Bitterwood

by James Maxey

  Hezekiah’s body staggered backward as his head spun through the air. Instead of blood gushing from the stump of his neck, a beam of red light brighter than the sun shot to the heavens.

  “WHEREFORE THE KING SAID UNTO ME, WHY IS THY COUNTENANCE SAD, SEEING THOUGH ART NOT SICK?” Hezekiah shouted, his booming voice emanating from his headless torso.

  Everyone turned to witness the spectacle, giving Bant temporary relief from the threat of spears. The great lizard and the ox-dog continued to struggle, jostling him among the cargo.

  Mekalov jumped from his dying lizard, which now writhed in agony, with Hezekiah’s axe still buried deep in its brow. Hezekiah’s head fell at his feet. Mekalov jumped back as the head began opening and closing its jaw furiously, pushing itself around in a slow circle.

  The prophet’s body continued to stagger about, shouting mouthlessly: “THERE IS NO HEALING OF THY BRUISE; THY WOUND IS GRIEVOUS. Data set 1034. Syscheck failed.”

  The body swayed, looking ready to fall, then straightened itself and announced, “BUT THEY WERE STILL ILL FAVOURED, AS AT THE BEGINNING. SO I AWOKE.”

  The body began to walk in circles as all the dragons watched, slack-jawed.

  At last, Hezekiah’s head worked itself around to face the wandering body. The body stopped suddenly and said, “System initialization. Stabilize. Syscheck positive. Begin command.”

  His body then stepped purposefully toward his head, leaning down to grab it with his left hand while he pulled the buried axe free of the dead lizard with his right. He placed his severed head upon his shoulders. Sparks and smoke flew as they connected. Hezekiah turned to face Mekalov, straightening his coat.

  “By the bones,” Mekalov muttered. “What are you?”

  Hezekiah stared at the earth-dragon as white smoke continued to rise from his neck. Then, with blinding speed, the prophet raised his axe high in the air and shouted: “TO ME BELONGETH VENGEANCE!”

  Hezekiah struck the axe directly through the center of Mekalov’s skull, continuing down in its vicious slice until its tip was buried in the ground. Mekalov’s bisected body fell to earth in equal halves.

  Just then the ox-dog let out a pained, wet, yelp as the lizard sunk its teeth into the dog’s throat. The lizard pushed forward, forcing the ox-dog to fall to its back and sending the wagon completely over. Bant smashed his head against a rock as the heavy contents crashed down upon him. Bright spots danced before his eyes, and when they faded, all was dark and quiet.

  BANT WOKE BENEATH the stars next to a crackling fire. His head throbbed. He tried to raise a hand to touch it but his arms were tangled under blankets. Hezekiah sat next to him, running a whetstone along the edge of his axe. Behind the prophet lay a pile of reptilian corpses.

  “I feared for your life, Bant Bitterwood,” Hezekiah said.

  Suddenly, Bant remembered. He kicked aside his covers and jumped to his feet.

  “Do not flee,” Hezekiah said. “You may be confused by what you witnessed today. Put it from your mind. You are still called by the Lord to do his work. Do not falter.”

  “You… you aren’t human,” Bant said.

  “No,” Hezekiah said.

  “Are you angel, or devil?”

  “Neither,” the cleric answered, keeping his eyes fixed on the edge of his axe. “I am a machine. A carefully crafted tool charged with ensuring that the greatest truth ever entrusted to men shall not perish. For over a thousand years I have performed the duties given to me by my maker.”

  “I don’t understand,” Bant said.

  “Understanding isn’t required, Bant Bitterwood. All that matters is that you have faith. In my long centuries wandering this world, I have seen many men loyal to the Lord lose their faith after events like this. I hope you will prove stronger.”

  “You’ve lied to me all these years!”

  “I never claimed to be human, Bant Bitterwood.”

  “What have I done?” Bant said, cradling his head in his hands. “I’ve given up everything to follow you.”

  “You’ve given up nothing,” Hezekiah said sternly. Then, more softly, “The Lord will provide.”

  “Don’t talk to me!” Ban shouted. “You were willing to let the dragons kill Recanna!”

