Bitterwood

by James Maxey

It was dark outside. What time was it? Something about the smell of the air hinted that it wouldn’t be long now before the dawn.

  The words of the men speaking in the room beneath her were difficult to make out until she heard a now familiar name: Kamon.

  “You can’t mean it,” the first voice said.

  “I saw him with my own eyes,” said the second. “I would have killed him then but he was surrounded by a dozen Kamonites.”

  “I’ll stand with you,” the first voice said. “As will my brothers. Kamon will pay for his poisonous lies.”

  The conversation was dropped suddenly as a loud bang shook the house. Someone had kicked in the door.

  “Humans!” a dragon snarled. “Wake up! You must go to the square! Albekizan will address you!”

  The men raised their voices in protest until a whip cracked, silencing them.

  Suddenly, the trap door to the attic flew open and the beaked head of an earth-dragon popped through, looking straight at Zeeky.

  “Get down here,” he commanded.

  There was no exit save for the hole the dragon was stood in. Luckily, she was small and dragons were slow. She leapt forward over the dragon’s shoulder, sliding down his spine as he uselessly grabbed behind his back, trying to catch her. She grabbed his tail, swinging her feet down to land in a running position. But her feet stopped just inches from the floor. The full weight of her body hung by her collar. She twisted around to see a second earth-dragon holding her at arm’s length, looking at her as if she were some awful bug.

  BLASPHET WHEELED OVER the scene below. It was early morning; the sun was just peeking over the eastern horizon. All of the residents of the Free City had been gathered in the square, packed in tightly by the guards that stood in thick columns in the adjoining streets. They looked groggy, disoriented. Blasphet’s research had taught him that humans were most sluggish and compliant in the predawn hours. Apparently, his brother knew this as well.

  Toward the front of the crowd, a large platform had been hastily erected overnight. The platform was surrounded by dark-green, heavily armored earth-dragons—nearly the entire unit of the Black Silences—separating the crowd from the platform by rows three dragons deep. On the unpainted boards of the impromptu stage stood Albekizan, looking too smug and satisfied for Blasphet’s comfort.

  Behind Albekizan stood Tanthia, her eyes dark and sunken with depression, a look that Blasphet found quite attractive in a female.A heavy wooden post protruded from the center of the stage next to the king; beside this stood Pertalon, who was laboring to chain the captive Bitterwood with his back to the post and his arms stretched high above his head. Bitterwood’s wrists were fastened to an iron ring, leaving his toes barely touching the platform. Completing the group on the dais were the hunter, Zanzeroth, and Kanst, dressed in his full ceremonial armor. With a turn of his wings and a rustle of scales, Blasphet dropped to the platform to complete the assembly.

  Albekizan didn’t acknowledge Blasphet’s arrival. Instead he checked Bitterwood’s chains as a leather strap was placed around the prisoner’s head. He then tied the strap around the post in such a manner as to ensure that the human couldn’t look away from the crowd.

  The crowd murmured in speculation. Blasphet noted one voice in particular in which he could recognize madness, always an interesting quality.

  “The prophecy!” the madman shouted. “It is as I foretold! Bitterwood must suffer this hour so that we can be free!”

  Small chance of that, Blasphet thought.

  “Well, Brother,” Blasphet said. “Today’s your big day. Tell me, do you intend to kill him quickly? Or perhaps make it last hours, as if that will bring release from these endless days of mourning he has inflicted upon you?”

  “His fate will be prolonged,” the king said. He moved behind the post and reached his claws around, placing them on Bitterwood’s face.

  “Do your worst,” Bitterwood said, though Blasphet’s trained ear could hear the deep current of fear flowing beneath his brave words. “I don’t fear death!”

  “Nor should you,” King Albekizan said. With his sharp claws he grabbed the skin above and below the captive’s eyes and forced them open. “For it is not your death we are here to witness. This is a public execution.”

  Blasphet felt the scales along his back rise.

  The king continued. “You’ll watch as my troops slaughter this mass before you, an unspeakable tableau of gore and agony. When this crowd is exhausted, we shall gather another, and another, and another, and all will die, day after day after day, because of you. Only when the last human in my kingdom has been killed will I grant you the surrender of death.”

  “No!” shouted Bitterwood.

