Bitterwood

by James Maxey

  “I am Vendevorex,” the sky-dragon answered.

  “Of course,” Androkom said with a knowing nod. “I’ve tried to make your acquaintance before now. I wanted to discuss your so-called ‘magic.’ I have theories as to its origins. Did you not receive my letters?”

  “I received them,” Vendevorex said. “I ignored them. The source of my powers is my secret. If I won’t reveal it to the king, you can’t expect that I’d share it to you.”

  “I heard rumors you’d taken ill,” Androkom said. “I took this to mean you’d fallen out of favor with Albekizan. I assume you’ve joined Shandrazel’s quest to overthrow his father?”

  “I’ve not come to overthrow my father,” Shandrazel said.

  Vendevorex added, “Albekizan knows nothing of our alliance. With luck, he thinks I’m dead.”

  “I see,” said Androkom, walking back onto the shore, shaking his tail and wings to dry them.

  “We’re sorry if we frightened you,” Shandrazel said. “We were traveling back toward my father’s castle when we spotted you. We followed you until you came to rest. Knowing your reputation as one who is unafraid to challenge authority, I felt that I could trust you.”

  “Your instincts serve you well,” Androkom said. “I’m at your service. But, may I ask, where were you? I felt I was being watched but saw no sign of pursuit.”

  “I used my magic to make us invisible,” Vendevorex said.

  “I believe you were invisible,” Androkom said, “but I don’t believe you’re magic. I’ve read tomes describing ancient technologies. I believe you are in possession of a Magnetically Integrated Rapidly Rotating Optical Reversal System.”

  The wizard looked stunned. “I’ve never met another dragon I could discuss this with. I’m impressed. You’re right. It’s done with M.I.R.R.O.R.S.”

  “But how did you come to be in possession of the technology? Having the information is a far leap from having the artifacts.”

  Vendevorex glanced at Shandrazel, then back at Androkom. “For many years I’ve guarded such secrets and recently, I paid a great price by having one such secret revealed. You must trust me when I say it could prove dangerous to tell you all I know.”

  “Your secrets may not be as secret as you think,” Androkom said. “For years, we biologians have known the truth: the humans who live among us are the degenerate remnants of a once ascendant human civilization. They possessed knowledge beyond our imaginations. They had technology that we cannot distinguish from magic. They walked upon the moon, and explored the deepest depths of the oceans. They possessed other machines so small they could not be seen by the naked eye, devices that could transform matter from its most basic components into refined, priceless treasures. Most impressive of all, they knew the secret code of life itself.”

  “Astonishing,” said Shandrazel. “Can it be true?”

  “It is,” said Vendevorex. “Their civilization peaked over a thousand years ago. Much of what they created has decayed over the years. My magic is accomplished using what they referred to as nanotechnology. The silver dust in my pouch is composed of these tiny machines, powered by the sun itself. They respond to thoughts, transmitted via my skullcap, or Jandra’s tiara.”

  “This… this technology could change the world,” Shandrazel said. “Why have you kept this secret?”

  “Because,” said Vendevorex, “I gave my word.”

  “To whom?” Shandrazel asked.

  Vendevorex looked around, as if he, too, were worried someone might be listening. “Not all of human civilization collapsed to its present, degenerate state. Far beyond our shores exists a city where men live as gods. I’ve visited there and seen wonders beyond description. These men travel to other worlds. They fly through the air more gracefully than dragons. They’ve conquered death. They reshape matter with the most casual wish. The secrets I’ve stolen from them are so trivial as to be beneath their notice. My so-called magic wouldn’t impress an infant in this wondrous city.”

  “How can this be?” Shandrazel asked. “If there are people with so much power, why don’t they help their fellow humans? Why aren’t they here right now?”