  Hezekiah shrugged. “I have sown the seeds of the word. Your fellow villagers have grown ripe in their love of the Lord. Perhaps the Lord has chosen to harvest the crop.”

  “I’m going back,” Bant said, looking around the camp for his pack.

  “That would be inadvisable,” Hezekiah said. He sat aside the whetstone and began to polish the axe with a piece of soft leather.

  “I don’t want your advice.”

  “My mission requires me to purge uncooperative nonbelievers. Refuse to carry out your missionary duties and I will be forced to regard you as fallen. You stand with the Lord or you stand against him. There is no middle ground.”

  “You’re threatening me?”

  “I’m informing you,” Hezekiah said, holding the axe so that the firelight danced along its polished surface. He looked satisfied with his work. “With proper care, a good tool can last forever,” he said.

  “You can’t stop me,” Bant said, looking over his shoulder into the darkness. He was disoriented, but he thought he recognized enough of the landscape to know where he was. “I’m going home.”

  “I doubt that is possible,” Hezekiah said. “Christdale may no longer exist. Thirty dragons fled and they moved in the direction of the village. I watched the smoke rise from that direction as night fell.”

  “You’re lying,” said Bant.

  Hezekiah shook his head. “If your family is dead, Bant Bitterwood, it is now vital you remain faithful. You wish to reunite with them in heaven, do you not?”

  “You son of a bitch,” Bant growled. He turned and ran into the night, following the rough road back to the village. The night was moonless and the stars glittered like frost clinging to the sky. Dark shadows chased him, raced before him, thrust across the path to trip him. Each time he fell, he lifted himself once more and ran. His heart pounded in his ears. His lungs burned with each rasping breath. Hot daggers pierced his side. At last, after running for an eternity, he smelled the familiar scents of his home fields.

  Then he smelled smoke.

  He ran through the orchards, remembering the night so long ago when he had searched the darkness to find Recanna. He could see the red glow of light from ahead. He raced from under the thick trees into the starlit field. In the distance the embers of Christdale smoldered in the night breeze.

  “No!” he shouted as he saw the charred remains that had once been his home. His legs gave out and he fell to his knees, weeping.

  “Recanna!” he cried. “Recanna!” No one answered. He crawled into the black ash, burning his hands and knees as he dug through the hot rubble. He could barely recognize the shards of his life… Was this charred and broken clay the plate he’d eaten his breakfast on? Was this mound of smoldering cloth the bed he’d slept in the night before? Blisters formed on his fingers as he dug, looking for any sign of his family. He coughed and wheezed in the smoke rising from the rubble; he could barely see anything through his tears. His random path through the ruins at last led him away from the coals and onto a patch of dry earth that had once been his front yard. He collapsed, his raw and bleeding hands and knees no longer able to support his weight.

  He lay there, breathless and numb, hearing only the crackle of embers. He had no strength to even open his eyes. After a long time he heard footsteps.

  “You see now the truth in my words, Bant Bitterwood,” Hezekiah said, his voice calm and even. “There is nothing left for you here. The Lord has cleared all obstacles to our mission.”

  Bant rose and turned to face the prophet he had followed all these years.

  “Lies!” he shouted, rushing forward, pounding his blistered fists against Hezekiah’s stone-hard chest. “Every word from your lips is a lie!”

  “You are distressed,” Hezekiah
said, showing no pain from the blows.

  “God damn you!” Bant cried, falling to his knees. It felt as if his fingers were broken. “God damn you.”

  “Watch your tongue,” said the prophet. “Blasphemy risks your mortal soul.”

  “Go to hell!”

  “Bant Bitterwood, I have walked this world for over ten centuries. I am capable of patience. This morning you were a true servant of God. You cannot renounce your faith so quickly. I will attribute your blasphemy to your distress, and spare you, for now. I will go and leave you to your grieving.”

  The black-robed prophet turned away, becoming a dark shadow against a dark sky. His voice seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere as he said, “I shall return in three days. Prepare yourself. If you have sought the forgiveness of the Lord at this time, I, too, shall forgive you. We shall never speak again of your shameful behavior. But be warned: If you continue down the sinner’s path, or if you fail to meet me here on the appointed day, I will slay you when next we meet.”