  “No!” shouted Blasphet, rushing forward. He wouldn’t allow his brother to ruin his plans for the Free City by killing everyone before the experiment had even begun. Before he could reach the king, Pertalon jumped into his path and held him from his goal.

  As the two struggled, Bitterwood cried, “Kill me! My life for theirs! I’m the one who wronged you!”

  “Kanst,” Albekizan said, his eyes gleaming in the dawn light. “Give the command.”

  HEZEKIAH TWISTED HIS neck from side to side as Vendevorex sat back, exhausted. The artificial man flexed his hands, almost like a human would flex a limb that had been asleep. “My mobility is restored,” Hezekiah said in a tinny, hollow voice. “I assume you’re done with me?”

  “You assume wrong,” Vendevorex said, handing the prophet his broad-brimmed hat. As Hezekiah donned the hat, Vendevorex lifted the heavy axe with a grunt. He held it to the artificial man and said, “You and I are just getting started.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: GO!

  KANST LIFTED HIS gleaming ceremonial sword high over his head, then sliced it down in a swift arc. With his deep, booming voice, he shouted, “Kill them!”

  WHEN AT LAST Bitterwood spoke, Jandra could barely hear him.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Go,” Bitterwood whispered.

  “Not yet,” she said.

  “Go,” he repeated, more forcefully.

  “But—”

  “Go!” he screamed. “Go!”

  The look on his face —a twisted mask of distorted pain and anger— told her he would never listen to her words. Still she had to speak them.

  “Fine,” she said. “Blame yourself. Act as if nothing matters but your own guilt. Let Pet die in your place, let Zeeky rot away inside the Free City, let the whole world come crashing down. But I’m going to try to stop it!”

  Jandra turned and ran, not bothering to render herself invisible. She had been a fool to trust him.

  THE CROWD SCREAMED as the guards surged forward.

  Zeeky hadn’t seen or heard what had happened on the stage, for she was near the back of the crowd. She cried out, frightened, as the crowd pushed her about like a mouse batted by a dozen cats. “What’s happening?” she begged.

  Suddenly, the adults closest to her screamed louder, and the crushing pressure of bodies abated as the crowd parted. The people were fleeing from a snarling ox-dog, a whip-wielding earth-dragon mounted in the large saddle on its back. As the adults ran the gigantic beast locked its dark eyes on Zeeky’s small figure and bounded toward her, barking, its teeth bared, its tan neck hairs standing up like brush bristles.

  “Aw,” said Zeeky, in an instant forgetting the confusion of the crowd. Here was something she understood. “Aren’t you a big ’un?”

  The ox-dog skidded to a halt before her, thrusting its face into hers, growling, its steaming breath foul with the smell of fresh blood.

  “You’re just a big puppy, ain’t ya?” she said.

  The ox-dog stopped growling. “Hrunmph,” it snorted.

  Zeeky reached out and scratched the dog above his big, wet, black nose. The hair on the dog’s neck relaxed. It showed gratitude for her scratches with a big, wet lick of its pink tongue.

  The dragon in the saddle lashed the beast’s flanks wit
h his whip. “Forward, Killer! Attack! Attack!”

  The ox-dog’s right legs buckled and he rolled over, tossing the dragon from the saddle. As the dog rolled, he crushed the dragon with the whole of his massive weight before coming once more to his feet. The humans in the crowd scrambled to stay out of the beast’s way.

  “Damn you, Killer,” the dragon wheezed as he struggled to stand. He raised his whip. “I’ll thrash some obedience into you yet!”

  Killer opened his huge jaws and leaned forward, placed his maw over the dragon’s head, then closed his mouth.

  “Ret goo!” the dragon shouted, his voice muffled.

  The ox-dog shook his head from side to side, jerking the screaming dragon from his feet. Zeeky ducked as the dragon’s feet passed just over her head. It was too awful to watch, even if it was happening to a dragon.

  “Put him down!” she said, placing her hands on her hips and looking stern. “Right now!”

  The ox-dog paused, looking at her. Then he flipped his head to the side once more, hard, and let go. The dragon sailed for a few brief seconds of flight, his wingless limbs beating the air in a vain attempt to control his motion. Then he fell among the turbulent crowd of humans and was gone.