  Vendevorex motioned Androkom and Shandrazel closer, drawing them into a conspiratorial huddle. “For all we know they might be here. They need not rely on the illusion I use for invisibility; they posses the power to recalculate the equations of space itself, and walk above, beside, and beneath what we know as reality. However, it is their practice not to interfere with the fates of their fellow men. Once, long ago, the ancients gave little thought to changing the world. They grew in such power that even their most casual actions shook the planet. In attempting to heal the sick, they sometimes unleashed plagues. In their attempts to feed the hungry, they would turn lush lands into deserts, and drain underground seas in the effort to make these deserts blossom. As a byproduct of lighting their cities, they would raze mountains and poison oceans. They risked destroying themselves with their own miraculous tools.”

  “To say nothing of their toys,” Androkom added.

  “What do you mean?” asked Vendevorex.

  Androkom felt a chill run through him. He was certain the wizard had known. Did he dare tell them? Did he dare reveal the most terrible secret of the biologians?

  Before Androkom could decide, Shandrazel said, “While this discussion of ancient history satisfies my intellectual side, it doesn’t help us solve our problems. Tell me, Androkom, why were you flying toward my father’s fortress?”

  “The short answer is that I go to give information to the most wicked dragon who ever lived. However, you may require more than a short answer. I’m unsure what you know of events that have transpired since your exile. Did you know that Blasphet has been freed?”

  “I’ve heard. He’s now my father’s most trusted advisor, I’m told.”

  “What information do you have for Blasphet?” Vendevorex asked.

  “Metron says that Blasphet kills only so that he may search for the secret of life. I go to provide that answer.”

  “You know the secret of life?” Vendevorex asked, his voice somewhere between amusement and astonishment.

  “Indeed. Tell me, do these words mean anything to you? Double helix.”

  Vendevorex wrinkled his brow. “This is a mathematical form.”

  “So you don’t know all the secrets of the ancients, eh?”

  Shandrazel said, “I feel like you two are trying to one-up each other. I ask you to put this aside for the moment and use your great intellects to ponder the situation before us.”

  “Of course,” said Androkom. “I think I have solved one problem. When I explain the source of life to Blasphet, and convince him of the answer via my experiments, he will no longer be a threat. The question that drives his evil will be sated.”

  “Or he’ll use the knowledge to kill every last being on the planet. I can’t allow it,” said Shandrazel.

  Androkom narrowed his eyes, annoyed by Shandrazel’s attitude. He didn’t recall asking for permission. Perhaps arrogance was transmitted genetically. Still, arrogant or not, he was pleased to be in the company of two dragons whose intellects approached his own.

  “Good dragons,” he said, “I think better on a full stomach. Come, I have food in my pack. Let us break bread while we decide how best to save the world.”

  AS NIGHT FELL over the Free City, a youthful earth-dragon named Torgoz trudged toward the front gate for guard duty. As he approached, he saw the guard he was supposed to replace, an old-timer by the name of Wyvernoth. He raised a claw in greeting. Wyvernoth didn’t respond. He drew closer and tried again. Again, the old-timer gave no hint he’d noticed him, though he was now less than a spear thrust away.

  “Wyvernoth!” said Torgoz.

  The old veteran jumped as his name was spoken.

  “Asleep on your feet again?” Torgoz chided.

  Wyvernoth shook his head. “I wasn’t sleeping. I was thinking.”

  “Thinking’s not your best
skill, old-timer. When you try, it only causes more of your scales to fall out.”

  Wyvernoth scratched his scarred head as Torgoz spoke. A shower of moss-green scales fell with the motion.

  “It’s a waste of my know-how to be pulling watches,” Wyvernoth grumbled. “All these years of duty and the best they can do is stand me next to a gate. Me, with command experience. Why, once I—”

  “Led your unit on to victory after the commander died,” Torgaz said. “You’ve mentioned it once or a hundred times.”

  “I deserve better is all,” Wyvernoth said.

  “What you deserve is a thump on the skull. But since I’m here to relieve you, what you’ll get is a good night’s sleep in a bunk. That is, if you still remember how to sleep lying down.”

  “Oh. I remember,” Wyvernoth said, in a tone that let Torgoz know the old-timer considered it a clever retort.

  Taking his spear, Wyvernoth marched off stiffly, as if all his muscles weren’t fully awake yet.

