by James Maxey
It was Vendevorex. He stepped from the trees, looking more frightened than she’d ever seen him. He seemed smaller somehow, diminished in his fear.
“Please don’t hurt her,” he begged. “We surrender. We won’t resist.”
The guard turned from Jandra to face the wizard. “Don’t move,” he growled.
“No sir,” Vendevorex said. “Just please, don’t hurt us.”
“It’s not me you’ll have to worry about,” the guard said, stepping toward Vendevorex.
Then suddenly, the guard vanished. The small, frightened image of Vendevorex shimmered then broke apart. From the thin air before her came a muffled cry of pain and the sickening smell of burning flesh.
Jandra searched the sky. The rest of the aerial guard was nowhere to be seen. She clambered further up the shore and rose to her feet, shivering, chilled by the water and the close call of the fall.
Vendevorex allowed his circle of invisibility to break apart. He stood ten feet away with the body of the aerial guard at his feet. The guard clawed helplessly at his jaws, emitting small, muffled grunts through his flared nostrils. The skin around his mouth was melted together. Large talon-shaped holes had been burned into his wings; he would never fly again.
“When your brothers find you and cut your mouth open, I want you to give them a message for me,” Vendevorex growled. His eyes glowed as if lit by an internal sun. “My decision to run should not be interpreted as a sign that I am weak or defenseless. Anyone who attempts pursuit will face a fate much worse than yours. If I didn’t want you to tell your brothers this, I would have killed you already. You live only because you retain this slight usefulness to me.”
The guard rolled to his back on the rocky bank, still clawing at his immobile mouth. Jandra turned away, feeling sick.
“Let’s go,” Vendevorex said, moving to her side. “Upriver, toward Richmond. You’ll find it easier to maintain the invisibility while we walk.”
She nodded, noting the coolness in his voice, the utter lack of remorse for the way he’d just maimed the guard for life. She didn’t look back as she raised a field of invisibility around them. They headed west along the riverbank, watching the skies for further signs of pursuit.
CHAPTER FIVE: WOUNDS
ZANZEROTH TOOK ADVANTAGE of the chaos in the war room to slip away. Albekizan was shouting orders to Kanst, who was shouting orders to Bander, who shouted orders to the soldiers. Zanzeroth had known the king since he was a mere fledgling. Zanzeroth could remember the sharp, eager young dragon who’d accompanied him on hunts, long ago. Albekizan had been a most cunning stalker of prey in his prime. It pained Zanzeroth to see how age had changed the king into a creature that now confused shouting for action.
As he found the next drop of the wizard’s blood around the corner, Zanzeroth felt the despair that had gripped him earlier lighten a bit. Even with half his sight, he could still follow wounded prey. Of course the wizard was no challenge, not at the moment. Zanzeroth need not follow a trail to find him. The wizard’s next move may as well have been marked on a map. He would head straight for Jandra.
But Zanzeroth had bigger prey in mind, and a bigger challenge. What had happened to Bitterwood? Earlier he’d been held back by Albekizan, slowed by the all but useless Gadreel, and even the ox-dogs had led him on a wild goose chase. Zanzeroth had allowed himself, over the years, to become part of the king’s court, to be a member of a crowd. It had been too long since he hunted alone.
Of course, by now, Bitterwood’s trail would be cold. But was it only coincidence that Cron had led Bodiel straight into Bitterwood’s trap? Could Metron be right about the deeds of Bitterwood being the responsibility of more than one man? It would provide an interesting challenge to hunt down the men who could actually answer these questions.
METRON WATCHED FROM the balcony as the aerial guard flew in ever-widening circles in search of Vendevorex. It would be for naught. Ever since Vendevorex appeared in the court all those years ago, dazzling Albekizan with his mystic powers, Metron had known this day would come. Vendevorex had never shown anything but grudging deference to Albekizan. Metron had known all along that Vendevorex, despite his apparent power, was nothing but a fraud. After all, who better to spot a fellow fraud than he?
Still he wished that Vendevorex had cooperated. As High Biologian, he understood deeply the irony of the king’s plans for genocide. Fraud or no, the wizard didn’t lack compassion or wisdom, and could perhaps have changed what was to come. A kindhearted fraud had to be preferable to an honestly wicked dragon such as Blasphet.
