by James Maxey
Perhaps it wouldn’t be too late, once Kanst disposed of that meddling wizard. He would wait for the news of Vendevorex’s death on his throne, surrounded by his remaining guards.
“Guards!” he called out as he swooped through the wide doors and brought his feet down on the polished marble. The hall was gloomy, dark and shadowy, even in the early morning light. Then it struck him. The torches were all extinguished. The spirits of his ancestors were gone.
“No!” he cried, and rushed forward, grabbing the charred stick of wood that sat in the golden holder beside the throne.
“No,” he whispered, and touched the oily black tip, still warm. This faint heat was all that remained of Bodiel. His child of fire was gone forever.
“No,” he said, dropping the dead torch, craning his head toward the ceiling. His body felt weak. His knees buckled, and he slid against the golden pedestal of his throne, knocking the silk cushions onto the floor.
“No,” he said, though only the barest sound escaped his throat. But he knew, despite his protests, that it was true. Even the soul of his son was now dead.
Albekizan trembled. He clenched his eyes shut and prayed that he, right then and there, would burst into flames. He willed himself to spark, to burn, to explode in a holocaust that would ignite the torches once more, would set the whole castle ablaze, and the forests beyond, and even the oceans would become fire!
But it didn’t happen. It couldn’t happen. His powerlessness to make it happen burned at him more hotly than the heat of a thousand suns.
He opened his eyes to the distant ceiling. He lowered his gaze along the shadowed wall above the throne, down once more to the blackened stick that lay at his feet.
“Oh, Bodiel,” Albekizan whispered, his voice wet and weak. “Your father loved you.”
Suddenly, the burning in his heart became a chill and he looked up once more to the wall above the throne, to confirm with his mind what his eyes had already seen. The wall was empty save for the decorative tapestries.
The bow and quiver were gone.
“Guards!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the halls of the castle.
“They won’t answer,” someone said with a voice as cold as the winter wind. The last remnants of smoke from the dead torches swirled across the marble floor.
“Who?” Albekizan said, rising, spinning around, looking all about the shadowed hall. “Who speaks?”
“I, Bitterwood,” the voice answered, echoing in such a way that it could have come from any of the doorways leading into the room.
“It can’t be! You’re in the Free City! You’re chained to the post!”
“You captured only a man,” the cold voice answered. “I am the shadow on the stone. I am lighting striking forever against the earth. I am the Death of All Dragons, the Ghost Who Kills. I come this day for you, Albekizan. I do not meet thee as a man.”
A faint whistle cut through the air.
Albekizan pitched forward at the impact to his shoulder. He regained his balance and looked at the arrow shaft jutting through the muscle. Red feather scales crowned the shaft. The pain was distant, unreal. The flame once more flickered within Albekizan’s soul.
“It is you!” His voice trailed off into a laugh. “Is this your best? You’ll never kill me!”
“I have two more arrows,” the voice answered, mockingly.
Albekizan turned. The arrow and the voice had to come from the hall leading to what had been Vendevorex’s tower.
“Stand before me,” he demanded. “Kill me now, if you can.”
He listened hard. The voice didn’t answer but Albekizan was certain he heard footsteps. He ran into the hallway in pursuit of the fleeing ghost. He found the body of a guard and blood pooled on the stone… and beyond this, a mark in the shape of the human’s boot. Any force of nature solid enough to wield a bow and leave footprints was solid enough to rip apart with tooth and claw.
“FORWARD,” PET SHOUTED as his band of men rushed in pursuit of a squad of fleeing dragons. His forces had grown from two dozen to two hundred, as men gathered about him to serve the legendary Bitterwood.
Pet knew it was rage against the day’s atrocities that gave the men the strength to fight, not his shouted commands. The men fought mercilessly, seeking vengeance against an oppressor who had held them beneath his heel their whole lives, only to have finally stumbled.
The fleeing dragons —a force of perhaps twenty— reached a dead-end and turned to face their pursuers. Pet was left behind as the majority of his men rushed into combat with them. A small force of Kamon’s men stayed by his side, and they set to work on the dozens of dragon bodies that lay trampled in the street, liberating them of weapons and shields.
