Bitterwood da-1

by James Maxey

  It was said that Albekizan owned the earth and was master of all who flew above it and all who crawled upon it. In over a half century of rule, he had bent the world to his will and had assured that there was no destiny other than his destiny. He woke each day secure in the knowledge that if he desired a thing, nothing and no one could deny him.

  Until this morning.

  Beloved Bodiel was dead. He’d trade his wealth and power, even his own life, to undo this horrible truth. But there was no one with whom he could demand such a trade.

  Albekizan rushed to the edge of the roof, a great platform of stone, and leapt into the sky. His wings caught the wind; he soared upward, his face toward the mocking sun. In his youth he’d often tested his boundaries, climbing ever higher in pursuit of the yellow orb that remained beyond his reach. He pushed himself again, beating his mighty wings until they ached, scaling the sky like a ladder, upward, upward, until the chill in his blood was replaced by fire, by the burning in his chest, by the heat of the gasps that rushed from his throat as he pushed to his limits, then beyond.

  The sun grew no closer than it had in his youth. There were some things even above a king.

  Exhausted, Albekizan tilted earthward and abandoned his futile chase.

  From high above his palace looked like a rocky mountain. A vast mound of stone heaped upon stone, the palace had been under construction for a thousand years, started by ancestors so long distant that their names were now legend. Asrafel, the Firebringer. Wanzanzen, the Lawgiver. Belpantheron, the Just.

  Over the centuries, stone quarried from the western mountains had been floated downriver to this vast rich plain and used to build the home of kings. The structure was in many ways more fortress than palace, with vast walls designed to hold back enemy armies. From the sky the palace was a maze of courtyards and towers, winding alleys and great halls half open to the sky, as befits a race born to rule the air. Despite being built of gray granite, the palace was awash in colors, with terrace gardens bright with riotous flowers. The fiery flag of the sun-dragons -gold-thread suns set against scarlet silk backgrounds- flew by the thousands, on poles rising from every corner of the complex. Inside the palace the colors vanished. Over the centuries, as stone piled upon stone, the oldest rooms of the palace had become ever more enclosed. Immense caverns became hidden deep within the rock, connected by narrow, twisting passages. The vibrant, explosive life of the external palace hid a cold, stony heart.

  Albekizan landed on the highest rooftop with the lightness of a leaf. Indeed, as he touched down, the wind of his passage sent a dried leaf skittering across the polished stone before him. Albekizan took the presence of the dry, dead thing as a sign. Autumn lay close. Cold days were coming to the kingdom.

  He paused, steadying himself against a wall as he caught his breath. He looked over the fields and spotted a small army of earth-dragons at work piling wood in a nearby field. Albekizan’s heart skipped as he realized they were at work on his son’s funeral pyre.

  “Bodiel,” he sighed.

  Then, taking a slow, deep breath, he steeled himself. Once certain that his eyes would betray no emotion unbefitting a king, Albekizan marched down the wide steps into the dark depths of his home.

  Albekizan descended ever further into the bowels of the palace, drawn to the very heart, the nest chamber. This was the most deeply enclosed structure of the palace, sunk into the bedrock. The cool, dank air of the place stirred primitive memories. This was his birthplace. More, it was the place where he had first gazed upon Bodiel, damp from birth. He’d licked away the thick, salty fluid that had covered his son’s still-closed eyes. The taste once again lingered on his tongue. The memory quickly faded, pushed away by the sour thought of Bodiel’s adult body clutched against his own, damp with rain and blood.

  When he entered the nest chamber he found he was not alone. Tanthia waited there, beside the vast fire-pit which lay cold and black. He almost didn’t see her in the darkness. The lanterns that lit the immense room had all been shuttered so that only a sliver of light from the lanterns in the hall penetrated the shadows.

  Albekizan stood silently, contemplating his queen as she turned her head toward him. He felt he should say something, that it was his role to give her strength.

  The only thing he knew to say was, “Bodiel will be avenged.”

  Tanthia’s wet eyes glistened in the gloom as she fixed her gaze upon him.

