by James Maxey
And this morning… such gossip.
“Is it true that Bodiel is dead?” Ruth whispered.
“I hear that Cron killed him,” Mary said. “He had a bow and arrow hidden in the woods.”
“All I know is what I saw,” said Jandra. “In the midst of the storm, Bodiel vanished. Albekizan and Shandrazel chased after him. Then Vendevorex rushed me back to my chambers before I could see anything else. He told me to wait for him then disappeared. I tried to get some sleep but couldn’t. I kept hearing shouts all throughout the palace.”
“They were making quite a ruckus,” said Ruth.
“Some soldiers came by looking for Vendevorex about an hour ago,” Jandra continued. “I hid from them and overheard that the king wanted Vendevorex to come to the war room. I figured that if Vendevorex is going to be tied up, I had a chance to come see you two.”
“If Cron did kill Bodiel, it will be horrible for his family,” said Mary. “The king will have them all killed.”
“But it won’t be their fault,” said Jandra.
“Do you think that matters to Albekizan? I’ve heard that in villages where they can’t pay the tax, he takes the babies and devours them as their parents watch.”
“That’s nonsense. The king isn’t… isn’t cruel or unjust,” said Jandra, not sounding at all like she believed it.
“What would you know?” said Ruth, bitterness in her voice. “You live sheltered by the wizard. You don’t know what the world is really like.”
“Don’t be mean,” said Mary. “It isn’t Jandra’s fault that she’s the wizard’s pet.”
“I’m not his pet,” Jandra said. “I’m his apprentice.”
“Either way, he whistles and you come,” said Ruth.
“If I obeyed him always, I wouldn’t be here,” said Jandra. “I don’t do everything the old goat says.”
Vendevorex decided he’d heard enough. With a thought he allowed his aura of invisibility to fall away, revealing himself behind Jandra.
Ruth turned pale. Mary turned a bright shade of pink.
“What?” said Jandra.
The two women didn’t speak.
“What?” Jandra asked. “Is… is he…?”
“Baaaa,” bleated Vendevorex.
Jandra whirled around. “Ven!”
“You will return to our chambers at once,” said Vendevorex. “I have an important homework assignment for you. You’re not to leave until you finish it.”
Jandra swallowed hard and nodded.
“Don’t be mean to her, please,” said Mary, quietly. “She only came for a little visit.”
Vendevorex didn’t acknowledge her. He grabbed Jandra by the wrist and dragged her away.
“This is a dangerous morning to be defying me, Jandra,” he grumbled. “I can confirm one rumor: Bodiel is dead.”
“Then Cron…?”
“Not Cron. Bitterwood.”
“B-but Bitterwood is only a myth, you said. A boogeyman dragons use to frighten their young.”
“Perhaps there is a man behind the myth after all,” said Vendevorex. “With any luck, Zanzeroth has Bitterwood’s corpse displayed in the war room right now, and that will be the end of this affair.”
As they reached the edge of the shantytown, Vendevorex released his grasp on Jandra’s arm. She rubbed the area he’d held.
“Go back to our chambers. Go to the third bookshelf, the biology texts, you know the ones?”
“I think so. Yes.”
“There is a book concerning the alchemical properties of sea mollusks. Don’t leave the chambers until you memorize it.”
“What? Why?”
“There will be a test,” Vendevorex said.
“But—”
“Go!” said Vendevorex. “Time is of the essence.”
“Aren’t you coming with me?”
“No,” said Vendevorex. “I’m wanted in the war room. I’ll need a few moments to prepare a dramatic entrance.”
CHAPTER FOUR: FLIGHT
THE WAR ROOM was the size of a cathedral, the towering roof supported by a forest of white columns. High-arched windows opened onto broad balconies that overlooked the kingdom. A rainbow of tapestries covered the walls, embroidered with scenes from Albekizan’s unparalleled reign. One tapestry portrayed a youthful Albekizan, standing in triumph on the corpse of his father. Nearby was Albekizan in ceremonial gold armor, leading his armies to victory against the cannibal dragons of the once notorious Dismal Isles. It had been the first in a string of triumphs against the smaller kingdoms that had once ringed the land. While the tapestries caught the eye with their bright colors, the most arresting feature of the room was the gleaming marble floor, inlaid with colored stone, precious metals and gems into an elaborate map of the world. Zanzeroth, Metron, and Kanst waited for the king within the vast space.