“Have they found him yet?” Albekizan asked from inside the war room.
“Sire,” Metron said. “I fear the wizard has escaped.”
The king’s claws scraped on the marble floor. Metron looked back to see the king’s massive head jutting through the doorway to peer out over the forest. With his neck extended, Albekizan’s face was level with Metron’s. Metron was used to looking up to Albekizan’s presence. To have their eyes on the same level was mildly unnerving. Albekizan possessed the head of the world’s most effective predator; his powerful jaws were large enough to snap through a man’s torso with his sharp, knifelike teeth. Though he wasn’t in danger, a chill still ran down Metron’s spine as he contemplated the imposing natural weaponry of the sun-dragon. No wonder these beasts ruled the world.
Albekizan studied the horizon with another biological advantage of the sun-dragons: forward-facing eyes with vision sharp enough to put an owl to shame. After a moment of scanning the surrounding skies, the king said, “The wizard will keep running. Invisibility, when you consider it, is the ultimate refuge of a coward. He’ll run back to the Ghostlands, or wherever he came from. He’s no threat.”
“Yes, Sire,” said Metron.
“It’s lucky I kept Blasphet alive all these years,” Albekizan said. “He’ll take to the task more willingly, I wager.”
“Sire, have you considered the dangers of releasing Blasphet? He was jailed not for poisoning humans but for poisoning dragons. Tanthia won’t be pleased to learn that her brother’s murderer walks free once more.”
The king tilted his head to look upon Metron, as if giving consideration to his words. He looked as if he were about to speak, then stopped.
Metron, sensing doubt, started to press his argument. “Tanthia has always been—”
“I will explain the matter to her,” Albekizan said, cutting him off. “She will want Bitterwood dead. She’s blinded by grief at the moment… but I know, in the morrow, my queen will thirst for justice. It’s in her royal blood. Blasphet’s dangerous, yes. But so is fire. Properly handled, both can be powerful tools.”
“He’s here,” Kanst said from inside the war room.
Metron left the sunwashed balcony and followed Albekizan into the shadowy room. His sight was blocked by Albekizan’s broad, crimson back. Metron moved to the side for a better view. In the center of the world map stood a withered sun-dragon, the scales of his wings so long hidden from light they had lost all color, becoming transparent, revealing the black hide beneath. Blasphet’s eyes, red as sunset, burned as he looked upon the king. He shook his manacled limbs, causing the heavy iron chains to clatter. The earth-dragons who guarded him flinched at the noise.
Their skittishness was justified. Blasphet had killed thousands of dragons; the true numbers were uncertain as his preferred weapon was poison. Many of his victims died in their sleep or with the symptoms of a wasting fever. The number was further complicated by the fact that, in his prime, Blasphet had founded a cult in which a loyal band of humans worshipped him as a god and carried out assassinations in his name. It had taken years to track down and kill the cult members after Blasphet had been imprisoned.
“Albekizan,” said Blasphet, the Murder God. His voice was raspy, as if he hadn’t spoken in years. He bowed slightly then gave a spooky, moldy chuckle. “I know why I’m here. The news has reached even the dark hole you keep me in. If you plan to accuse me of Bodiel�
�s death, I can only express my deepest regrets that you’ve blamed the wrong dragon.”
Albekizan reared up, his shoulders held back. He puffed out his chest, making himself as physically imposing as possible. He said, in his firmest tone, “Blasphet, if I thought you had harmed my son, only your head would be brought before me now. Your body would be digesting in the bowels of my ox-dogs.”
Blasphet seemed unimpressed by the king’s bravado. “Tanthia would no doubt be pleased with that turn of events. Is she still unhappy you kept me alive after I killed Terranax?”
“You were not brought here to discuss Tanthia or her brother.”
Blasphet shrugged, a movement that made his faded scales rustle like dry leaves. “What, pray tell, am I here to discuss? This seems an odd time for idle chatter. Don’t you have a funeral to attend?”
“It’s said that since you have resided in the dungeons, no rat has been seen there. In addition, many guards have been lost to a strange wasting sickness. You are responsible, no doubt.”
“Of course,” Blasphet said, his eyes twinkling. “There is a mold that grows on the stones of my cell that possesses the most intriguing properties. I use whatever test subjects are near in my experiments.”
