for an instant. At this moment, a mournful, anguished howl rose from the distant forest. Lightning flashed and thunder washed away the voice. The wind twisted, whipping back into the hall with a harsh blast of cold rain, sending the torch flames dancing wildly. Tanthia gasped as one of the torches extinguished, a soul forever lost.
“He’s dead!” Tanthia cried. “My son is dead!”
“No,” Albekizan said, looking out into the storm. “No human could… could…”
The king fell silent then turned and rushed past his rebellious son. He leapt into the rain, catching the wind, climbing into the air. Shandrazel paused, gazing after his father, then glanced back at his mother.
“Please find him,” Tanthia said. “Find him.”
Shandrazel nodded. He walked to the open side of the dome then beat his wings to rise into the night.
Vendevorex took Jandra by the shoulders and whispered, “We should take our leave. The king may need my assistance. It’s best that you wait back in our quarters. I will accompany you.”
Jandra nodded. Vendevorex sprinkled a pinch of silvery dust in the air. The whispers of the assembled crowd let Jandra know he’d just made them invisible. As they moved quietly from the great hall, Jandra watched over her shoulder as Shandrazel faded into the rain.
SHANDRAZEL HATED FLYING in the rain. He disliked the water in his eyes and loathed the way the wind treacherously shifted and vanished beneath his wings. Yet duty drove him, duty and love. Despite their differences, he loved his father and cherished his spirited younger broth
er. He hoped that no harm had come to either of them. The only real danger he could imagine was if Bodiel had crashed in a sudden downdraft. But even then, he’d been so low over the trees that the crash wouldn’t have been fatal. If Bodiel had been diving in pursuit of Cron, what possible harm could the slave have done? Despite his father’s keenness for the sport of hunting humans, Shandrazel saw no more challenge in it than he did in his mother’s appetite for devouring baskets of white kittens. An unarmed human was a small-toothed, clawless thing. Certainly, Bodiel was safe.
During the confrontation with his father, Shandrazel hadn’t watched where his brother flew. He had no idea where to start his search. He blinked through the rain, trying to make sense of the tangled treetops that rushed beneath him. The jagged ends of broken branches caught his eyes. There was a gap in the forest canopy. Shandrazel descended into a small clearing to find his father already there.
A slain dragon hung in the crook of a tree. It was a sky-dragon, not Bodiel. In the dim light, Shandrazel drew closer. The beetles swarming over the dragon’s body gave testimony that it had hung here for hours. The body stank; the sky-dragon’s bowels had loosened after death. Oddly, just beneath the stench, the air carried the unmistakable mouthwatering scent of horch.
A single arrow jutted from the dragon’s jaw. Shandrazel studied the arrow, which was fletched with a red feather scale from a sun-dragon’s wing; black thread wrapped around its split core fastened it to the slender shaft of ash. He then looked closer at the dragon’s face. He gasped. He knew this dragon.
“His name was Dacorn,” said Shandrazel. “A biologian. He taught me botany during my summer on the Isle of Horses. Who would do such a thing? He was a gentle soul. He had no enemies.”
Albekizan paid no attention to Shandrazel’s words. He, too, had noticed the arrow. He plucked it from the corpse to examine it. It was a tiny thing in Albekizan’s talons, a fragile sliver of wood that Albekizan snapped effortlessly.
Shandrazel raised his long neck and bellowed, “Bodiel!”
“He won’t be answering,” said Albekizan. His father leapt up, knocking aside branches as he caught the air, rising once more to continue his search in the violent rain. Shandrazel tried to follow but the rain made it difficult to see his father, let alone keep up with him. They flew in ever widening circles, searching the trees, and soon Shandrazel had lost all trace of his father. He continued his search, hoping that finding the corpse of his former teacher was only a macabre coincidence.
At length, Shandrazel found Albekizan sitting by the riverbank with Bodiel’s head clutched against his chest. Bodiel’s arrow-riddled, lifeless body lay half in the water — it was possible he’d died further upriver and drifted to rest here. Shandrazel landed, feeling as if his own heart were pierced with an arrow. Never had there been a soul as bold and joyous as Bodiel’s. It seemed impossible that he should be dead.
Shandrazel stepped forward, using his wings to shelter his father from the rain. He froze as Albekizan looked at him. Their gazes locked. Albekizan’s eyes burned with fury, fury and something more, an emotion he’d not seen in his father’s eyes for many years: passion. Albekizan, cradling Bodiel’s dead body, was filled with frightening, fiery life.
Shandrazel stumbled backward, his talons slipping in the muddy earth. The air seemed charged, ready to spark.
The king dropped Bodiel into the mud and rose to his full length. In his fore-talon he held a single arrow and he studied the bright red fletching of the arrow as if he were studying his soul. Lightning struck nearby, again and again, shaking the ground. Fire spouted from the tops of the tallest, most ancient trees. Albekizan didn’t flinch. Shandrazel couldn’t move. As the thunder faded from their ringing ears, Albekizan held the arrow to the sky and shouted a single, bone-chilling word.
“Bitterwood!”