Zanzeroth was in a foul mood. He crouched in the middle of the world map, his belly covering the spot on which the palace rested. He studied the map with his remaining eye, finding in its jagged contours something of the king’s soul. For the map, he knew, was a lie. It showed the world as a narrow sliver of land a thousand miles in length, a few hundred miles wide at its thickest part, surrounded by trackless ocean. It showed, to be blunt, all the world that Albekizan had conquered, and not all the world that was. Over the decades Albekizan had supported the myth that there were no lands other than a few stray islands beyond the borders of his kingdom. But Zanzeroth was old enough to remember that, in his youth, he’d learned differently. He’d traveled far in his younger years. There was a kingdom north of the Ghostlands, a vast land of ice populated by dragon and man. Beyond the western mountains Zanzeroth had explored a huge continent: a land of immense rivers and trackless deserts, endless forests and towering mountains. He’d faced genuine monsters in these lands, reptiles large enough to dwarf sun-dragons, just as the true world dwarfed the small sliver of earth dominated by Albekizan.
If Albekizan didn’t rule a place he deemed it did not exist. For many years Zanzeroth had thought this a harmless quirk of the king’s ego. Now he wondered if the king’s blindness to reality would lead them all to doom.
Far across the room near a broad balcony, Kanst, a sun-dragon and commander of the king’s armies, spoke with Metron. Zanzeroth listened to their conversation with distant interest. He tilted his head to catch their words. This tiny movement created a change in the map to which his eye was drawn. One of his spiky neck scales, pink and ragged, had fallen out. He could barely move without losing bits of himself these days. He sighed, contemplating the dull scale against the polished floor. He wondered if this was his eventual fate, to simply flake away to dust. The conversation between the general and the High Biologian caught his attention once more as they lowered their voices to whispers.
“Bodiel was the kingdom’s greatest hope,” Kanst said, his voice hushed—or as hushed as a beast like Kanst could muster. Kanst was an enormous bull of a dragon, heavy and squat. He wore steel armor polished to a mirrored finish that was unblemished by any actual blow from a weapon. Albekizan liked Kanst, which to Zanzeroth spoke ill of the king. Kanst was all bluster and polish. The king had a bad habit of surrounding himself with advisors who were more show than substance. Kanst and Vendevorex were the two best examples.
Kanst continued his murmurs with the High Biologian. “Shandrazel hasn’t the thirst for blood that’s necessary for victory. What now? Will the king abandon Tanthia for a younger bride in hopes of another son? Or will he willingly turn the kingdom over to someone more capable of running it?”
“Someone like yourself?” Metron said.
“I’m not implying—”
“Then speak not of the matter,” said Metron.
“It’s only that time is the enemy,” Kanst said. “Even if the king were to father another son, will he remain strong enough twenty years hence to hold the kingdom together?”
Metron dismissed the notion with a wave of his fore-claw. “You’re young, Kanst, and th
ink age is a barrier. But in twenty years Albekizan will be younger than I am now, and I’m more than able to perform my duties. Indeed, the king will be younger than Zanzeroth twenty years hence, and he’s as sharp and strong as any dragon in the kingdom.”
Zanzeroth felt Metron’s words like sharp blades stabbing at him. The hunter interrupted, saying, “Age matters, Kanst. Let no one tell you it doesn’t. I’m almost a century old and I feel it. They’ll tell you experience matters, but they lie. Once I would have had the speed to dodge the arrow. I’d trade all my experience for the strength of my youth.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Kanst said with perhaps a hint of condescension. “You survived when Bodiel did not. If it is truly Bitterwood we face you should consider yourself fortunate.”