“Hey,” one of the men said as he lifted the wing of a sprawled sky-dragon. “This one’s still breathing!”
“Then make him stop,” Kamon said. Pet looked at the dragon and thought he looked familiar. The man above the dragon raised his sword.
“Stop!” Pet shouted, recognizing the dragon.
“What?” the man asked, looking confused.
“Don’t you recognize him?” Pet moved forward and placed his arm on the man’s forearm, lowering the sword. “It’s Vendevorex, the wizard. He’s on our side.”
Kamon sneered, his braided mustache twitching, and said, “We ally ourselves with no dragons. All must die.”
“Look,” Pet said. “I’m Bitterwood. You’re Kamon. Which one of us is the unstoppable dragonslayer, the last hope of humanity; you or me?”
The old prophet grimaced. “You are,” he whispered.
“Then hold your tongue and fetch some water. Let’s see if we can revive him.”
Kamon’s wrinkled face turned red, but he turned around and headed for a nearby rain barrel.
Pet knelt next to the wizard, checking the pulse in his throat. It was weak and unsteady. Except for a few scorch marks and some nasty gashes in his legs, Vendevorex was nowhere near as bloodied and torn as he’d been the last time Pet had seen him. If he’d survived what happened in Chakthalla’s hall, he’d survive this. Or would he? His body had footprints all over where men and dragons had trampled him. Who knew what injuries bled deep inside him?
“Help me,” Pet said to one of the nearby men.
Together they turned the wizard onto his back, then carried him onto the closest porch. Vendevorex’s breath came in wet gasps. Blood drooled from his limp jaw. His silver skullcap was missing. Pet noticed how quiet the Free City was becoming, with distant cries and the occasional clash of steel on steel growing ever more rare. They had won this battle, but at what cost? For every dead body of a dragon he counted, he’d counted two humans, mostly women and children. After this day, things could never be as they had been. Albekizan had to be removed from the throne, and he was the only one left to do it, unless the wizard could be revived. He wondered what Jandra would say if she could see him now.
Jandra. Had she, too, died among the crush of bodies? What use was it to turn invisible when death touched you from all sides? He couldn’t help but hope she still lived. She was the most resourceful woman he’d ever met.
Kamon brought him a dirty rag, sopping with water.
“Thank you,” Pet said, dabbing at the fallen wizard’s brow. “Now, I have a new task for your men. I have reason to believe that somewhere in this city is a woman with long brown… Rather, make that short black hair. Her name is Jandra. Go through the city and call out her name, and bring her to me when you find her.”
“Yes,” Kamon said. “At once. But where will you be?”
“Right here,” said Pet, taking Vendevorex’s fore-talon into his hand and squeezing it. “If he’s going to die, I’m not going to let him die alone.”
THE HALL FLOOR was slick with blood. The horrified look on the severed head of the guard that lay before him told Albekizan that his foe had passed this way. How terrible Bitterwood must be to look upon.
The door to Vendevorex’s tower lay battered from i
ts hinges. Bloodied footprints led over it and into the absolute darkness beyond. Without warning, the second arrow streaked toward him.
“PET!”
Pet looked toward the woman’s voice. At a nearby corner he saw a horse, its reigns held by one of Kamon’s men who led it toward him. On the back of the horse sat Jandra.
“You’re alive!” he shouted, releasing Vendevorex’s talon and running to meet her.
“I’ve come to rescue you,” she said, her voice full of jest. Then a horrified look passed over her face. “I’m sorry. How awful to make jokes at a time like this. I’m happy to see you again, but… all these people dead. I never imagined anything like this was possible.”
Pet reached for her arms and helped her down from the horse.
“I understand,” he said. “And you may rescue me yet. These men want a revolution. We’ve won this battle, but not the war. Albekizan must pay for this. He’ll die much quicker if we can save Vendevorex.”