  The ox-dog again turned its attention to Zeeky, letting its foot-wide tongue hang from its mouth.

  “Good boy,” Zeeky said. Then her fear and confusion returned as the crowd continued to scream and mill about. Still, Zeeky was safe in a bubble that formed about ten feet around the ox-dog. Even panicked people steered clear of such a beast. All Zeeky wanted was to get away from here. She had to go to the stables to find Poocher then leave this terrible place forever.

  She grabbed the stirrup of the saddle and managed to pull herself up. From her new vantage point she could see dragons killing people all around her. Tears filled her eyes.

  “Get me out of here!” she sobbed.

  Killer woofed in agreement. The ox-dog wheeled around, racing forward toward a gap that opened as dragons fell over one another to get out of Killer’s way. Zeeky closed her eyes tightly and swore that if she ever got home, she’d never run away again.

  A QUICK, INVISIBLE flight gave Vendevorex a view of the catastrophe. He’d heard the soldiers moving through the streets before dawn, commanding the humans to the gathering, but he never anticipated the scene below. Albekizan was on the platform, standing behind Pet, holding the human’s eyes open. Behind the king a large black-scaled sun-dragon struggled with a sky-dragon. Blasphet?

  Kanst continued to bark out orders. Hundreds of dragons tore into the crowd. Vendevorex needed to think the situation over but there was no time. The only thing that offered a brief glimmer of hope was that a few of the humans had managed to overwhelm the earth-dragons with their numbers and now fought back with stolen arms.

  Vendevorex swooped back to street and called out, “Hezekiah! Come!”

  The black-robed figure emerged from the nearby building as Vendevorex landed on the dusty street.

  “Go to the square,” Vendevorex said. Until this moment, he’d hoped that the situation might be diffused without bloodshed. Now there was no time for subtlety. He gave the command he’d hoped to avoid: “Kill every dragon you see.”

  “Even you?” the artificial man asked.

  “No, except me.”

  “And other sky-dragons? Don’t kill them?”

  “Kill sky-dragons, except for me,” Vendevorex said, wishing he’d had time to do a little more sophisticated job on the logic loops. “Kill sun-dragons, too, earth-dragons, great lizards, and ox-dogs. Don’t hurt people.”

  “I will obey,” Hezekiah said. He turned, swung his axe up to rest on his shoulder, and marched off in the direction of the commotion.

  “Hurry!” Vendevorex said.

  Hezekiah began to run, streaking down the street with inhuman velocity. Vendevorex knew what Hezekiah was capable of. The automaton could kill every dragon in the Free City given time. Yet with each second that passed, dozens of humans died. Vendevorex needed to do something big to tilt the odds but felt a chill at the thought of making himself known. The presence of Albekizan and Kanst didn’t bother him. Unfortunately, Zanzeroth stood on the platform as well.

  BLASPHET WASN’T USED to physical confrontations and quickly found himself in the humiliating position of being pushed to his belly by the much more skillful Pertalon. The sky-dragon twisted Blasphet’s wings behind his back, causing him to cry out in pain. Blasphet whipped his tail up around Pertalon’s neck but couldn’t pull hard enough to dislodge his tormentor.

  “Zanzeroth,” Pertalon said. “Bring me chains.”

  Zanzeroth didn’t answer. The pressure on Blasphet’s wings shifted ever so slightly as Pertalon twisted around to see where the hunter had gone. With Pertalon distracted, Blasphet flicked the fake nail from his right fore-talon with his thumb, revealing the sharpened claw beneath, wet with poison. With his wrist twisted painfully, he could barely scratch his opponent, but the barest scratch was enough.

  “Wha—” Pertalon began, but never finished the syllable.

  The pressure on Blasphet’s wings ceased as the weight fell from his back. He rose and turned to the already dead Pertalon who lay twisted in pain. Blasphet kicked the corpse, angry that he’d been forced to waste one of his poisons on such an insignificant fool. Still, Kanst’s back was to him, for the general was busy shouting commands to the Black Silences that surrounded the platform. Zanzeroth had vanished, not that Blasphet had been overly worried about the hunter, still half-crippled from his wounds. As he’d expected, Albekizan was too busy laughing at the sea of carnage before him to pay any attention to Blasphet. Blasphet shuddered at the sound of elation in the king’s voice. He’d hoped to never see his brother this happy again.