  Torgoz took his place and sighed. Wyvernoth might not deserve better duty, but Torgaz certainly did. The Free City was a prison. Guards on the inside made sense. Guards on the outside were useless. They weren’t even supposed to stop the humans who showed up wanting to get in; they only had to make sure that they didn’t have weapons.

  It still amazed him how many people showed up each day. He’d heard that the king planned to forcibly round up humans after the harvest. So far, that was proving unnecessary. The rumor of the Free City had spread, and now a steady stream of fools showed up voluntarily. The villages must be truly awful to produce people desperate enough to walk away from their old lives and come to a city not even fully built.

  Torgaz noticed a wagon coming toward him on the road which struck him as unusual. Most of the voluntary arrivals came on foot, too poor to afford a cart, let alone an ox-dog like the one approaching. As the wagon drew closer, he could plainly see that there was a human at the reins, apparently alone. He was dressed all in black and was beyond doubt the biggest human Torgoz had ever seen.

  “This is the Free City?” the stranger asked as he came within a few yards. The man’s face was dusty from the road.

  “Indeed. Welcome,” Torgoz said.

  “You will not block my entry?” the man asked.

  “Of course not. We want you to enjoy all the pleasures of the Free City.” Torgaz fought the urge to snicker. “Come, step down from your wagon. I’ll call someone to take your ox-dog to the stables where he’ll be fed and cared for. You look as if you’ve traveled a long time to get here.”

  “Centuries,” the man said, stepping down from his seat.

  Torgoz assumed this passed as humor among humans. He said, “Your journey is over. Welcome home.”

  The man nodded. “Your hospitality is unexpected. Dragons normally treat me with hostility.”

  “King Albekizan has commanded an end to old rivalries, friend.”

  “I care nothing for the commands of earthly kings,” the stranger said, fixing his stern gaze upon Torgoz. “I do care, however, for the safety of my animal. I will hold you responsible should harm befall him. What is your name?”

  Torgoz bristled at the man’s haughty attitude but decided he’d play along. It wasn’t as if the man would get away with anything once he was inside. “I’m Torgoz. And you?”

  “I am Hezekiah,” the man said as he lifted a pack from beneath the wagon’s flatboard seat. Torgoz noticed an axe strapped to the side of the pack.

  Torgaz said, “The king wants peace inside the city. You’ll have to leave the axe in your wagon, and I need to check your pack.”

  Hezekiah turned his shadowed gaze toward him. He said, in a stern tone, “I do not recognize the authority of your king. I serve a higher power. Within my pack is a Holy Book containing the words of the one true Lord. It is sacred. You shall not look upon it.”

  Torgoz gritted his teeth, nearly ready to lower his spear and run the insolent bastard through. With a second glance at Hezekiah’s broad hands, he paused. Hezekiah looked like he could snap a spear like a toothpick. Worse, Hezekiah had an ox-dog by his side. If the beast defended its master, Torgaz would have a real fight on his hands. He decided to pretend he hadn’t seen the axe.

  “I guess I stand corrected,” Torgoz said, opening the gate. “Go on in.” The human strode through the opening. Torgoz closed the gate, hissing with soft laughter. The fate that awaited Hezekiah would more than repay the debts the insolent fool had incurred with his tongue. As for the axe, Torgoz didn’t see a real threat. How much damage could one man do?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: RECKONING

  THE MORNING SUN seeped through the open window, its rosy fingers touching Jandra’s face. She sat up, stretching her arms, blinking the sleep from her eyes. Something about the small, nearly bare room seemed wrong.

  “Zeeky?” she said, realizing how still the girl lay beneath her blanket.

  Zeeky didn’t stir. Jandra moved to her side and pulled back the covers, revealing a second blanket balled into the outline of a sleeping child.

  Jandra rose, dressing quickly. She knew the fear that gripped her had little basis in reason. Zeeky was half her age but had spent more time fending for herself than Jandra had. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to the child.

