Bitterwood

by James Maxey

  Bant knew that the Lord was on his side no matter what. He drew his shoulders back and said, “We do not fear death. We will not submit to evil.”

  “What a curious attitude,” Mekalov said. The earth-dragon drew his sword from his scabbard, the blade singing like the fading peals of a bell. Before Bant could react the blade tip was thrust beneath his chin, stopping just short of his throat.

  Mekalov narrowed his eyes. “How about now? Now do you fear death?”

  Bant swallowed hard. He whispered, “Yea’, though I walk in the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil.”

  “Humans have never been known for brains,” Mekalov said. “But you’re something else, boy. Too stupid to be scared, eh? Think there’s something to be gained by this little display? Continue with this foolishness and this village will burn. Its people will be enslaved, if they’re lucky. You can save them if the next words from your lips are, ‘We will obey. We live to serve Albekizan.’ Go on. Say it.”

  Bant’s mouth was suddenly too dry to allow speech. Was this mere vanity that caused him to resist? Pride that goeth before the fall? As his mind whirred another voice shouted, “TOUCH NOT MINE ANOINTED, AND DO MY PROPHETS NO HARM!”

  Bant stopped staring down the length of the sword, shifting his gaze toward the church. Hezekiah emerged from the dark, windowless interior. He stood on the steps like a tall pillar. His black robes wrapped about him like shadows.

  “Hmmph,” said Mekalov to his fellow dragons. “Another idiot. Let him serve as an example to the lord, here. Kill him!”

  A spear-wielding dragon charged toward the church. Hezekiah stood, unflinching. With a grunt the dragon guided his weapon to its target, planting the spearhead in the center of the prophet’s belly, driving it deeply into him until the point lifted Hezekiah’s robes from his back. Hezekiah remained standing, looking stern.

  “HE WHO LIVES BY THE SWORD,” Hezekiah said, without a trace of weakness in his voice, “SHALL DIE BY THE SWORD!”

  Hezekiah placed his hands upon the shaft that pierced him and began to push it deeper until it reached the midpoint. Then he reached behind him and grabbed the spear and pulled it free. He held the spear before him, examining its gleaming point. Not a drop of blood stained its surface. The dragon before him staggered backward, his beak dropping open in shock.

  “AN EYE FOR AN EYE!” Hezekiah shouted as he hurled the spear at his attacker. The spear struck the dragon with a crack like thunder. The dragon’s body toppled backward, as his head, eyes wide with surprise, fell to the ground between his twitching legs.

  Bant shifted his gaze back to the sword at his throat. It hovered unsupported in the air a brief second before falling to his feet. Mekalov tripped twice in his haste to reach his scaly steed but at last reached the saddle and dug his claws into the beast’s sides. He pulled the lizard’s reigns to turn it back in the direction they had come and set off in pursuit of the other spear-dragon whose steed already thundered down the road in a trail of dust. The third lizard steed—its reptilian brain oblivious to its master’s death—stood contentedly by the village well munching on clover.

  “Hezekiah!” Bant shouted, running to the preacher’s side. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course,” the prophet said, smoothing his robes.

  “But-but-but how?”

  “The Lord provides.”

  Bant nodded as the land around him began to blur.

  “Why do you weep, Bant Bitterwood?”

  “I… I didn’t know what to do,” he sobbed. “They could have killed Recanna, Adam, everyone. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to say.”

  “Did you do as the Lord guided?”

  Bant wondered. Had the Lord guided him? Or had his pride? Hezekiah might be able to endure such a serious wound through faith alone, but Bant knew his faith did not equal the preacher’s. For when he had stood in the valley of the shadow of death, when the sword had been at his throat, he had feared evil. He dared not reveal this to Hezekiah.

  “Yes,” he said, wiping away his tears. “I did as the Lord guided.”

  “Good. For the Lord provides guidance for me as well. Before the winter comes I must leave this place. The seed of the Lord has brought forth a plentiful harvest in this town. Now we are needed elsewhere to sow other fields.”

  “We?” Bant sniffled.

  “Yes,” Hezekiah said. “You are ready for the next phase of your training. You will travel for a time as a missionary, Bant Bitterwood.”

