by James Maxey
“Gentlemen,” said the dragon, “I’ve had a truly bad day. I intend to take it out on you.”
ZANZEROTH LOOKED AT the frightened humans cowering before him. He could barely see them. Even if he’d had both eyes, the smoke stung so badly it was all he could do not to clench them shut. He tossed the bundled swords into the exposed room.
“Weapons, gentlemen,” said Zanzeroth. “The finest swords this world has ever seen. One of those blades had a taste of me about twenty years ago. I’m giving you the chance to finish its meal.”
The humans didn’t move. They merely stood, slack-jawed and trembling. Zanzeroth sighed, reached out to unroll the bundle and revealed the swords. Then he took the bear skin that the swords were wrapped in and stepped back from the room to get away from the smoke and to give the men room to maneuver. There were nine people; six of them looked too inebriated to stand. But fate must have had a hand in this, given that he only brought three swords.
Zanzeroth ripped a strip from the bear’s hide and brought it to his face, blindfolding himself.
“I assure you, I cannot see,” said Zanzeroth. “And thanks to that horrible smoke, I can’t smell you. You’ll never have a better chance to slay me.”
“We don’t want to fight,” one of the men said.
“Then I’ll kill you without you putting up a struggle. Or you can kill me first. I’ll be fighting unarmed. Tooth and claw versus steel. I honestly think you have a chance.”
“Why are you doing this?” another asked.
“To find out if I’m wrong,” Zanzeroth said with a slight nod. “To find out if I’m still the dragon I think I am. I’ll silently count to three. Then I will kill you if you choose not to fight.”
Zanzeroth fell silent and spread his wings. Sightless and without the benefit of smell, he could rely only on his hearing and the sensitivity of his wings to small changes in air pressure. In theory, he should know if one of the men rushed him.
And in practice, the sound of their footfalls on the iron floor fixed their positions in his mind. He heard the scrape of metal against metal as the men grabbed the weapons. Then, one said, “Kamon teaches obedience to dragons. If one asks us to kill him, who are we to deny that wish?”
Suddenly, two feet rapidly advanced. A grunt. A rush of wind ruffled the feather-scales of his wings. One of the men—the youngest, Cron, judging by the stride—had leapt from the ledge on which they stood and became level with Zanzeroth’s chest. With his sword extended the arc of his dive would drive the shining steel blade deep into Zanzeroth’s gut.
It was a bold and powerful attack, if the blade had stood any chance of reaching its target. With a flap of his wings Zanzeroth launched himself a yard into the air and kicked out with his hind claws. His talons sank into his opponent’s torso, snapping bone, puncturing lung. He kicked again to send the corpse flying and readied himself for the next attack.
Only, as he listened, he heard another blow, of steel striking bone, followed by a gurgle. With a clang a body fell to the iron floor. Then, a movement in the air… Another of his foes had leapt… but not at him. The unseen man leapt to the side. He heard the man hit ground and collapse. And the third man… The third man was responsible for the wet gurgling noise from directly in front of him.
With a sigh, Zanzeroth removed his blindfold.
The oldest of the three men lay before him with a sword in his back. Off to the side the slave Tulk was struggling to his feet. Zanzeroth took a moment to look at Cron’s body, slumped on top of the rusting metal. Zanzeroth felt pleased at the amount of damage he’d done to his opponent. He’d given death every chance to take him and survived, even blind and unarmed. It hadn’t been age that had cost him an eye… it had been carelessness. He could never regain his youth but he could sharpen his wits. Zanzeroth felt certain that when he met the man who’d taken his eye, even if he was the legendary Bitterwood, their next fight would end differently. And were he to stumble over a certain invisible wizard… Well, an invisible foe and a visible one are all the same if your eyes are closed.
Tulk was now limping off and making quite good speed considering that his ankle was broken. Without bothering to look at the slave, Zanzeroth freed the loop of braided leather from his hip and whipped it to the side, snaring Tulk by his damaged ankle. Tulk shrieked like a wounded rabbit as Zanzeroth pulled him from his feet and dangled him before his eyes.
“Why did you kill your friend?” he asked.