“There is no ‘if,’ Kanst!” Albekizan thundered as the tall iron doors to the war room opened. The king strode into the room followed by Bander, the captain of the guard. A dozen members of the guard followed, their armor and weapons clanking as they marched into the room and took their ceremonial positions along the wall. “We deal with fact: Bitterwood lives!”
“Of course, Sire,” said Kanst. “I never doubted Bitterwood’s existence. I’ve always felt there was substance behind the shadows.”
“As Zanzeroth here learned only too well, yes?” Albekizan said with a glance toward the tracker.
Zanzeroth held his tongue. He was tempted to point out that he’d claimed all along they pursued a man, that it was the king who regarded their prey as some supernatural ghost, but he knew this was an argument he would not win.
“Sire, I’ve done the research you requested,” Metron said. “I conferred with my fellow biologians and have the answers you seek.”
“And?”
“The minor rebellion of the southern provinces two decades ago is the source of the Bitterwood legend. Bitterwood was a leader of the rebellion. He preached a vile philosophy of genocide against all dragons. Even when the rebellion was crushed his radical rantings earned a small, faithful band of followers. The band eluded your troops for many years, but in the end they were chased into the City of Skeletons, where they were slain.”
“You are telling me that it’s a dead man we faced tonight?” said Albekizan.
“No, though one popular version of this legend holds that Bitterwood’s vengeful ghost still haunts the kingdom. A rival telling holds that Bitterwood eluded death and continues to fight to this day, alone, no longer trusting the help of other humans.”
“So you have nothing but legend to give me?”
Metron shrugged. “Sire, the truth is somewhat mundane, I suspect. All evidence leads me to conclude that Bitterwood died twenty years ago. Only his legend lives on. Now other humans occasionally summon the nerve to slay a dragon—usually in the most dishonorable ways, striking from ambush—and when your troops investigate, Bitterwood is blamed to keep us chasing after a myth.”
“The man who killed my son was no myth,” said Albekizan. “Bitterwood fletches his arrows with the feather-scales of dragons. We pulled thirteen pieces of evidence of his existence from Bodiel’s body.”
“Yes, Sire,” Metron said. “However, we should consider that the feather-scales of dragons are hardly a rare commodity. We shed old ones as new ones come in.”
Metron’s words once more pained Zanzeroth. He was losing old scales without new ones growing to replace them. He stared at the large, black patches of naked hide that covered his once crimson fore-talons.
“Our servants and field hands no doubt discover fallen feather-scales all the time,” Metron continued. “What if a human familiar with the legend is using it to his advantage to create fear among us? I’ve checked the records and found hundreds of dragon deaths over the past twenty years attributed to Bitterwood. It’s likely that other men have blamed Bitterwood for murders they themselves performed.”
“No,” Albekizan said. “I am certain that one being, be he man or ghost, is responsible. I’ve seen him with my own eyes.”
Now it was the king’s words that tortured Zanzeroth as he realized that he would never see anything with his eyes again.
“Still, I am not blind to the possibility that other humans assist Bitterwood,” Albekizan said. “That’s why I’ve called you here. Together, we will remove the stench of humans from my kingdom forever. I’ve tolerated their kind far too long. They breed like rats. Their dung-encrusted villages spread disease. They create nuisance by leeching off dragons as beggars and thieves. Now their greatest crime of all: They give shelter to Bitterwood. We must eliminate every last safe harbor for the villain. We can only be certain of victory over Bitterwood when all the humans are dead.”
For a moment no one spoke. Zanzeroth wasn’t quite sure what Albekizan meant. Did he want to kill all the humans in the nearby villages?
Metron broke the silence by clearing his throat, then asked, “All humans, Sire?”
“Every last one.”
“From what area?” he asked.
“From the world,” answered Albekizan.
Again, there was a long silence as Kanst looked to Metron, who looked to Zanzeroth, who studied a patch of air near the king with rapt fascination.