“You find no difference between the life of a rat and the life of a dragon?”
“Mere anatomy. Life is life, no matter how it’s packaged. Every living thing burns with the same flame. It all may be extinguished with equal satisfaction.”
The king nodded his head, as if Blasphet had just said exactly what he wanted to hear.
“If it’s life you care to extinguish, and it matters not which form of life, we have much to discuss. I’ve brought you here to offer you freedom, should you accept my challenge.”
“Challenge?”
The king drew close to Blasphet, much closer than Metron thought wise, chains or no. Metron grew more alarmed for the safety of the king when he drew his face mere inches from Blasphet and said in a low, even voice, “Look at what you’ve done with your poisons. You’ve ended the lives of a few random dragons, some humans, a rat or two. Does it satisfy you? Or do you long for a greater task? Imagine not the death of an individual. Imagine the death of an entire species. Are even you capable of such a thing? Could even you slay every last human in my kingdom?”
Blasphet raised a manacled talon to scratch his chin. His lips drew back to reveal his yellow-gray teeth. “All humans? There are millions. The resources required would be enormous.”
“Everything I have would be at your disposal,” Albekizan said, his voice quieter, almost a seductive whisper. “My treasure, my armies are yours to command. In the matter of the elimination of the humans, you will possess all the powers of a king.”
“What do I care for the powers of a king?” Blasphet asked. “I was a god, once. Yet even for a god, the task is a daunting challenge.” Blasphet’s eyes ran along the map of the world as if sizing up its scale. “The humans would flee before a direct onslaught. The survivors would take up arms against us if we failed to kill all in one sweep. I’ve worked intimately with humans in the past. They can be most tenacious. The war could last for centuries.”
“I know this,” said Albekizan. “Which is why I’m consulting with you rather than Kanst.”
Kanst’s eyes narrowed at the slight.
“The key would be subtlety.” Blasphet’s voice fell to the same conspiratorial tone as the king’s. “Somehow draw them into a trap, kill them before they ever suspect danger…”
“Ah,” said Albekizan. “I see it in your eyes. This task interests you. Should you refuse me now, this will taunt you, torment you as you rot away in that cell.”
“Is this offer honest?” Blasphet asked. “You never were one for clever schemes, but I can’t believe you would trust me. What was that I was yelling at my trial? ‘I’ll kill you? I’ll kill you all?’ You remember that don’t you?”
“I don’t trust you, but I do understand you. If you desired, you could kill me right now. You’ve no doubt hidden several poisons on your body. Something you could spit, perhaps? Or some paste beneath a claw that could kill with the merest scratch?”
“Of course,” said Blasphet. “It may be that I’ve poisoned you already and it’s only a matter of time before you begin to bleed from every bodily orifice. That would be most satisfying. You, weeping tears of blood.”
“You haven’t poisoned me,” the king said with a confidence Metron didn’t feel was justified. “You’ll be no threat to me or my court because you dare not risk this opportunity. You’ll be free to murder on a grand scale without fear of punishment, indeed, with the guarantee of praise and respect. You were worshipped as a god, once. Now, you have the opportunity to enter history as the architect of the greatest single feat of the dragons. Your freedom to act will be your shackles.”
“Perhaps,” Blasphet said. “This does hold… promise. You know me better than I thought, it seems. Well played. I accept.”
“I knew you would,” Albekizan said, stepping back. “When we were growing up there was no dare you would not accept. Your will was thought to be even greater than my own. That’s why it surprised everyone when I bested you in the hunt.”
“Indeed, brother,” Blasphet replied. “Indeed.”
ZANZEROTH TOUCHED DOWN on a stony island in the middle of the mud-brown river. It had been too long since he’d spent time here; almost a century ago this spare, stony wasteland had been his only home. He’d not been born to the comfort of a king’s court. Or perhaps he had… He’d never known his true parents. He’d been left to fend for himself in the forest as a fledgling, and had survived on his own for a decade, living from the land, a wild thing, the only meat in his belly coming from prey he’d killed with his own claws. When he was ten he’d been captured by Albekizan’s father, Gloreziel, for the crime of poaching in the king’s forest. But rather than killing the young, feral dragon, the king had taken him under his wing and set himself to the task of civilizing the snarling brute Zanzeroth had been at the time.
