Bitterwood
Page 39
Even though the serpent was losing, it continued tearing out bloody chunks of fur as it curled around the dog in a whirlwind of claws. Bitterwood scrambled back to his feet, taking the poker in both hands, and lunged for the long-wyrm, ignoring the slashing pain from his damaged legs. He planted the forked edge of the iron poker in the center of the beast’s left eye and threw his full weight onto the handle. The thin layer of bone behind the eye snapped as he drove the rod into the creature’s brain. The dragon fell limp, its claws stilled at last.
“Jeremiah!” Zeeky shouted.
Bitterwood looked down the path, the see the boy running toward Zeeky.
“Ezekia!” the boy shouted. Zeeky jumped into his arms as they reached each other. The boy’s legs collapsed at the weight, and they both wound up on the ground.
Bitterwood yanked the poker from the dead reptile’s eye. The white-skinned rider was now on his feet, his back toward Bitterwood. The rider, hearing Bitterwood’s approach, turned. He’d recovered his crossbow. He raised the weapon and pulled the trigger.
Bitterwood’s eyes were still swift enough to trace the razor honed tip as sliced through the air toward him. His arms felt like lead weights as he tried to lift the poker to knock the bolt from its path.
To the amazement of both the rider and himself, the poker reached the same point in space as the bolt less than a yard from Bitterwood’s chest. The bolt deflected upward, leaving a trail of sparks, as it whizzed past Bitterwood’s left ear.
The rider looked stunned. Bitterwood had witnessed the same look countless time in the eyes of dragons. It was a look that gave him a certain amount of pleasure, but experience had taught him it was not a pleasure that should be prolonged. He willed his torn legs to leap the few yards that separated him from the man, swinging the iron rod in a vicious arc. He slammed it against the side of the man’s neck with such force the poker bent. The stranger fell to his back, twitching, his eyes rolling up in their sockets.
Bitterwood sucked down air in great gasps, his legs trembling. The world slowed back to normal speed. He studied the fallen rider. Though blood was seeping from his ears, the man still breathed. Perhaps he would live. Perhaps he would have answers as to what had happened here.
On the other hand, the man had been riding a dragon, or something very much like a dragon. Bitterwood thought of women and children being dragged from their homes by reptilian claws, imagined the destruction of Big Lick with great clarity. He could hear the screams of the villagers, just as for twenty years he’d heard the screams of his own family.
There was only one way to silence those voices.
Glancing over his shoulder he saw Killer limping back to Zeeky and the boy, who were sitting on the ground, talking. No one was looking toward him.
Bitterwood fell to his knees. His arms were losing strength; his legs were bleeding in copious streams. He wanted to fall over, to collapse forever into sleep.
There could be no rest while the voices howled.
Bitterwood raised the poker above his head and swung it, planting the full weight into the man’s face. A bubble of blood rose from the man’s lips.
Bitterwood felt too weak to move as he stared at the damaged face. A lightness took hold of him, like the fevers that had given his world such a dreamlike quality. The unconscious man’s features suddenly struck him as familiar —eyes, ears, nose, mouth— a universal visage, belonging to almost any man. Bitterwood could see himself in the shared structures, and as the world slowly began to tilt he could no longer tell if it was the rider who lay upon the ground, or himself.
Bitterwood raised the poker and swung at the face that might be his own, then swung again, and again, until what he was hitting looked like a face no longer.
The screams now silent, Bitterwood toppled into the ash.
He closed his eyes, then opened them to discover Poocher by his head. The pig was wearing the rider’s visor, standing on two legs.
“Evil man,” Poocher said, in a smooth and high-cultured tone. He pointed a cleft hoof at Bitterwood in a gesture of condemnation. “All your works amount to dust. All that remains of you will scatter with the winds.”
Bitterwood found himself concurring with the judgment of the pig. He welcomed this fate. It seemed a very light thing, to be carried off by air, unremembered, unmourned.
“Take care of Zeeky,” he whispered before the world spun in a whirl of white embers, then turned black.