“He was no friend!” Tulk shouted. “He was a filthy Kamonite!” Tulk spat, the spittle landing on Zanzeroth’s leg. “His kind shall not be suffered to live!”
“I see,” said Zanzeroth. “Since you’re in a talkative mood, I want you to tell me what you know about Bitterwood.”
“Bitterwood?” Tulk asked, plainly bewildered. “Why do you want to hear ghost stories?”
From the tone, Zanzeroth could tell this wasn’t a bluff. Tulk knew nothing of Bitterwood’s involvement. “If it wasn’t Bitterwood, who killed Bodiel?”
“I don’t know!” said Tulk. “Neither Cron nor I knew Bodiel was dead until we were told so.”
“By whom?” Zanzeroth asked, giving the dangling human’s leg a jerk.
“I didn’t see him!” said Tulk, his voice cracking with pain. “Cron and Stench said it was the king’s wizard. But I never saw him. I only heard a voice in the night.”
“You are proving to be something of a disappointment,” said Zanzeroth. “Shouting out the answers is robbing me of a good excuse to torture you.”
“There’s no need for that,” said Tulk, sounding resigned. “You’ve caught me. I’m a slave. Just take me back.”
“So you can escape again? I don’t think so. And as a slave, may I point out that you disobeyed a direct order to fight me? And killed a man who might have? I don’t think I need to wait for Albekizan’s orders to know your fate.”
Zanzeroth lifted the human higher. He carried him to the smoking barrel.
“Please,” said Tulk. “I’ve told you everything I know!”
“I believe you,” said Zanzeroth. Then he lowered the struggling man headfirst through the flames into the smoky liquid. Tulk splashed and struggled, sending the foul smelling goop everywhere for a moment or two. Zanzeroth grimaced, knowing this wasn’t something he would enjoy licking from his talons.
Tulk’s struggles grew increasingly feeble. He fell still, then kicked once more. Then once again, before his muscles went slack.
Finally, Zanzeroth dropped him into the barrel. He stepped back, gathering his prized swords. Some of the horrible fluid had splashed onto one of the blades. If this didn’t corrode the finish, nothing would. Zanzeroth glanced back at the half dozen drunken men who still held their positions, staring at him in terror.
“Gentlemen,” said Zanzeroth. He tilted his head toward the bar. “Drinks are on me.”
Then with a leap and a flap, he took to the sky.
AS NIGHT FELL, the dragons assembled at the edge of the Burning Ground. This ceremonial field was a circle many hundred yards across, the ground now permanently blackened with the soot of many generations of funeral pyres. Earth-dragon guards stood around the edges, their bodies painted in solemn ceremonial hues of gray. They stood as still as statues as the royalty of the kingdom strode past.
At the center of the dark circle was a tower of pine logs and, atop a platform at the peak, Bodiel rested, surrounded by flowers. The air was rich with the scent of pine.
This was the first time Albekizan had seen either of his sons since the previous night. He glanced toward the piled logs that bore Bodiel’s corpse. For a brief instant, he thought he saw his beloved son breathe once more. It was only a trick of the light as the warm evening breeze sent a ripple across Bodiel’s feather-scales.
Shandrazel stood defiantly before Albekizan. The king studied his surviving son. He should have felt pride. Shandrazel had grown into a marvelous specimen. The prince was equal to Albekizan in size; his scales had the richness an
d luster of rubies, his face bore the sharp, clean lines of his noble heritage. It was only when the king looked into his eyes that he felt his heart sag. Bodiel’s eyes had always been proud. Bodiel’s eyes were windows through which his strength and fire could be seen. Bodiel’s eyes were eyes that watched the world, constantly searching for threat and opportunity. Bodiel had possessed the eyes of a warrior born.
Shandrazel had none of these qualities. He had the eyes of a dragon who looked primarily within himself. There had always been an introspective, contemplative side to Shandrazel that Albekizan recognized as weakness. Shandrazel was a dragon who valued thought over action.
“You disappoint me, Shandrazel,” Albekizan said. “It breaks my heart to reward your cowardly performance in the contest. Only countless generations of tradition lead me to say what I will say next. By default, I decree that you have won the contest with Bodiel. As your reward, you are to be banished. Should we ever lay eyes upon one another again, it must be in mortal combat.”