CHAPTER TWO: CIRCLES
BY THE TIME Gadreel returned to the clearing the only sound in the night forest was the constant staccato of water dripping from leaves. His master, Zanzeroth, —an old sun-dragon who rivaled even the king in size and the finest tracker in the land— still studied the scene. Zanzeroth’s golden eyes glowed in the trickles of moonlight seeping through the breaking clouds. Albekizan stood nearby, watching the aged hunter step gingerly over the muddy ground. Albekizan ignored Gadreel. Gadreel hoped the king’s snub was due to his fascination with Zanzeroth’s methods. The patch of ground they stood on seemed unremarkable to Gadreel, but Zanzeroth had instantly proclaimed it as the site of Bodiel’s death, three miles upriver from where his body was discovered. Gadreel suspected, however, that the king ignored him due to his status. It was a simple matter to treat a human as a slave. The notion of a sky-dragon such as himself forced into servitude made some uncomfortable.
“How much longer?” Zanzeroth asked.
“A few minutes, at most,” Gadreel answered. As he spoke the distant baying of ox-dogs confirmed his words.
“Good,” Zanzeroth said. “The sooner we start, the better. The ground here has told me all it can.”
“If you have knowledge,” Albekizan said, “give it to me.”
“Of course, Sire,” Zanzeroth said, straightening his stooped form and approaching the king. Next to Albekizan, Zanzeroth’s extra years were apparent. The king’s hide glistened on his muscular body like red paint. Zanzeroth’s scales were faded from years under the sun, almost pink along the back. His scales had fallen away at his joints, revealing black hide beneath. His scarred skin sagged over his skeleton, under which his slender, wiry muscles moved like thick ropes. Zanzeroth asked, “Shouldn’t we wait for Shandrazel to join us? I’m sure he wants to help find his brother’s killer.”
“Do not speak that shameful name,” Albekizan said, his eyes narrow. “I’ve placed that traitor under guard for now. His final fate will be left for the morning. We will not discuss this further. For now, Bitterwood is our only goal.”
Zanzeroth nodded. He waved his fore-talons toward a patch of mud that seemed to Gadreel no different than any other.
“Here is where the slave, Cron, skidded to a halt as Bodiel dropped from the sky. See, the handprint here?” Zanzeroth paused to allow Albekizan time to discern what was being shown to him. Gadreel stared at the chaotic mud and, to his surprise, found he could see the handprint, or at least the heel of a human palm.
Zanzeroth continued: “The human fell and had difficulty regaining his footing.” Zanzeroth moved his claw to direct the king’s view to a patch of broken ground several yards away. “That is where Bodiel dropped from the sky. Cron’s footprints then reappear several feet behind where he stopped—he’s jumped away out of fear of Bodiel. There are signs that Bodiel toyed with the human, blocking his moves, prolonging the moment before the kill. And then…” Zanzeroth trailed off, his gaze flickering over the mud, studying it as one might study a book. “And then Bodiel staggered backward. See the marks? Cron fled, passing through the brush… here.”
As he said this, Zanzeroth parted a thicket with several bent branches and revealed a man’s muddy footprints beyond.
“We could follow Cron with ease but he’s not the one who killed Bodiel.”
“I know that,” Albekizan said. “Bitterwood’s to blame. The Ghost Who Kills haunts these woods tonight.”
“Perhaps,” Zanzeroth said. “But I’ve yet to see a ghost leave tracks. The murderer of your son was merely a man.”
“He’s more than a man,” Albekizan said. “You’d do well to remember that.”
“Yes, Sire,” said Zanzeroth. He walked to the bush beside Gadreel and touched a torn leaf above his head. “Man or ghost, the assailant struck from behind. Here is where the first arrow passed. That branch, there, is where he wrapped the reins of his horse. He stood on the large branch in yonder tree to take his first shot.”
Zanzeroth stalked back to the center of the clearing, placing his hind-talons in a pair of long, smeared trenches. “Your son stood in this spot. The arrow strikes Bodiel low in the back. In pain,
Bodiel spins,” Zanzeroth twisted around suddenly, fixing his gaze above Gadreel, “to see another arrow fly forth, burying deep in his shoulder. Bodiel hears Cron running and turns, reflexively fearing the loss of his prize, then catches himself. This is the first instant where he understands his own life is in danger.”
Zanzeroth held his wings wide for balance as his talons skittered in the mud, duplicating Bodiel’s actions.
“Bodiel leaps but never reaches the bush. His foe is already running through the woods, flanking him, and the third arrow comes from there.” The hunter pulled a long spear from the quiver slung on his back and used the shaft to point to a narrow gap in the trees. Sundragons used such spears to kill prey from above; Zanzeroth was so skilled he could drop a spear from five hundred yards above a field to pierce a bounding rabbit. Now, he used the tip of the spear to gently push a leaf torn by an arrow’s flight. “The fourth arrow follows swiftly, puncturing Bodiel’s lung.”
Zanzeroth crouched, spreading his wings over the mud, “Finally, the prince falls. He’s alive but in terrible agony. He screams only for an instant as the fifth arrow lodges in his throat. The prince struggles to rise, unwilling to accept his fate. He crawls toward the water, seeking relief. Still the arrows come. The archer knows Bodiel has mere moments to live but wants him to suffer. The shots that follow aren’t meant to hasten death, but to increase agony. The arrows fall upon the tender flesh of the wings and tail. Bodiel at last collapses, his left wing in the river. Slowly, the speeding current drags him from the bank.”
Zanzeroth started to rise but slipped in the mud. Gadreel hurried to his side, extending a claw for the hunter to steady himself. Zanzeroth spurned him by digging his hind-talons deeper in the muck and pulling his wings free from the ground with a wet slurp. He shook his wings to clean them, spattering Gadreel with mud that smelled faintly of dung.