“Save him? What happened? I was riding toward the Free City when I saw the light in the sky. I saw something that looked like him—”
“He was magnificent,” Pet said. “He appeared in the sky, a hundred feet tall. He looked like a god. His appearance alone put Albekizan to flight, and then he slew Kanst single-handedly. The sight broke the morale of the dragons. But Vendevorex vanished after that, until now. We found him but he’s not well.”
“Take me to him,” Jandra said.
BLASPHET FELT THE cold touch of manacles around his wrists and ankles, a familiar sensation from so many years waking from troubled sleep in the dark bowels of Albekizan’s dungeon. The cold was great, greater even than he remembered.
He opened his eyes. Shandrazel stood before him assisting Androkom, wrapping fresh bandages around the blunt stub of the biologian’s tail.
Blasphet rattled the chains, testing them. They held him securely but the locks wouldn’t hold him for even a second. He reached to his legs, for the lock-picks hidden amidst his scales. He suddenly found out why he was so cold.
“Looking for those?” Shandrazel said, pointing toward the mound of translucent feather-scales. “I remembered your nasty reputation for hiding poisoned needles. I didn’t want to take any chances.”
Blasphet felt his face burn at the indignity. Still his curiosity was greater than his embarrassment. “How did you escape?”
“It cost noble Androkom his tail, yet another crime for which you will be brought to justice. He reached the acid pool with his tail tip, soaked it, and then brought it back to eat away the iron chains which held him.”
“It took many soakings,” Androkom said. “Fortunately, after the first few, the nerves burned away. You may be interested to know that the acid cauterized the wounds, just as you predicted. Still, you’re lucky to have been apprehended in Shandrazel’s presence. I would have tossed you into the pool without a second thought.”
“We do have laws in this kingdom,” Shandrazel said, “even if my father seems to forget them.”
“You fool!” Blasphet laughed. “Albekizan is the only law. I’m too valuable to him. As long as he’s king, I will be free!”
“You’re right,” Shandrazel said. “Which is why he cannot remain king.”
JANDRA CRADLED VENDEVOREX’S head in her arms and closed her eyes, concentrating. The tiny machines that swam in Vendevorex were controlled by his mental commands. If he had lost consciousness before willing the molecular engines to heal him, they wouldn’t do so. Jandra wished she knew the skills needed to mend damaged tissue, to knit together once more the ruptured blood vessels. She couldn’t bear to lose him. All that had happened today, all the death, all the sorrow, had made her understand the lesson of Bitterwood. Holding onto hate, even for the most-deserved cause, would kill your soul. Hate would grow until there was no room for anything else. She couldn’t let that happen. Vendevorex had to live, not to kill Albekizan, not to fight to save mankind, but simply so she could tell him she forgave him.
Unfortunately, Vendevorex was unlikely ever to wake. His breathing grew even more labored, his pulse weaker with each beat. She began to cry as a wave of convulsions wracked his body. If only she could tell the machines what to do, she could…
Of course. Her head wound. Vendevorex had commanded the machines in her blood to heal her head wound. Not even a full day had passed—they might be active still.
“Give me a knife,” she said to Pet.
Pet handed her a blade, shining and sharp. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Quiet. I need to concentrate.”
She cut a gash across her palm, releasing a ribbon of red. She took her mentor’s talon and did the same, then placed palm against talon and squeezed.
“Go,” she whispered. “Heal him.”
A long time passed as the sun grew ever higher in the sky. Pet gave orders to Ragnar and Kamon, telling them to gather together the men remaining in the Free City and prepare them for the coming battle. Jandra couldn’t allow the clamor to distract her. With sweaty concentration, she guided the active machines into Vendevorex’s blood. There weren’t enough of them. She told the machines to multiply themselves and, to her relief, they did.
As they spread, she blocked the outside world, listening only to the reports of the microscopic explorers in Vendevorex’s body, plotting, in her mind’s eye, a map of her mentor’s wounds. After a time, she could see the extent of his internal injuries, as if her eyes could see through skin. She willed the machines to knit his ruptured blood vessels back together, and they obeyed. She found a clot of blood choking Vendevorex’s right lung. As she willed it, the tiny machines began to eat away the blockage. There was too much fluid pooling around his heart. She stimulated his kidneys and opened his bladder to remove the excess fluid. She’d never concentrated on anything more intently. She trembled from the effort, sweat soaking her clothes. His wounds were closing but was she doing it right? Was she doing him more harm in ways she couldn’t guess?