  “But,” said Bant, “Recanna… the harvest…”

  “Recanna will stay to care for your children. The harvest will be complete before we are ready to leave. For all else, we will trust to the Lord. Return to your labors, Bant Bitterwood.”

  “Yes,” Bant said, as Hezekiah walked back up the church steps and disappeared into the shadows beyond the open door.

  But Bant didn’t return to his labors, not for a long time. Instead he looked at the dead dragon before him. The head gazed up at his, the eyes still wide with surprise. Flies already gathered around the red pool that grew around the dragon’s corpse.

  He couldn’t help but think of the last time he’d seen this ground drenched in blood, that long ago night when he’d first kissed Recanna. The sight of blood had satisfied him. Blood had been a promise, then. Blood could carry justice, and blood could give hope. Blood had washed the land of its old ways and brought about a new world. Now the blood carried a different promise.

  As the red liquid crept toward his worn leather boots, Bant took a step back. The sun shone strongly yet a chill ran up his spine. Something awful was coming. He couldn’t define it, he didn’t know when it would come, or how, but it was there, in the future, revealed by the dark rivulets before him. He shuddered as the cracked, dusty earth drank the cursed blood.

  CHAPTER EIGHT: ZEEKY

  1100 D.A. The 69th Year of the Reign of Albekizan

  “TOUCH NOTHING,” ZANZEROTH said.

  Though angered by his master’s assumption that he would disturb the scene, Gadreel held his tongue. He had grown used to Zanzeroth’s mood by now. For months Bitterwood had eluded them, though not by much. Zanzeroth’s instincts led him again and again to Bitterwood’s trail, but always the trail was lost when it returned to the river. Gadreel doubted they would ever catch him.

  Perhaps this time would be different. Even Gadreel could see the leaves were relatively fresh, no more than a week old. The hunter tugged at the pile of wilting branches. He lifted the branches one by one, holding each to his eye, searching for any clues it might hold before tossing it aside. He repeated the task until at last the hidden boat was uncovered completely.

  “Step carefully,” Zanzeroth said. “We need to flip this over gently.”

  Gadreel grabbed the end of the flat-bottomed boat and helped Zanzeroth to lift it, taking care not to disturb the ground around or beneath it. They set the boat aside. As they moved it the odor of charred wood caught his nostrils. Gadreel saw that their care had been merited for beneath lay the remains of a campfire.

  Zanzeroth knelt next to the ash-filled ring of rocks. He lowered his scarred snout close to the ground and sniffed. The master hunter then examined the site pebble by pebble, and by following Zanzeroth’s eye, Gadreel began to see the nearly invisible scuffs and scratches that made Zanzeroth frown in contemplation. Zanzeroth continued to crawl over the arcane runes, piecing together syllable by syllable the story they told.

  “It’s not Bitterwood,” he said, rising at last, stretching his limbs. His joints popped as he limbered them, unleashing a flurry of pale scales. “A human’s been here, but the boot prints are too small.”

  “Then we’re wasting our time,” Gadreel said.

  “What does time matter to a slave?” Zanzeroth said.

  Gadreel wanted to answer Zanzeroth’s insult with the strongly worded speech he had recited in his mind again and again. But he didn’t. Zanzeroth had treated him abusively ever since he had climbed from
the tunnel carrying Bitterwood’s cloak. Words wouldn’t turn aside the hunter’s anger. Only Bitterwood’s death would bring peace to the hunter, and relief to Gadreel.

  “I merely meant,” Gadreel said, keeping his voice low, “that it is a shame that this lead has been unrewarding.”

  “Unrewarding? I think not,” Zanzeroth said. “Following this trail will prove most satisfying.”

  “Why?”

  “How is it that even with two eyes you are so blind?” The hunter used a fore-claw to circle a small footprint in the dirt.

  “I see the footprint, Master,” Gadreel said, looking closer. “From the size I assume it is the footprint of a child or a woman.”

  “But don’t you see this as well?” Zanzeroth’s claws pointed to the faint outline of a feather beneath the sandy dirt. He pulled the feather free of its grave and held it to the light, revealing it as the pale blue wing-scale of a sky-dragon.