  “I’m convening a council of war,” Albekizan continued. “This crime shall not go unpunished. There’s no corner of the earth where the guilty may hide.”

  Tanthia inhaled slowly. Softly, she asked, “This is all you have to say in comfort?”

  “What more need be said?” he said. “Last night’s events demand vengeance.”

  “Talk of vengeance is not the same as talk of grief,” she said, her voice trembling. “I hear no pain in your voice. Where are your tears? Come with me, my king. Come with me to the Burning Ground. By now, Bodiel lies in state. Stand by my side as I go see him.”

  “No,” said Albekizan. His eyes were fixed on the ancient rock beneath his claws, polished smooth by the passage of his uncountable ancestors. Could Tanthia not feel the gravity of this place? Here, at the heart of all history, was no place for weakness. “Not yet. At nightfall, perhaps, I will go. But I’ve already seen my son dead. I’ve held his cold body. Do not lecture me about the proper way to grieve.”

  “You sound angry with me,” Tanthia said.

  “You hear what you want to hear,” said Albekizan, turning away. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I will go now.”

  “Please,” said Tanthia. “Stay with me. Share the burden of this grief.”

  “Grief cannot be my priority,” Albekizan said, not looking back. “I have summoned Kanst. I must ready the armies. The longer we hesitate, the longer Bitterwood has to work his evil on this world. I hope you understand this.”

  Tanthia replied only with sobs. Albekizan sighed, stepping through the chamber door. In the hall he sensed a presence and could hear scraping against the stone around the nearby corner. Albekizan breathed deeply, catching a familiar scent in his nostrils. He knew who shadowed him.

  “Bander!” he cried, summoning the captain of the palace guard.

  In the time it took Albekizan to blink the earth-dragon dashed around the corner and snapped to attention.

  “Sire,” Bander said. “I didn’t want to intrude but-”

  “Are they ready?” Albekizan asked.

  “Kanst has arrived, Sire,” said Bander. “He waits in the war room with Metron and Zanzeroth.” As he spoke, his voice wavered. The hard, beak-like face of earth-dragons gave little hint of emotion, but Albekizan could recognize a touch of fear in Bander’s eyes. “As for Vendevorex, Sire, the guards continue their search.”

  Albekizan nodded. He wasn’t angered by this failure of Bander’s guards. Vendevorex possessed the power of invisibility. He would be found only when he wished to be found. “Continue the search. The wizard is vital to my plans. What of my second order?”

  Bander looked relieved. “The guards are gathering the humans even now, Sire.”

  “Good. I want their stench removed from this castle-”

  “Please?”

  Tanthia’s voice interrupted them. Albekizan turned to see his mate standing in the chamber door, the feathery scales around her eyes darkened by tears.

  “I beg you,” she said, her voice raspy and weak. “Come with me to the Burning Ground.”

  Albekizan narrowed his eyes with displeasure. “I consider this matter settled. No amount of tears will revive Bodiel. Go and wait at the Burning Ground until the ceremony if you must. I will see to the business of saving my kingdom.”

  Upon hearing his words Tanthia collapsed, all strength gone.

  “You’re so cold,” she sobbed. “So cold. The stones in the walls are warmer than your heart.”

  Albekizan turned from his mate and stormed away, grinding his teeth in anger. But wh
en he reached the end of the hall he stopped and turned to study his fallen queen, her crimson wings stretched forward across the ancient bedrock, her body heaving with sobs. Albekizan walked back and crouched beside his queen. Touching her shoulders, he helped her to rise. He brushed his talons across the delicate scales of her cheeks.

  “Tanthia, my love, it pains me to see you grieve. Nonetheless, mourning is a mother’s burden, and her luxury. My duty is to avenge my son. I must go and consult with my advisors as to the swiftest path to achieve justice. Later, when the moon has risen and the day’s work is done, I will join you at the Burning Ground and watch as Metron lights the pyre. Then I will hold you and assist with the burden of grief. Go now. Wait with our fallen son, until the night comes.”

  Tanthia stood, her legs still trembling, but her head held high. “Yes, my king,” she whispered, and returned once more to the nest chamber.