The civilizing had taken, but not completely. Zanzeroth still felt most at home making his bed beneath an open sky. While he’d adapted to the nobles’ fashion of hunting and fighting with weapons, he still, while hunting alone, enjoyed the sensation of digging his bare claws into squealing, wriggling prey. And if there were any better pleasure in this world than laying on a warm rock with a full belly and licking drying blood from his talons, he had yet to experience it.
Having grown up in the king’s court and knowing Albekizan since he before he could even speak, Zanzeroth could claim to be the king’s oldest friend, though friend wasn’t the right word, perhaps. In Albekizan’s world, all other sentient beings were subjects, enemies, or prey. “Highly regarded lackey” was no doubt the most accurate label for Zanzeroth.
Zanzeroth found the familiar gap in a pile of mossy stone, lowered himself and thrust his head within. Any sane observer would have judged it impossible for the old dragon to squeeze his bulk into such a tiny hole, but Zanzeroth was practiced at the maneuver, knowing when to exhale, and when to push and twist and kick. In seconds he was through the gap and into the hidden, dank cave that was his true home.
In his youth the cave had felt enormous, a world of its own. Now Zanzeroth recognized that it was smaller than the smallest room in the palace, too small to stand straight in, barely thirty feet from front to back, and half again as wide. The place still had the familiar smell of decay. During the spring melt-off, the island often flooded; he remembered waking to rising water many times.
Around the room were ledges that always remained inches above the high-water mark. These ledges contained Zanzeroth’s treasures. He cast around the ledges, each item provoking memories. Here were the antlers of the largest buck he’d ever killed. The tusks of an enormous boar he’d killed on a hunt with Gloreziel had been gilded by the king and presented as a trophy. He found his old whip, thirty feet of braided leather. He remembered the summer he’d spent ma
stering it. In his prime, he could knock flies from the air.
But what he’d come here for was hidden behind a trio of human skulls. These had been leaders of the southern rebellion twenty years ago. Their tattooed, tanned hides now decorated the king’s own trophy room. Behind their skulls were the trophies of real value: their swords. Still gleaming and razor sharp despite decades in a damp hole, the swords had been made from a mysterious metal that never rusted. He’d kept the blades hidden from the king but did risk showing them once to Vendevorex. The wizard had declared that the blades weren’t magic, but were, in fact, remnants of the same civilization that had built the ghost roads, crafted from something called “stainless steel.” Despite the wizard’s explanation, Zanzeroth always felt there was something supernatural about the swords. A thousand-year-old blade shouldn’t have a mirrored finish. Zanzeroth studied himself in the narrow sliver of silver, his one good eye golden in the dim light seeping through the gaps in the rock above. He examined his torn cheek, his scaly hide stitched together by Gadreel with a horsehair thread. The wound was swollen and black with dried blood. It was going to be an interesting scar.
His whole body was a mass of interesting scars. Why did this wound haunt him so? He’d had close calls before. Indeed, one of the three ancient blades had once cut a foot-long gash in his belly that provided him with the enthralling opportunity to gaze upon his own intestines. Why did this fresh wound so remind him of his mortality? He was old, true, but still healthy, still in command of his wits. But for how much longer?
He bundled up the three blades in an old bear hide and tossed them from the cave. On a whim he decided to take the whip as well.
He slithered back out into the open air. Now, to find Cron. This wasn’t a particular challenge since he’d found Cron’s trail earlier at Bodiel’s murder scene. Following it was as easy as following a hallway. Broken branches, torn leaves, footprints in the mud: all led to a thicket a quarter mile away from where Bodiel had fallen. Zanzeroth found the impression of Cron’s body in the forest debris behind a fallen log. The slave had apparently hidden there for some time before rising again. More interesting than the impression of Cron’s body, however, were the many breadcrumbs and the discarded apple core. Cron did have an accomplice after all. Bitterwood? Zanzeroth searched for a second set of human footprints and instead found the hind-talon marks of a sky-dragon. He bent low to catch the scent, an all too familiar one. Vendevorex. He should have known the wizard had been involved in this. The wizard’s fondness for humans was well known.