As if in answer, Vendevorex arched his back in pain and coughed blood. A blood vessel leading to his heart had ruptured.
Despite all her sweat and work and will, his heart fell silent. His body went limp. Jandra looked up at Pet who stared at her, his eyes reflecting her anguish.
The porch shook as someone ran onto it. It was one of Ragnar’s men. He carried a metal bowl, dented, covered in mud. Its silver edge glinted in the light. Jandra gasped. It was Vendevorex’s skullcap.
“I found this where he fell,” the man said. “I thought it might be important.”
ALBEKIZAN WAS FINISHED. The bandage he made from the tapestry torn from the wall had finally stanched the loss of blood from the wound of the second arrow that hit his right thigh. Albekizan pulled himself back to his feet, steadying himself against the wall to compensate for the loss of strength in the leg. The arrow had sunk deep, hitting bone. As he stepped forward the pain was sharp and focused, in contrast to the dull numbness of the wound in his shoulder.
“You look weary, Albekizan,” the ghostly voice said from somewhere in the gloom.
Albekizan looked up the spiral stairwell heading to the tower’s roof, high above. The voice had come from there but he saw no hint of movement in the shadows.
“Two arrows and already you’re dying,” the voice mocked. “It took so many to lay Bodiel low.”
“I’ve strength enough to kill you twice!” Albekizan yelled. As his voice echoed throughout the tower, he listened to the words as though a stranger spoke them. Such bluster. Such boast. Was this all he’d become? Then he swallowed, and said, “Just as you killed my son twice, taking both body and flame.”
“Then we have something in common,” Bitterwood answered.
His voice seemed closer now. Albekizan limped forward. He clenched his teeth to beat back the pain, then climbed the stairs in pursuit of his tormentor.
“My family died twice as well,” Bitterwood said from somewhere just ahead. “We killed them together, you and I, just as to
gether we killed Bodiel.”
Albekizan climbed faster now, driven by the nearness of the voice. He expected to catch sight of his foe any second.
“Hurry!” Bitterwood taunted. “Faster!”
“Cease your prattling!” Albekizan commanded.
“Soon enough,” the voice said, trailing into the distance.
JANDRA PLACED THE misshapen helmet on Vendevorex’s scalp. She placed her hands upon it, closing her eyes. The helmet was the interface between Ven’s mind and the nano-machines. It was sensitive to his every thought. Could it allow her to reach into the last traces of his mind?
“Wake up, Ven,” she said. “I need you.”
“Jandra,” he answered, his voice as strong as ever. “You’ve come back.”
Jandra opened her eyes, expecting to see her revived mentor. But Vendevorex still lay lifeless and limp in her lap. Had it only been her imagination?
“No,” Vendevorex answered, the voice coming not from his lips but from inside her mind. “Not your imagination. The skullcap is responding to my last flicker of life and relaying my thoughts to you. My soul stirred when I heard your voice. I’m so happy you’ve returned.”
“I had to tell you, Ven,” she said, blinking back tears. “I… I forgive you. You were right. Fifteen years of kindness and devotion do pay the debt of a single horrible decision. I love you, Ven. I had to let you know.”
“Thank you,” he said, his mental voice fading. “There’s something I should say to you.”
“Save your strength,” she said. “Heal yourself.”
“It’s too late. You did good work, but my body was too torn. I may have only seconds remaining. I must say this. You’ve grown to be a good, strong, willful woman, Jandra. I’ve always thought of you as my daughter. Seeing the woman you’ve become fills me with pride.”
“Oh, Ven,” she said, squeezing his talon, searching his face for any flicker of life.
“I will always love you, Jandra,” he said, his voice faint, distant, vanishing, at last, into static.