  “Kill me now,” Bant said, his head hung low. His broken hands lay useless on the ground before him. “Everything I loved is gone. Everything I believed has been a lie.”

  “I have given you my judgment. I go now to rest. My maker built me well, but it will take time to repair the damage done. Three days, Bant Bitterwood.”

  The prophet’s shadow dissolved into the night. Bant couldn’t stop weeping. He crawled over the broken ground toward the ash that had once been his home.

  Was it all a lie? Hezekiah’s promise of a Lord watching over him, of a heavenly reward? Had he devoted his life to some absurd fiction? Could he believe in anything now?

  In the dim light Bant could just make out the footprints of the dragons that had stood before the door. Seeing the truth of what the beasts had done didn’t require even a mustard seed of faith.

  His most fundamental beliefs were shattered.

  All that he cherished, lost.

  He no longer wanted to live in this barren world.

  In the absence of love and faith, a single realization filled him as he stared at the dragon’s footprint, pouring into his body in a hot wave like strong drink. He turned his face toward the starry sky and cursed till his voice trailed off in laughter. He still knew how to hate. And hate, he knew, could change the world.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: BLASPHET

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

  METRON, THE HIGHBiologian, descended the dark stone spiral that led to the deepest tombs of the library. His carried a lantern but kept it shuttered. He didn’t need his vision to walk this familiar path. He’d spent over a century within the library. He was the guardian of all the wide-ranging and ancient knowledge contained within the walls. No dragon alive had read more books than Metron; no dragon was more in love with their musty smell or their yellowed pages. This made his present descent into darkness all the more troubling. Today Metron’s mission was to destroy the collection’s most sacred books.

  He’d been drinking wine all evening, with three bottles drained and a fourth, nearly empty, clutched in his gnarled talons. His courage, he knew, would never be greater. If he didn’t destroy the books now he never would.

  At last he arrived in the basement. He paused before the display case that held one of the dragons’ most cherished artifacts. It was a slab of white stone, etched with the feathered fossil of a creature long since vanished from the earth. Half bird, half reptile, the winged beast looked for all the world like the smaller, more primitive ancestor of the winged dragon. A copper plate beneath the case bore the word “Archaeopteryx.” Replicas of this stone hung in the halls of sun-dragons and in the towers of biologians throughout the kingdom, in testament to the dragon’s long and rightful dominance of the earth.

  Metron knew it had not been a dragon who long ago exhumed this fossil and engraved the letters into the copper.

  “Guardian of the secrets,” Metron muttered, his speech slurred. “Guardian of lies is more like it.”

  With no reverence at all for the artifact before him, Metron leaned his shoulder into the case and used the full weight of his body to push it aside. He paused, taking another drink from the flask, studying the iron door revealed behind the display, its hinges caked with rust.

  Beyond the door was the forbidden collection, to be seen only by the High Biologian. Metron wished he had never read the terrible truths held in the books behind this barrier. He hung his lantern on the wooden peg near the door and placed the tarnished key into the deep lock. With a strain that hurt his aged wrist, he twisted the key until the lock clanged open. Clenching his teeth, he grasped the ring that opened the door and dug his feet into the cracks in the floor stones. Needles pierced his heart as he strained and struggled against the weight, but at last, with a shudder, the door creaked open.

  Light seeped from the growing crack. Metron frowned, unable to comprehend what could cause the brightness from within. He looked inside. The wine bottle slipped from his clutch, crashing to the stone floor.

  Blasphet, the Murder God, waited for him, resting on all fours before an immense wooden table strewn with dozens of books and glowing candles. The chamber, which always seemed so vast to Metron, looked cramped when occupied by a sun-dragon, even one as thin and withered as Blasphet. The rear of the chamber was gone; the stone wall had been carted away, revealing a dungeon chamber beyond.

  Metron swallowed, his throat suddenly very dry. He wished he had more wine. “How did you—”

  “In my years in the dungeons, I grew quite sensitive to sounds,” Blasphet said. “I knew there were other chambers dug into the bedrock of the castle. I used to fantasize about what I might discover were I to have access to an army of earth-dragons armed with sledgehammers.”