  “A sky-dragon and a human female traveling together,” Zanzeroth said. “Surely this tells you whose trail we’ve found.”

  “Why?” asked Gadreel. “Many dragons have human slaves. It’s not uncommon to find human and dragon footprints on the same site.”

  “Even though you weren’t present, surely you must have heard rumors. Albekizan wanted the matter kept secret, but how can you not have heard about Vendevorex?”

  “He’s the king’s wizard,” Gadreel said. “It’s common knowledge that he’s taken ill. He’s been too sick to leave his bed for months.”

  Zanzeroth’s one good eye rolled up in its socket. “I wondered what kind of fool would be taken in by that lie.”

  “Lie?”

  “Vendevorex turned traitor the day after Bodiel’s death. He disobeyed the king’s orders and fled with his pet human in tow. Now Albekizan wants him dead. He’s not as big a prize as Bitterwood, but he’s worth following. Besides, I have a theory that Bitterwood and the wizard may be connected somehow.”

  “But,” said Gadreel, “if Albekizan wants Vendevorex dead, why the lie? Why not just announce a price on the wizard’s head?”

  “Because soon Albekizan will start his master plan against the humans and the wizard’s loyalty to humans is legendary. It’s best to have everyone think Vendevorex is ill rather than free and hidden somewhere in the kingdom.”

  “Albekizan fears the humans might turn to Vendevorex for assistance?” asked Gadreel.

  “It’s possible,” said Zanzeroth. “Even if the wizard never turns up again he’s still likely to be a hero to humans. One thing I’ve learned is that humans would rather spread a rumor than breed. You’ve seen what they’ve done with Bitterwood. They think he’s everywhere at once, ready to leap from the woods to save them at any moment, even though none of them have ever seen him. They think he’s a ghost or a god. If they would build such a legend around a mere man, imagine what they would do with a dragon wizard. But that’s not the real reason Albekizan wants to keep the wizard’s treason quiet.”

  “Then, why?”

  Zanzeroth shook his head as if disgusted to once again be explaining the obvious. “Albekizan has built his empire at the expense of many a former friend. More than a few sun-dragons would shelter Vendevorex, given the chance, and use him as a weapon in an open rebellion. In fact… we can’t be far from Chakthalla’s castle.”

  “Three miles,” Gadreel answered. He’d spotted the graceful towers and colorful windows of Chakthalla’s palace during his reconnaissance flight of the area. Chakthalla was the widow of Tanthia’s brother Terranax. She managed this mountainous corner of Albekizan’s kingdom.

  “She lost her mate to Blasphet,” Zanzeroth said. “I wonder if she’s learned that the Murder God is now among the king’s closest advisors?”

  “Perhaps we should pay her a visit?” Gadreel said.

  “Aye,” said Zanzeroth. “But first we should pay a visit to Kanst. His troops are camping near the village of Winding Rock in preparation for the round-up of humans after the harvest to take them to Blasphet’s city. I imagine Kanst might enjoy a visit with Chakthalla as well.”

  ZANZEROTH LED GADREEL to the east toward Kanst’s camp. Evening was coming on. The sun behind them cast their long shadows onto the earth. Below, a small band of humans trudged along a dirt path by the edge of a field. They looked up, their eyes wide and frightened, as the dragons’ shadows fell over them. Zanzeroth always loved the effect of the light at this time of day. The black outline of his shadow possessed a grand, ominous life of its own.

  Half a mile away from Kanst’s camp, the shrieks of an injured earth-dragon reached Zanzeroth’s ears. Gadreel’s flight slowed when he, too, noticed the sound.

  “By the bones,” Gadreel said, sounding worried. “What’s that noise?”

  “I warned Kanst that the slop he feeds the troops would eventually kill someone,” Zanzeroth said.

  As they raced ever closer to the camp, the source of the agonized cry became obvious. An earth-dragon was running through the camp, enveloped in bright white flames. The charred outlines of his body revealed his headlong rush straight through the walls of tents. A trail of crisp, smoldering footprints led straight as an arrow shot back toward Kant's personal tent.