  Rushing down the stairs of the small building, she was surprised to find Bitterwood waiting outside on the steps. He looked more worn out than usual, and she wondered if he had been awake all night.

  “Have you seen Zeeky?” she asked.

  “When?” Bitterwood asked.

  “This morning. She was missing when I got up.”

  “No,” Bitterwood answered. “I’ve been sitting here since before dawn.”

  “Where can she be?” she asked, looking down the empty street.

  “Don’t worry,” Bitterwood said. “She can’t have gone far.”

  “She’s been talking about the animals ever since we got here. I wonder if she’s gone to the barns?”

  “We can go look.”

  “Okay,” Jandra said. Then she was struck by the strangeness of their conversation. Bitterwood was actually speaking without her having to drag words out of him, and now he had offered to help her.

  “What’s going on?” she asked. “Why were you waiting for me?”

  “We can speak as we walk,” Bitterwood said, stepping away without looking back to see if she would follow. “The barns are several blocks from here.”

  Jandra hurried after him. “You must be in a better mood. A different mood, at least.”

  Bitterwood nodded. “I’ve given your words a great deal of thought. You request that I help you fight dragons. I came to give you my decision.”

  “Then you’ll help me? It’s still not too late. For whatever reason, it looks like they want to round up people here before killing them. Here’s my plan: we sneak out invisibly and find weapons. Albekizan’s castle isn’t far. I know its layout by heart. We can walk right into the throne room and you can shoot him.”

  Bitterwood didn’t answer at first as they walked down the nearly empty streets. Then he shook his head. “That’s not the decision I’ve made. Killing Albekizan is futile. All dragons hate us. Slaying the king will only prolong the inevitable.”

  “The inevitable? You accept it as inevitable that we’re going to lose?”

  “For twenty years I’ve slain dragons. What good have I done? There are as many dragons today as when I started. They breed as fast as I kill them.”

  “You were only one man,” she said. “I’ll stand beside you.”

  “It’s too late.” Bitterwood sighed. “My life has been utterly wasted.”

  Jandra wasn’t shocked to hear his words. Bitterwood’s despair had been obvious to her ever since his capture. However, she took heart that he had come to her to talk about his decision. She took it as a sign that he wanted her to change his mind.

  “You’re wrong,” she said softly. “You think that you can’t w
in the war unless you kill every last dragon on earth. I agree that can’t be done. Don’t you see that’s not needed for true victory? Humans and dragons have lived side by side for centuries. Most dragons don’t hate humans, and would gladly embrace a return to our peaceful coexistence if Albekizan were removed.”

  Bitterwood shook his head. “You think that peace was my goal? You don’t know me. No one does.”

  “I know you’re a strong, willful man who fights for what he believes is right.”

  “No,” Bitterwood said.

  “Come on. You’re Bitterwood. You’re a legend to these people, even if they are too blind to recognize you. You’re a hero.”

  “They call me the Ghost that Kills. I’m a dead man. I died when dragons killed my family. When I saw what they had done, it was like my heart froze within me. I’ve not been warm since.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jandra said. “I, too, lost my family to dragons. It happened so long ago I don’t even remember them. I don’t even know their names.”

  “Memory’s a curse,” said Bitterwood. “You’re lucky.”

  “Lucky,” Jandra said, noting how sour the word tasted. “I don’t think luck had anything to do with my survival.”

  “I don’t mean it’s lucky you lived,” Bitterwood said. “I mean it’s lucky you don’t remember. Memories will burn you and sear away all that’s soft inside, leaving only hard, hot hatred. Hate can feel like passion, like life, in the absence of anything else. It makes you feel strong and focused, eager for action. But now…”

  His voice faded away and he turned his face from Jandra.

  “Now?” she asked.

  “Hate was all I had. I see that my greatest strength was my greatest weakness. My hate kept me going, gave me purpose. But it corrupted me. I’ve become an instrument of darkness, my every action bringing only ruin. If I had foreseen that murdering Bodiel would bring about the genocide of the human race, do you think I would have let the arrow fly? The time has come for me to surrender to the inevitable and do no more harm.”