“If I refuse?” said Shandrazel.
“You will not refuse,” Albekizan growled.
Metron, who stood beside the king, said, “It is the way, Shandrazel. It is written in the Book of Theranzathax that the victor of the contest must flee from his father. Return only when you feel strong enough to defeat him. In this way the kingdom will be assured a mightier king.”
“I didn’t win the contest. I didn’t even chase the human.”
“When one of the contestants is slain, the other wins. It is written,” said Metron.
“I know what’s written. I don’t choose to obey the words of someone who died ten centuries ago. There’s no logic behind them. Father, you boast of having conquered the entirety of the world. Where, precisely, am I to flee?”
“Shandrazel,” Albekizan said, “if you do not flee now, I will slay you where you stand.”
Shandrazel looked into Albekizan’s eyes. Albekizan steeled himself, letting no hint of regret show in his features. In Shandrazel’s eyes, he could see confusion. Shame welled up in Albekizan’s soul. How could his royal bloodline have produced such a weak, unpromising candidate for the throne?
“But—” said Shandrazel.
“Go!” Albekizan cried, lunging forward. If Shandrazel didn’t leave, Albekizan felt sure that he would sink his teeth into his son’s throat, even though it would break all law and tradition.
Shandrazel stepped back, cast one last glance toward his sobbing mother, then turned and opened his wings to the night sky. In minutes he was only a small dark shadow against the stars. Shooting stars began to slip from the heavens like tears.
Albekizan walked back to Tanthia’s side.
“Light the pyre,” Metron said.
The choir of sky-dragons rose in pitch as the heat of the torch touched the kindling. The fire ate hungrily, rising quickly up the stacked wood to lick at the flowers wreathing Bodiel. The smoke soon took on the acrid aroma of burning scales.
Metron opened the ancient leather-bound tome he held. He spoke the words written in the Book of Theranzathax without ever glancing down at the text.
“Asrafel crawled onto a bed of dry branches, and poured oil on his fevered brow, and called for his children.
“And he spoke, ‘In the winter, we breathe steam, for within we are flame. The fever that burns me is the flame of my own life, and no longer shall my skin stand between the world and myself. As long as this flame burns, I am alive, and as smoke I shall mingle among you. You shall breathe me and I will become part of you, and as I touch your eyes you shall cry, not in sorrow, but in joy, for I am with you still.’
“As he spoke the oil upon his brow smoldered, and the flame within him burst free, to blaze in the night. His children took up branches from the flame, and forever nourished these torches, using the light of Asrafel to carve the world from darkness.”
Metron closed the book and approached the bonfire that now howled with life. He placed an unlit torch into the fire and when he pulled it forth it burned with the presence of Bodiel. Metron turned to stand before Tanthia.
“Take this flame and never let it die. May the love of your son blaze hot and bright.”
Tanthia moved her mouth as if speaking, but her words couldn’t be heard over the roar of the bonfire. She accepted the torch, holding it tightly in her grasp.
All the while, Albekizan looked on, watching the sparks rise from the bonfire to mix among the stars. As each tiny red point vanished in the darkness, he experienced the loss of his son once more. He stared again at the bonfire, feeling himself at one with the raging flame. The inferno sizzled and cracked and roared, and the noise was music to Albekizan’s soul. In the religion of flame, heaven comes when all the world is ash.
CHAPTER SEVEN: SCHEMES
SHANDRAZEL ROSE INTO the starry night, not believing the turn his life had taken. Behind him the chorus sang as the pyre was lit; it broke his heart that he wasn’t even allowed to mourn his brother.
The most difficult thing to swallow was how plainly he’d been warned that this moment would come. Since he’d been a fledging, he’d been taught the ceremony of secession. He’d witnessed the drama unfold over the years as one by one his older brothers vanished, banished from the kingdom, or disappearing in shame into the libraries of the biologians. Why had he never accepted that this would be his fate? Why had he been so certain that he, alone, among countless generations of royalty, could break the chains of superstition and introduce a new age of reason?