  As Zanzeroth landed a few yards from the action, the earth-dragon at last fell as the tendons of his legs turned to ash. The ground around him began to boil. All the dragons in the camp fled the horrible flames, save one. A youthful sky-dragon, bearing the wing-ribbons that marked him a member of the aerial guard, rushed toward the fallen earth-dragon and tossed a thick woolen blanket over him to smother the fire. He jumped back when the plan failed; the blanket erupted into a bright blaze.

  The air took on the stench of burning sheep.

  “Bring water,” the sky-dragon shouted, though no other soldier remained to hear him.

  “Too late for that,” Zanzeroth said, walking toward the fallen dragon. He stepped around the wisps of smoke that wafted toward him. “Take care not to breathe the fumes,” he said. “A large enough dose will kill you.”

  “What could possibly burn like that?” Gadreel asked, staring as the dragon’s body sank into the bubbling ground.

  “It’s called the Vengeance of the Ancestors,” said Zanzeroth, “and it confirms Vendevorex is near.”

  As he spoke, the giant armored form of General Kanst appeared over the tent tops. He moved toward them in slow, clanking steps. Despite the clatter of his movements, he’d apparently heard Zanzeroth’s comments for he said, “It confirms nothing of the sort.”

  “Only the wizard can create this flame,” Zanzeroth said. “I’ve seen it before. So have you, though I assume your memory isn’t what it once was. Have care. This magic flame burns everything.”

  “Everything but iron,” Kanst said, unclasping his massive breastplate. He dropped the heavy oval of steel over the burning pit, capping the flames. He dropped to all fours and began to slap out the fiery footprints with his iron gauntlets. “It’s one reason I’ve spent the last decade and a half lumbering around in this armor.”

  The young member of the aerial guard found an iron shield lying on the ground and began beating out the flames elsewhere.

  Kanst rose and said to Zanzeroth, “I see I have at least one soldier worth his gruel.” Then, to the sky-dragon, “You, son. What’s your name?”

  “Pertalon, sir,” the dragon answered without stopping his work.

  “Pertalon, I like your face. I’m giving you a promotion.”

  “Sir,” Pertalon said, standing straight. By now the flames were all extinguished.

  “Come with me. You too, hunter. You’ll be interested in this.”

  Kanst led them back along the charred footprints. They arrived at the largest tent in the camp, a palace built from gray canvas that covered almost an acre, Kanst’s personal home away from home. The wall they approached was neatly marked with the charred outline of an earth-dragon.

  Leading them inside, Kanst said, “It was roughly fifteen years ago that the
wizard first demonstrated the effects of the Vengeance of the Ancestors. On quiet nights I can still hear the screams of the family inside that house. I wasn’t a general back then, only a soldier.”

  “We all knew you were destined for greatness,” Zanzeroth said. “You were a cousin of the king after all.”

  “No matter my heritage, I knew power when I saw it,” Kanst said. “The Vengeance of the Ancestors was naked, unquenchable power. The wizard controlled it. And ever since that night, so have I.”

  Kanst took them to a row of a dozen cauldrons: huge, black, cast iron affairs used to cook stews for armies. “That dead fool must have thought I was hiding supper in these things,” Kanst said. He lifted the iron lid a crack. White light as bright as the midday sun filled the room.

  “I snuck back to the cabin later that night and found a few tendrils of the flame still flickering among the ruins. I placed them in an iron pot and carefully fed them. The wizard had said that below a critical mass the flame dies out. For fifteen years I’ve maintained that critical mass, feeding the fire with whatever fuel I had at hand. It really does burn anything—hard, dense fuels do especially well—stones, bricks and, from time to time, the remains of a particularly thick-skulled and disloyal soldier.”

  “Albekizan knows of this?” Zanzeroth asked.

  “Of course. It’s why he elevated me to general. But I’m certain that the wizard never knew. Aside from the king, the only dragons to know about the flames are the rare and trusted few I’ve selected to help me maintain the stock.”

  He glanced toward Pertalon. “You rushed into danger while everyone else fled. You followed my lead to squelch the flame without waiting for my orders or asking a single question. Now your job will be to help keep this fire alive.”

  “Sir,” said Pertalon. “It will be an honor.”