“Respectfully, Sire,” said a voice from the empty air Zanzeroth watched, “you’ve gone quite mad.”
Albekizan whirled around, searching for the source of the rebellious voice, looking straight past the point where Zanzeroth’s ears fixed the sound.
“Show yourself at once, wizard!” Albekizan commanded.
In a spot a yard from the suspicious voice, the air began to spark and swirl. The sparks fell away like a veil to reveal a sky-dragon, his wings pierced with diamond studs, sparkling like stars against his blue scales. Light gleamed from his silver skullcap. His eyes were narrowed into a scowl of disapproval. Vendevorex, Master of the Invisible, had made his grand arrival.
“Very well, Sire,” Vendevorex said. “You see me. Now hear me. Humans and dragons have existed side by side for all of history. Mankind poses no threat to dragons; indeed, humanity makes our lives more pleasant. If you kill the humans, who will tend to your crops? Who will do the basest of labors? The humans as a race didn’t kill your son. Bitterwood alone is responsible. Turn your resources to finding him. Don’t distract yourself with a costly war against all mankind.”
“The humans number in the millions,” Albekizan said. “Bitterwood could hide among them for years. But if all die, he dies.”
“Then consider this,” Vendevorex said. “Your course of action could lead to rebellion among dragons you now count as allies and friends. The earth-dragons won’t be eager to tend the fields. The sky-dragons rely on human labor to keep their colleges running smoothly. Your fellow sun-dragons often keep humans as pets. Do you expect them to sit idly while you slaughter their companions?”
“I anticipate resistance,” Albekizan said. “But my war against the humans will take place on many fronts. Metron’s battleground will be the minds of dragons.”
“Sire?” said Metron.
“In your role as protector of all knowledge, do you not teach that millions of years of evolution have produced the dragon as the highest form of life? We are by rights the masters of the earth. The human religions claim that they were created separate from other species. If they are not part of nature, why should we tolerate these parasites? Your task, Metron, will be to educate all dragons to this fact. Persuade them to the logic of our cause.”
“Of course, Sire,” Metron said, though Zanzeroth could hear traces of doubt.
“Metron, I expected more spine from you,” Vendevorex said. Then, addressing Albekizan once more, he said: “Even if all dragons stood with you, which they won’t, the humans themselves will rise against you. They may not be our physical equals, but they are capable of great cunning, and they outnumber dragons ten to one. You rule them now because they expend their aggression in petty tribal squabbles. They bicker and war over not just the meager resources you allow them
, but also kill each other in the name of competing mythologies. Far more humans die each year at the hands of fellow humans than are killed by dragons.”
Albekizan stood silent. It seemed to Zanzeroth that he was actually considering the wizard’s argument.
Vendevorex expanded on his case. “Humans have the skill and the passion to fight; we are fortunate that they turn their energies against each other rather than on us. If you wage war against them, they will certainly unite. You will face an army of Bitterwoods. How many dragon lives are you willing to throw away in pursuit of your madness?”
The king didn’t react angrily to this insult, as Zanzeroth expected. Instead, Albekizan said, in a patient tone, “That is why I summoned you, wizard. I’ve tolerated your insolence all these years because I recognize your cleverness. Your task will be to devise the most efficient method of eliminating the humans. You are adept at curing disease. Could you not create a disease as well, one that slays only humans?”
“No,” said Vendevorex.
“Then perhaps some poison would serve our purpose, something which could be introduced into their wells.”
Vendevorex closed his eyes, shook his head, and took a deep breath, a breath that, to Zanzeroth’s ears came from well behind the place where the wizard seemingly stood. Was his lone eye playing tricks?
“I don’t mean I’m incapable of doing as you ask,” the wizard explained as if speaking to a child. “I won’t do it because I find the idea abhorrent.” The wizard looked around the room. “Kanst, I’m not surprised by your silence. You’ve never displayed the smallest hint of backbone. But Metron, you must know better. And Zanzeroth—you, of all dragons save myself—you have always spoken truth with the king. Will you not stand for the truth now?”