  “I see,” Metron said. “So much effort, only to discover a chamber full of lies.”

  “Lies?” Blasphet said, holding up a small, leather-bound volume entitled Origins of the Species. “Most of what I’ve read parallels your own teachings… though with one significant twist. Still, while this is an interesting discovery, it’s not what I’m looking for. I’m disappointed. I was certain this sealed chamber would hide something worth knowing.”

  “Nothing in here is worth knowing,” Metron said. “It’s why these books aren’t kept with the others. You’ll find only fables and heresies here.”

  “I’m rather fond of heresies,” Blasphet said.

  “No doubt,” said Metron. “Still, I insist you leave. No one is allowed into this room save for myself. It’s the law.”

  “Dear me, another law broken,” Blasphet said, his eyes brightening.

  “The books here can be of no value to you,” Metron said. “Half are written in lost tongues. You waste your time.”

  “I’m a quick study,” Blasphet said. “I’m also the best judge of what interests me.”

  “The only thing that interests you is death,” Metron said.

  “Ah, but you’re mistaken, Metron.” Blasphet sat the book back on the table. “Life is what fascinates me. Life and the lies we are told about it. For instance, how many times have I been witness to a funeral pyre and listened to the legend of Asrafel? We are taught that life is flame.”

  “So it is written,” Metron said.

  Blasphet shook his head. “My experiments tell me otherwise. If life is flame, why is it that when I burn my subjects in a pit of fire, they die? Shouldn’t they, in fact, prosper? In the legend of Asrafel, we are asked to believe that breathing smoke reconnects us to our ancestors. I have tested this. I have placed my subjects in airtight rooms and filled the atmosphere with smoke. They cough. They die. There seems to be no spiritual connection at all.”

  “Just because our mortal minds are unable to comprehend the paradox of flame is no reason to dispute the holy truth,” Metron said.

  “‘Holy’ is a word used to conceal a great deal of nonsense,” Blasphet said. “If we disregard the evidence of our senses, won’t that lead to madness?” />
  “Perhaps our senses are limited while confined to flesh,” said Metron. “And you are already mad.”

  “No. Not mad. I merely trust the senses I possess. My eyes tell me that flame is not beneficial to life, despite your ‘holy’ teachings.” Blasphet raised himself from all fours to place his weight on his hind claws in the more common posture of the sun-dragons. His shoulders scraped the stone ceiling of the chamber. “Unlike my fellow dragons, I have the intellectual honesty to reject an idea simply because it’s labeled ‘holy.’ I’ve pondered the mystery of life for many decades. I thought perhaps it’s not flame but heat that gives us the vital force. I’ve slit open many a dragon. The core of a dragon is undeniably hot—much hotter than the air around it. Perhaps heat is the key. However, when I place subjects in a steel box and heat it to a cherry-red glow, again they expire. Save for a brief bust of activity from the subject early on, heat has no invigorating effect at all.”

  Metron rubbed his chin. Perhaps the wine mellowed him. He knew Blasphet was confessing to disturbing crimes, but he still found the observations intriguing. He often thought of heat as invigorating. Standing beside the fireplace in the morning did wonders for his old bones. Blasphet must be overlooking something obvious in his experiments.

  “Life also requires air,” Metron said, latching onto the missing element. “Perhaps the heat drives out the air, extinguishing life.”

  “Air may be a key,” Blasphet admitted. “My subjects do die in its absence. Yet fish are undeniably alive and they live without air. This showed that water might be the key—obviously, we expire if long deprived of it. But when I place subjects beneath the water, they do not live long.”

  “Then there must be a mix,” said Metron. “Life isn’t one thing. It’s a mix of fire, of heat, of air, of water. All these things combine to animate our base matter.”

  “If this is true, I believe there must be some perfect mixture of the elements. Some ratio of flame and water that gives birth to unquenchable life.” Blasphet sounded excited to be discussing this issue with someone who could follow his reasoning. Blasphet snaked his head closer to Metron, bringing his yellow teeth near the biologian’s ear. He said, his voice soft, yet quivering with anticipation, “Tell me, Metron, do you believe in immortality?”