  Albekizan turned away and saw that Bander now conferred with another guard in panicked, hushed voices.

  “What is it?” Albekizan demanded.

  Bander snapped back to attention. “Sire, my guards have searched every room of the castle. Vendevorex cannot be found.”

  “No doubt the wizard plots some dramatic entrance,” Albekizan said. “He thinks it beneath his dignity to simply walk into a room. Call off the search. I’ll wait no longer. Come.”

  VENDEVOREX, IN FACT, did not consider it beneath his dignity to simply walk into a room. Dignity played no part in his comings and goings; strategy was the key to his movements. He’d served Albekizan for close to fifteen years and he’d decided long ago that life would be more comfortable for him if he maintained his own agenda. Thus, while the night had found Albekizan and Zanzeroth in frenzied pursuit of Bitterwood, Vendevorex had chosen a different course. He’d been present in the forest at Bodiel’s murder scene, watching invisibly from a tree as Zanzeroth pointed out Cron’s and Bitterwood’s trails. As the hunting party left in pursuit of Bitterwood, Vendevorex followed Cron’s path. It wasn’t that he was unconcerned with the capture of Bitterwood. He was simply confident that the deed was within Zanzeroth’s grasp. The old tracker could follow a single snowflake through a blizzard. And when they caught up to the Bitterwood-or to the person pretending to be him-it seemed likely that that the small army accompanying the king would prevail. How dangerous could one man be, after all?

  Cron’s trail led for several hundred meandering yards through the thickets of the forest. Vendevorex didn’t possess Zanzeroth’s skills as a tracker, but he didn’t need them. The king had been right. These slaves left a trail anyone could follow.

  At last he found the young slave hiding behind a fallen log with a shelter of branches pulled over him. It wasn’t a horrible hiding place, except that Cron’s teeth were chattering loud enough that he sounded like some sort of nocturnal woodpecker.

  From ten feet away, Vendevorex said, “I am your friend, Cron.”

  Cron gasped, then clenched his jaw, silencing his chattering teeth.

  “You have nothing to fear,” Vendevorex said. “Rise, I wish to help you.”

  “W-who are you?” Cron whispered.

  “Tonight, I am your last, best hope,” Vendevorex said. “You’re safe for the moment. But when the king finds his prey tonight, I have no doubt he’ll come looking for you. It’s best that you be long gone.”

  Cron rose into a crouch, looking around the dark forest with fear in his eyes. Vendevorex chose to remain invisible. But he placed a burlap sack near the log and backed away.

  “The sack before you… Do you see it?”

  Cron looked around, trying to find the source of the voice. At last he looked to the ground and spotted the sack.

  “I’ve brought you clothes and food,” said Vendevorex. “You’ll also find a knife within the pack.”

  Cron crawled over the log toward the burlap. He reached out carefully and poked it. Then he pulled it toward him and fumbled at the chord that closed it with trembling fingers. At last he tore it open. He found a heavy cloak within which he draped over his body. In doing so, a loaf of bread fell from the bag, landing on the muddy ground. Cron snatched it up and began to hungrily devour it.

  Between cramming in mouthfuls of bread, Cron said, “You sound close, why don’t I see you?”

  “I wish to remain an anonymous benefactor for now,” said Vendevorex.

  “You’re invisible,” said Cron. “That narrows down who you might be. Venderex, right? The wizard?”

  Vendevorex remained silent.

  “You have that human pet, right? The girl? She was there tonight. She’s beautiful.”

  “You have me confused with someone else, friend,” Vendevorex said.

  “Right,” said Cron, wiping his mouth and digging through the bag’s contents in search of more food. His eyes lit up as he pulled out a hard-boiled egg. “What I want to know is what a person has to do to get to be a dragon’s pet. It seems like a pretty soft life.”

  “I don’t believe the girl you speak of is a pet,” Vendevorex said.