By now he was far beyond the river. He was a swift, powerful flyer; miles could pass during a moment lost to thought. It did him no good to fly blind. He needed to pick a destination. There must be some place in the kingdom where he could find shelter.
He looked to his left, searching the heavens for the pole star, But for some reason the stars were blotted out. He startled as he realized that he was in the company of another sun-dragon, dark and hidden in the night.
It was Zanzeroth. He raced toward Shandrazel on an intentional collision course. Shandrazel banked hard, pulling up to avoid the old stalker. His speed and strength gave him the edge; Zanzeroth passed beneath him with a yard to spare. Without warning, something snaked through the air with a snap, entangling his leg. Searing pain flashed up his spine as his body whipped to a halt. Suddenly, he was falling, dragged by Zanzeroth’s dead weight as the old dragon folded his wings. Shandrazel stretched to grab as much air as he could to slow their descent. Still they plummeted.
Then, only a few feet above the treetops, Zanzeroth opened his wings once more, catching his own weight. Shandrazel tried to recover from the sudden change in balance, but it was too late. The branches snatched and dragged at him, yanking him into the canopy. He crashed unceremoniously onto the leafy floor of the forest.
Shandrazel lay on his belly, stunned, all breath knocked from his body, until sharp claws wrapped themselves in the fringe of scales along his skull and jerked his head back. A cold sliver of steel pressed against his throat.
“You’re working with the wizard, aren’t you?” hissed Zanzeroth. “You’re up to your eyeballs in this. You could have won the contest fairly… Instead you conspired to have your brother killed.”
“That’s insane,” Shandrazel spat.
“Is it? Who profits more from your brother’s death?”
“I wanted no profit! I publicly defied my father and pleaded to have Bodiel appointed king!”
“A clever cover,” said Zanzeroth. “I confess, I was fooled until I had time to eliminate the false leads. Then I was left with the obvious.”
Shandrazel had heard enough. He jerked his head backward, slamming into the old dragon’s snout. He raised his fore-claw to catch the wrist that held the blade to his throat and twisted, forcing the weapon away. Zanzeroth was a skilled, experienced fighter, but Shandrazel had youth, speed, and strength to spare. He yanked the stalker free from his back, slamming him to the ground. A tall, narrow pine toppled as Zanzeroth’s hips cracked against it. S
handrazel sprang to his feet, bracing for a new attack.
“You senile old idiot,” Shandrazel said, his voice crackling with anger. “Your stunt could have killed us both. All over some baseless theory!”
Zanzeroth’s wings lay limp as blankets on the forest floor. The twitch of his tail revealed him to be conscious, however. The old dragon took a ragged breath, then chuckled.
“If I’d wanted to kill you, the whip would have gone around your neck rather than your leg,” Zanzeroth said.
“And if I wanted to kill you,” said Shandrazel, “I’d snap your old neck in two before you ever saw me move.”
“I believe you could,” said Zanzeroth. “You never lacked ability as a warrior. Only bloodlust. You fight only with your brains, never with your heart.”
“You didn’t chase me down to critique my fighting techniques,” said Shandrazel.
“Didn’t I? I honestly believed you planned Bodiel’s murder. But if you had, would I still be alive? You’d have killed me to silence me. I’m disappointed, not for the first time tonight. I guess you might be innocent after all.”
“You should know I’m no murderer,” said Shandrazel.
“But I had hope,” said Zanzeroth with a sigh. “Hope that you were a schemer, a deceiver, a cheat, and a killer. Hope that you had what it takes after all.”
“What it takes?”
“To come back,” Zanzeroth said. His joints popped as he rolled to his belly, raising himself on all fours, stretching his long neck to limber it. “I hoped you’d do your duty and kill Albekizan.”
“You’re his oldest friend,” said Shandrazel. “How can you wish such a thing?”
“What is the future you envision? A world where your father grows increasingly old and feeble until death claims him in his sleep? This is not an honorable way to die. In his decline, the kingdom would crumble. A loving son would sever his jugular while he still enjoys life.”
“A world where old dragons may die in their sleep doesn’t frighten me,” said Shandrazel.