  Then let him die happy, thought Blasphet. With a flick of his left fore-talon, his final poisoned claw was revealed.

  HIGH ABOVE, ZANZEROTH circled, looking through the seemingly endless field of faces below him. The real Bitterwood had to be among them. Ever since his nose had healed enough to restore his sense of smell, he’d known beyond all doubt that the prisoner Albekizan tormented wasn’t Bitterwood. He’d chosen the wrong man, no doubt due to his exhaustion and injuries. In retrospect, he couldn’t have planned events better. The intervening days had allowed Zanzeroth time to rest and recover a bit from his wounds. He wasn’t fully healed, but he felt strong enough to face any man, especially now that it would be he who held the element of surprise. Albekizan had his own victim to torment. This left the true Bitterwood as his prey alone. He need not share his revenge with anyone, not even a king. Alas, the carnage unleashed now threatened to steal Bitterwood once more from his grasp. He had to find the man, and quickly.

  Then he spotted a human attacking from behind the line of the dragons, tearing through the rear troops like a demon. Bitterwood? Zanzeroth swooped for a closer look. The man below was dressed in black and fought with an axe, and continued to fight even with three spears embedded in him. The man stood ankle deep in foul mud created by the blood and offal of slain dragons. The human wasn’t Bitterwood, but Zanzeroth was impressed nonetheless. Who was this?

  “NO! I’LL KILL you!”

  Blasphet didn’t have time to turn and face the female voice that cried out behind him. A wave of patchouli washed over him. Blasphet crashed once more to the rough boards of the platform as Tanthia threw herself against him, her painted claws digging into the skin of his neck.

  “You took my brother,” she screamed. “You won’t take my husband!”

  Blasphet twisted in her grasp, bringing himself face to face. Her cheeks glistened liked jewels from her tears. Tanthia was strong and his equal in size, but no more used to combat than he. He pulled her claws from his neck with ease, taking care not to prick her with the exposed poison.

  “Your devotion is commendable,” he said through clenched teeth as he twisted her wrists backward, using the pain to force her from him. “Now be a dear and go gather wood for the
pyre, hmm?”

  “Murderer!” she shouted, and thrust her jaws forward, clamping her teeth deep into his shoulder.

  “Aiigh!” Blasphet shrieked. Enough was enough. Albekizan would have to wait. He ran the sharpened, poisoned claw along Tanthia’s slender neck. Her jaws slackened and she fell with a sigh.

  Blasphet looked back. Kanst still hadn’t noticed him. His attention was focused on a battle at the front of the platform, and he certainly couldn’t have heard the struggle over the deafening cries of anguish that rolled through the air like unending thunder. The roar now washed out even Albekizan’s mad laughter.

  Spotting Pertalon’s sword, Blasphet considered running his brother through from behind. But if his brother survived the blow, he’d fight much harder than Pertalon or Tanthia. The time had come to return to the tower for more poison. With luck, he would be back before Albekizan even noticed he was gone.

  HE HAD GONE mad. He must be mad. Why couldn’t he go mad? Pet screamed and could barely hear his own voice over the crowd’s panicked shouts. The tears that blurred his vision rolled down his cheeks, across the sharp-nailed claws clamped upon them. Albekizan laughed wildly.

  He would go mad. He had to go mad. But he couldn’t. Pet could only watch through the teary mist as men, women, and children died before him by the uncounted hundreds, some at the hands of dragons, many more beneath the trampling feet of their fellow stampeding men.

  “Stop it!” he shouted. “Oh please, stop it!”

  “Your cries are music, Bitterwood,” Albekizan shouted. “You wanted to save them! You killed in their name! Look what you’ve done! Look what you’ve done!”

  Pet looked for he had no choice. However, he stilled his voice in his throat. He would not beg. Albekizan wouldn’t have that satisfaction, at least. Albekizan released his eyelids as he had every minute, perhaps to make sure he wouldn’t go blind. Pet clamped his eyes shut but to no avail. The king’s claws upon his cheeks and brow quickly pried them open again. His vision fresh once more, Pet looked upon the violence before him. He noticed some intense fighting immediately before the platform, where a group of men had wrested weapons from the Black Silences and now defended themselves fiercely.