  “She was dressed like a dragon, all those feathers,” said Cron. “What I’m wondering is, is there, you know, sex involved? Do dragons find humans attractive? I know some girls get hot over dragons. I have a sister who-”

  Vendevorex bristled at the speculation, but there was no time to correct this fool’s uninformed opinions. He interrupted Cron, saying, “You must return to the river with all haste. Can you find the place where you witnessed Bodiel drop from the sky?”

  “Yes,” said Cron, spitting out a fleck of eggshell. “I thought I was a goner. Why didn’t he chase me?”

  “You… didn’t witness what happened, then?”

  “I turned and ran the second I saw him,” Cron said. “What happened? And why are you helping me?”

  “What happened isn’t important,” said Vendevorex. “Just know that I’m someone who has no patience for needless death. Your lot in life has been a cruel one, Cron. There’s little I can do to change it. Return to the river. The area is abandoned. The king’s party is miles away by now. When you arrive, you’ll find a small boat and, if my luck holds, you may also find Tulk waiting for you. Take the boat and go as far downriver as you can before morning. If you reach the town of Hopewell, seek the advice of a man known as Stench. He’ll give you shelter for a day or two. This is all I can do for you.”

  “I know old Stench,” Cron said. “Thought he’d be dead by now.”

  Vendevorex didn’t answer. He’d done what his conscience demanded and he could risk no more. He crept away silently. He had little time left to find Tulk.

  IT WAS EARLY morning when Vendevorex returned to the palace. He was exhausted, having flown a score of miles that night, following Tulk and Cron from above as they paddled downriver in their canoe, making sure they avoided immediate capture. When at dawn they had put the canoe to shore as he’d advised and disappeared under the canopy of the forest, he felt he had done all he could.

  Returning to his chambers, Vendevorex went to Jandra’s room. He sighed when he found she wasn’t there. In truth, it wasn’t a surprise that she’d defied his orders to stay put. He knew where to find her.

  Invisibly, he flew outside the palace walls to a row of wooden shacks that lined the base of the palace. These were the quarters of the human servants who labored within the palace: the cooks and chambermaids, the workmen and washerwomen who dwelled meekly among the dragons. Vendevorex landed on the muddy pathway that wound among the shacks, wrinkling his nose. The shantytown smelled of rotting garbage and excrement. Within the palace an elaborate and ancient system of aqueducts and pipes carried fresh water to all corners of the edifice, and flushed away waste. Here, open, stinking ditches served the same purpose. Filthy children in rags played in the muck, laughing, seemingly unaware of their squalor.

  Perhaps the king was right to regard humans as a lower race than dragons. Vendevorex shook his head to chase away the thought. The humans didn’t live like this by choice. If a
man were ever to try to live with the wealth and comfort of a dragon, Albekizan’s tax collectors would simply come and take it away. Humans lived in squalor because this was all Albekizan would allow.

  As he walked unseen past the hovels, he heard at last the familiar sound of Jandra’s voice. He turned a corner to find her talking with Ruth and Mary, two of the palace kitchen maids. Ruth and Mary, by his estimate, were in their mid-twenties, but their hard lives made them seem middle-aged. Fifteen years ago, when Jandra had first come into his life, he’d turned to Ruth and Mary’s mother for advice in raising a human child. Their mother had passed away some years ago from disease, but Ruth and Mary maintained a friendship with Jandra to this day. Jandra would frequently steal away to gossip with them.

  And this morning… such gossip.

  “Is it true that Bodiel is dead?” Ruth whispered.

  “I hear that Cron killed him,” Mary said. “He had a bow and arrow hidden in the woods.”

  “All I know is what I saw,” said Jandra. “In the midst of the storm, Bodiel vanished. Albekizan and Shandrazel chased after him. Then Vendevorex rushed me back to my chambers before I could see anything else. He told me to wait for him then disappeared. I tried to get some sleep but couldn’t. I kept hearing shouts all throughout the palace.”

  “They were making quite a ruckus,” said Ruth.

  “Some soldiers came by looking for Vendevorex about an hour ago,” Jandra continued. “I hid from them and overheard that the king wanted Vendevorex to come to the war room. I figured that if Vendevorex is going to be tied up, I had a chance to come see you two.”